Though I Walk Through the Valley (25/38)
Though I Walk through the Valley
Title:Though I Walk through the Valley (25/38)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: Evening everyone. For those watching the new episodes, I can't believe the last one is about to air. For those who are still waiting, I really hope you get to see them soon.
Warnings: Nothing I can think of for this chapter other than the beginning of a rather destructive emotional relationship cycle.
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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Greg trudged back into the house, leather jacket slung over one arm and cheap, emergency, corner store sunglasses over his eyes. John may have been a rugby man by choice, but when he wanted to he could hold up his end of a football discussion. Those discussions usually started with John deliberately impugning the honour of Greg’s beloved Arsenal, opening the door for retaliatory strikes, rants and general complaining about lily-livered fakes more interested in acting than the ball, biased umpiring, and whatever had just happened on the screen.
John’s loyalty to the Spurs was loose enough he effectively didn’t have a team, which meant no matter who was playing he could work Greg right up.
By half time the pub (not the Beehive, somewhere new) had also joined in and Greg, John (who was switching sides at random), a couple of Betas and a very fit female Dom who looked like she might play herself were voraciously defending the slightly questionable slide tackle by Aaron Ramsey against an equally passionate group of Norwich supporters.
It was the most fun Greg had had in weeks, and once he realised John’s flipping from one team to the other was in order to redirect arguments whenever it appeared they’d shift from friendly to problematic, he let himself relax and really get into it, trusting the other Alpha to keep things in hand.
By the end of the match (a draw) Greg wasn’t buying his own drinks and the group had swelled to include two more booths worth of people, conversation broadening to include a general assessment of each of the premier league teams’ chances at finishing on top. There was also a not insignificant amount of ranting about the national team, performance in the European and upcoming World Cups, and general grumbling and discontent, half those present convinced they could do a better job than Roy Hodgson.
Greg hadn’t planned on getting drunk given his recent exhaustion and had only actually bought one pint, intending to nurse it through the game. That had been the intent, and when he’d finished that one he certainly hadn’t intended to buy another. He hadn’t, but that hadn’t stopped them being shoved into his hand by overly worked up football fans.
Chips and other finger food also mysteriously appeared on the table. That though Greg was fairly certain was Dr J. H. Watson.
The evening had passed quickly in a haze of voices, alcohol and chips. A couple of times John had given him funny looks until Greg realised the female Dom next to him was practically salivating on his shoulder, pressed against him from elbow to thigh, and was responsible for shoving most of the beers at Greg. At that Greg had bought the next round and contrived to use the opportunity to change seats.
They hadn’t stayed too late, John shuffling them out of the gathered horde before eight, wanting to get back to Sherlock. Knowing his friend hadn’t been as comfortable as he pretended about leaving his Sub at home, cognisant or not, Greg didn’t protest, especially as he’d been getting appreciative looks from more than just the persistent lady Dom. He thought a couple of hands may have been less than accidentally brushing over him as he and John tried to work their way toward the door, and he had definitely had at least one number shoved in his back pocket as a male voice whispered “Call me” in his ear.
He’d torn up the number and thrown it in the bin as soon as he got outside. The attention was flattering, but hollow, not coming from the only person he wanted it from.
John had supported him as Greg’d stumbled his way back to Baker Street, no clue how many beers he’d ended up having.
“I need to sshhtop ‘is.” He mumbled to John as John settled him on the couch. The bed upstairs was apparently covered in something Greg didn’t want to know about. “Gonna ‘come an alscholic too.”
“It wasn’t quite the plan. Sleep it off, Greg.” John patted his shoulder and left.
Through blurry eyes Greg had seen him walk into the kitchen where he was going joined by a tall lanky figure. Snatches of conversation stuck in his brain, “…okay…”, “…sorry for leaving you…”, “…love…”, “… My…”, “…id…texted…”, before it all shut down.
The glasses had been sitting on his wallet when he woke.
Marble was cruel as it didn’t muffle footsteps.
“You’re back.”
Greg paused on the second stair. With his not too bad, but still present, headache he managed to miss the sound of Mycroft emerging from… wherever. The Dom’s face was a polite mask, but his eyes were flitting furiously over Greg, taking in his rumpled clothing, his dark glasses, and scruffy hair. Finished cataloguing, there was a subtle easing to Mycroft’s posture as his eyes rose to Greg’s face.
“Big night?” He asked, sounding as if he was trying to be sympathetic and failing.
Greg was too tired to work out whether it was the sympathy or the failing that was genuine, and still too wound up to really care. His anger had faded with distance and drink, but just because it wasn’t the emotion lodged in his chest didn’t mean something wasn’t there, something that was making his heart rate rise painfully, the muscle fluttering like a panicked rabbit in his chest.
“Big enough.” He replied shortly, turning and walking up the stairs without looking back.
“How was the couch at 221B?” Greg could hear the sharp edge in Mycroft’s voice, aimed at his back. “I imagine it’s not the most comfortable place to sleep.”
Instead of yelling back Greg slammed the bathroom door behind him as he headed for the shower. Mycroft must have got the point because he didn’t say more, nor did he follow Greg up the stairs. Greg thrust his head under the shower spray and refused to consider whether or not that hurt.
Pulling on his rattiest, grungiest, softest, most comfortable tracksuit and a stretched t-shirt felt like sliding into old, familiar skin. At some point yesterday, Mycroft had come up and turned off the stereo. He’d also picked up the snow globe and placed it on the bedside table.
Greg left the stereo off. Turning it on seemed childish, especially turning it up loud. Moving the snow globe seemed just as childish, but he did it anyway because it irritated the lump of emotion he was steadfastly ignoring. He pushed the DVDs off his pillow, dug into his drawer for his ancient laptop, and plugged in his headphones.
He’d been intending to read one of the books shortlisted for the latest Man Brooker Prize leant to him by Sally for ages, mostly so she’d shut up about it, but the subject matter took too much effort and too much time. It would be perfect for today.
He read through lunch.
His stomach rumbled mid-afternoon, but Greg ignored it and took a nap instead.
He wasn’t hiding in his room. He just didn’t want to see Mycroft.
He was struggling through the middle of the book when there was a light knock on his door, barely audible over the guitar strumming in his ears. Greg pulled out one of the ear buds.
“Come in.” He left the book on his chest, absolutely not a protective shield.
It was dark outside and Greg’s bedside lamp wasn’t strong enough to light up Mycroft’s face completely, creating an interesting play of shadows and light as the glow from the corridor set certain features into relief.
“Dinner is ready.” Mycroft’s voice was quiet. At a stretch Greg would let himself characterise it as subdued.
“I’m not hungry. I’ll eat later.” Greg’s voice was similarly quiet, but distant.
Mycroft lifted his upper body defiantly.
“The pizza will get cold.” Mycroft’s voice held a definite challenge, but also a tiny quaver on the first word, thoroughly quashed by the last.
“Pizza?” Greg pulled the other ear bud out and tapped the spacebar to pause the music.
Mycroft hated pizza, avoiding it like the plague lest it wreak havoc on his diet.
“Yes.” Mycroft nodded stiffly and left.
Feeling a little like Alice, confused by the shifting principles of reality, Greg brushed the headphones aside and placed the book on the bed, eyes pinned on Mycroft’s retreating figure. Wondering to the door, Greg was surprised to see Mycroft head up the stairs, not down. The smell of oily garlicy cheese wafted faintly through the air, giving credence to Mycroft’s words.
Almost trancelike, Greg wondered bewilderedly down the hall, pausing at the bottom of the stairs and hearing Mycroft’s retreating footsteps.
He followed him up.
The door to the TV room was open and the delicious scent much stronger.
Greg slowly walked to the door, peering in. He didn’t recognise the logo, but they were definitely pizza boxes stacked neatly on the table in front of the sinful leather couch. There was a jug of water and two glasses. There was also a single bottle of beer that had not previously been in the fridge.
Mycroft had settled onto the single chair, using the remote to turn on the TV and DVD player. Greg hesitantly sank onto the couch, halfway down so as not to be too close.
The opening notes to the Yes, Minister DVD menu caught his attention.
His DVDs were down in his room, shoved unceremoniously off his pillow so he could read. That meant these were Mycroft’s, which meant at some point Mycroft had bought his own copy.
The edges of Greg’s eyes burned with unshed tears, irrationally moved by the fact.
Mycroft said nothing, pressing play, pouring water and silently handing Greg his pizza.
Greg opened the lid. His pizza was covered in bacon, beef, salami, extra cheese and onion, without a green vegetable in sight. Breaking out a piece revealed the cheese laden crust, Greg’s guilty pleasure. It was exactly the sort of mess of fat, oil, grease and carbohydrate Mycroft had been trying to talk Greg out of for years.
Humphrey was talking down to Hacker on screen, the voice track forming a muffled noise in the background.
Greg eyed Mycroft, watching him instead of the TV. Mycroft’s gaze was glued almost forcefully to the screen, mechanically bringing slices of his own pizza to his mouth. It was almost the opposite of Greg’s - smallest size possible, thin crust, loaded with vegetables and almost completely grease free.
Greg turned back to the TV, lump in his throat.
An apology. This was an apology. Mycroft might not explicitly say the words, but this was his way of saying sorry: setting up the evening Greg had craved.
He forced out a weak chuckle at one of the witty one-liners.
Mycroft’s shoulders loosened.
He was worried, Greg realised, really worried he’d pushed too far and broken the tenuous frayed connection between them, driving Greg away.
The knot of emotion didn’t unravel, but flipped, twisted, in some way moved, maybe even eased, so it felt different in Greg’s chest. Not gone, just different, but the next time Bernard let his mouth run ahead of his brain, Greg let himself properly laugh.
~*~
The text message reminder of the Monday meeting arrived part way through Greg’s morning run. As he’d been arriving at the Yard plenty early in the mornings, Greg finished his full course in defiance of muscles, aching after a few days inaction, trying to convince him otherwise.
Despite the casual friendly conversation that had sprung up by the end of the first disk and continued long past they both should have been asleep, by unspoken consensus they’d retired to their separate rooms for bed, both still feeling brittle. Even though Greg had slept better, it had still been a mostly frustrating night, probably not helped by his afternoon nap.
Holding his coffee he strolled into the Yard, seeing Sally already at her desk shuffling paperwork around into already neat piles. She sent him a relaxed smile, remnants of her black eye artfully hidden by her makeup. It was a skill many policewomen shared with the victims they investigated.
Even with the required allowance to get to the meeting a few minutes early, Greg still had some time so he shuffled his own paperwork around his desk into semi-organised piles until Sally knocked politely on his door and they headed to the allocated conference room.
Whiting was already present, chatting to a grumpy looking Gregson with a huge ‘I’m a morning person’ smile on his face. Both acknowledged Greg and Sally as they walked in, Whiting with a smile and Gregson with a half-hearted grunt, but Gregson was always a surly bastard until after his third coffee or two in the afternoon, whichever came first.
His black eye was a spectacular bloom of colour.
There were some other sergeants present, including Gregson’s overly enthusiastic DS and Johnson who’d helped wrestle Michael Carson down to holdings. The DIs were slightly slower to trickle in, and most of them were holding large coffee cups having had to get up and do the school run before they’d been able to rush to the station.
Unusually Sally stuck to Greg’s side rather than wondering off to chat and socialise with her peers. There weren’t many DC’s present and Sally wasn’t the kind of person to hide behind someone else rather than talk to her friends in fear of a rival maybe showing up, so Greg was left wondering whether the other officers had been giving her a hard time over the latest drama with Anderson. There was a fine line between companionable teasing and hurtful bullying, and in a high stress environment it was very easy to step over that line, especially if Sally was still feeling sensitive.
Alternatively she was sticking with him in a show of moral support, worried maybe that if she left he’d be on his own. Either way, she snagged a seat next to him and crumpled into it with a sigh.
“How was your weekend?” She asked quietly.
Greg shrugged. “Watched the match. You?”
“Slept.” She grinned contentedly. “And when I woke up, ate and slept some more.”
“Glad to hear it.” Greg was going to say more, but the hum faded as the Super stood up at the front of the room.
“Good Morning.” Packenham said formally.
Dimmock rushed in in a clatter of doors, metal and thumps, tie askew and shirt not quite tucked in. Flushing bright red at being so obviously late, he slunk into a chair at the back.
“As I was saying,” Packenham glared into the corner Dimmock was hiding in, “good morning and thank you all for being here as requested. Your DCI and I have a fairly serious topic to talk to you all about. We’re sorry it’s come to this, but some things are past acceptable in this division and must be fixed.”
Everyone shifted in their chairs self-consciously. Staff meetings involving all the detectives were rare and generally meant very bad things. Greg could only remember five in his entire career with the Yard.
“It’s not everyone here,” Packenham continued, “but it is felt that this needs to be dealt with now before it becomes a wider issue.”
Mulgrave nodded sagely behind Packenham, presenting a picture of total agreement.
“It has come to my attention that certain team members have not been acting professionally and that personal problems and relationships have been inappropriately played out across a wider sphere.”
Greg and Sally stiffened as the whole room very deliberately did not look at them.
Words continued to flow past Greg’s ears in a haze. True, Sally and Anderson’s affair wasn’t the most professional act, but they were hardly the only two officers sleeping with each other and they certainly fought less, in public, than many of their peers who had nothing more than chips on their shoulders.
Besides which all three of them, Sally, Anderson and the hapless Weatherly had proven at Leicester Square, that they could work together, if a little frostily.
It was this public condemnation that was inappropriate. If Mulgrave or Packenham had had a problem they should have come to Greg and instructed him to have a word with them, or, if they had totally lost faith in him after his mini-breakdown, they should have had Sally come in for a private chat. The public farce, which was most definitely aimed at his team and everyone knew it, was just wrong.
After all, while Greg imagined Weatherly was cringing in her seat somewhere, Anderson was nowhere to be seen as he technically fell under the remit of SOCO, not the Serious Crime Directorate.
Packenham continued speaking, Mulgrave nodding beside him, both of them with eyes glued somewhere above their gathered detectives not looking down. Everyone was not looking, and Sally and Greg sat like stone under their non-existent stares.
Greg at least found the timing suspicious. There had been much worse breakdowns between Sally and Anderson before they managed to reach come form of equilibrium, and never even a quiet word had been said. Now a public meeting? Was this because Greg had opened himself up to attack, shown a weakness to be pounced on? Although rationally it was unlikely all this was aimed for some reason at Greg, he couldn’t help feeling that way and Packenham’s next words, cutting through Greg’s contemplation, didn’t do anything to help that feeling.
“Lastly, to emphasise how seriously this matter is being taken, any DI whose subordinate officers are found to be acting in such an unprofessional manner will be subject to disciplinary action, internal proceedings, and possible demotion.”
Out of the corner of his eye Greg could see Whiting, the DI Weatherly worked with most often, flex his jaw.
Packenham said a couple more words and dismissed them all, leading the way out of the room with Mulgrave.
No one else moved, eyes still locked to the front.
Without looking at each other, Greg and Sally smoothly stood and started towards the door. It wasn’t that far, but with the tremendous weight of all the eyes not on them it felt like miles.
A few meters from the door Dimmock, who had evidently stood and started moving, tripped over a chair and thumped loudly into Greg. Apologising profusely, he managed to get them even more tangled and in his overly eager puppy-dog way almost sent them crashing to the floor. It effectively broke the tension in the room, like it was intended to Greg realised when Dimmock gave him a small smile as Gregson unceremoniously hauled the young DI out of the tangled mess he’d created by the collar, berating him the whole time for being late, for being clumsy and for the capital offense of disturbing Gregson before he’d had enough coffee.
Greg didn’t protest when Sally said she was going to spend the day chasing down leads for the Leicester Square case and would be out of the office all day. If she hadn’t he probably would have kicked her out for a list of similar tasks himself.
His day was full of the paperwork to bring Carson before a Magistrate, the bail hearing, and once he was sure Carson was going to be held on remand until trial, explaining everything to Sam and Daniel.
Sam he’d given an edited version, unsure how much Peter would want his friend and flatmate to know. Daniel he told everything, working on the philosophy that Peter needed an Alpha who would be fully dedicated to him and resolving his issues, and that if that wasn’t going to be Daniel it would be better Daniel left now and never found out what hospital Peter was in.
There were some tense seconds when Greg thought he’d misjudged Daniel Hill and that the Alpha would leave, but the moment passed and a shaking voice began pleading with Greg for Peter’s hospital suite.
Relief was a heady emotion.
Dinner was friendly, cordial. Greg updated Mycroft on the latest Yard gossip, Mycroft laughed and smiled in all the right places and recounted salacious stories of unnamed MPs, diplomats, bureaucrats and spies that made Greg gape and blush.
It felt like a date in their own kitchen.
They slept in separate rooms.
Tuesday Greg ‘kept’ Sally following up leads. She reported back to him at lunch and the end of the day with lots of completed tasks, but no real progress.
Greg completed mounds of paperwork for his cases in the ‘preparing for court’ stage, now including the Carson/Robinson case. He also dug through some more missing person’s reports. Industry, but no production.
Tuesday night was their first session in over a week, leaving Greg shuddering out his orgasm over Mycroft’s leather clad hands, the only touch of flesh on flesh Greg’s lips around Mycroft’s cock as he worked the plug in and out at Mycroft’s increasingly breathy commands.
Technically it was one of the best sessions, the best orgasms, of Greg’s life, but it felt distant, almost empty.
Greg spent the night curled as tightly as possible around Mycroft, nose buried in the crook of his neck, hands plastered under Mycroft’s pyjamas, cradling the small, but firm bump.
When he woke the knot in Greg’s chest felt like it had shifted, sections loosening while others clenched tighter.
Wednesday Greg dragged Sally to Baker St to finally get back his case file. She waited in the car while he ran up to collect the file, Sherlock’s deductions (and insults), and John’s notes and logical gap filling.
Sherlock had been busy, and Greg turned a deliberate blind eye to the glaring gaps in John’s notes where certain information was not legally obtained. By the end of the day they’d tracked down sufficient official evidence to arrest Kelly Peterson’s science teacher, who was having an affair with a student and had been stumbled across by the young girl after school. Faced with the proof, she’d crumpled readily and Greg was able to spend an emotional hour with the family gently explaining what had happened to their baby girl.
It had meant he was an hour late home.
He did text.
That night Mycroft bound tight and thrashed him until every nerve had sung.
He spent that night in an almost identical position to the night before.
Thursday was spent praying nothing came up that would require him to work stupid hours over the weekend and wondering where Sally, who was meant to have nipped down to Brighton for a quick statement from a green grocer, was. She arrived back just before closing with the statement and a message from the local force commending her for her help in unravelling a string of robberies. Apparently she’d noticed the vital piece of evidence that led them to the culprits and she’d stayed to help arrest them.
Greg copied the memo and stored it in her personnel file, but they both agreed mentioning it to Mulgrave would seem too obvious, so they left it as a talking point for Sally’s yearly reviews instead and avoided the political shit storm, despite the fact that both of them really wanted to pin it to the DCI’s door and highlight the most complementary lines in bright fluorescent pink highlighter.
Thursday night involved all things B: bondage, ball gags, beads and buggery.
Friday something did come up, just after lunch, but with a couple of witnesses who’d seen the deceased fighting with someone matching the person in the love heart frame in the apartment and the victim’s phone contacts, the whole thing fell apart extremely quickly.
He let Sally go an arrest the Dom, a double edged gift as it meant she also had to do all the paperwork.
Greg took home takeaway: Chinese from the place near the Yard Mycroft preferred to the one near their place. They watched movies and Greg left his ankle against Mycroft’s leg when they touched.
His chest felt looser.
For the first time in almost two weeks, Mycroft kissed him during sex.
Lying pressed up against Mycroft’s back while he slept, Greg knew that it was no good. Despite knowing otherwise, despite telling himself otherwise over and over again, he’d once again stupidly begun to hope.
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Previous - Next
Title:Though I Walk through the Valley (25/38)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: Evening everyone. For those watching the new episodes, I can't believe the last one is about to air. For those who are still waiting, I really hope you get to see them soon.
Warnings: Nothing I can think of for this chapter other than the beginning of a rather destructive emotional relationship cycle.
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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Greg trudged back into the house, leather jacket slung over one arm and cheap, emergency, corner store sunglasses over his eyes. John may have been a rugby man by choice, but when he wanted to he could hold up his end of a football discussion. Those discussions usually started with John deliberately impugning the honour of Greg’s beloved Arsenal, opening the door for retaliatory strikes, rants and general complaining about lily-livered fakes more interested in acting than the ball, biased umpiring, and whatever had just happened on the screen.
John’s loyalty to the Spurs was loose enough he effectively didn’t have a team, which meant no matter who was playing he could work Greg right up.
By half time the pub (not the Beehive, somewhere new) had also joined in and Greg, John (who was switching sides at random), a couple of Betas and a very fit female Dom who looked like she might play herself were voraciously defending the slightly questionable slide tackle by Aaron Ramsey against an equally passionate group of Norwich supporters.
It was the most fun Greg had had in weeks, and once he realised John’s flipping from one team to the other was in order to redirect arguments whenever it appeared they’d shift from friendly to problematic, he let himself relax and really get into it, trusting the other Alpha to keep things in hand.
By the end of the match (a draw) Greg wasn’t buying his own drinks and the group had swelled to include two more booths worth of people, conversation broadening to include a general assessment of each of the premier league teams’ chances at finishing on top. There was also a not insignificant amount of ranting about the national team, performance in the European and upcoming World Cups, and general grumbling and discontent, half those present convinced they could do a better job than Roy Hodgson.
Greg hadn’t planned on getting drunk given his recent exhaustion and had only actually bought one pint, intending to nurse it through the game. That had been the intent, and when he’d finished that one he certainly hadn’t intended to buy another. He hadn’t, but that hadn’t stopped them being shoved into his hand by overly worked up football fans.
Chips and other finger food also mysteriously appeared on the table. That though Greg was fairly certain was Dr J. H. Watson.
The evening had passed quickly in a haze of voices, alcohol and chips. A couple of times John had given him funny looks until Greg realised the female Dom next to him was practically salivating on his shoulder, pressed against him from elbow to thigh, and was responsible for shoving most of the beers at Greg. At that Greg had bought the next round and contrived to use the opportunity to change seats.
They hadn’t stayed too late, John shuffling them out of the gathered horde before eight, wanting to get back to Sherlock. Knowing his friend hadn’t been as comfortable as he pretended about leaving his Sub at home, cognisant or not, Greg didn’t protest, especially as he’d been getting appreciative looks from more than just the persistent lady Dom. He thought a couple of hands may have been less than accidentally brushing over him as he and John tried to work their way toward the door, and he had definitely had at least one number shoved in his back pocket as a male voice whispered “Call me” in his ear.
He’d torn up the number and thrown it in the bin as soon as he got outside. The attention was flattering, but hollow, not coming from the only person he wanted it from.
John had supported him as Greg’d stumbled his way back to Baker Street, no clue how many beers he’d ended up having.
“I need to sshhtop ‘is.” He mumbled to John as John settled him on the couch. The bed upstairs was apparently covered in something Greg didn’t want to know about. “Gonna ‘come an alscholic too.”
“It wasn’t quite the plan. Sleep it off, Greg.” John patted his shoulder and left.
Through blurry eyes Greg had seen him walk into the kitchen where he was going joined by a tall lanky figure. Snatches of conversation stuck in his brain, “…okay…”, “…sorry for leaving you…”, “…love…”, “… My…”, “…id…texted…”, before it all shut down.
The glasses had been sitting on his wallet when he woke.
Marble was cruel as it didn’t muffle footsteps.
“You’re back.”
Greg paused on the second stair. With his not too bad, but still present, headache he managed to miss the sound of Mycroft emerging from… wherever. The Dom’s face was a polite mask, but his eyes were flitting furiously over Greg, taking in his rumpled clothing, his dark glasses, and scruffy hair. Finished cataloguing, there was a subtle easing to Mycroft’s posture as his eyes rose to Greg’s face.
“Big night?” He asked, sounding as if he was trying to be sympathetic and failing.
Greg was too tired to work out whether it was the sympathy or the failing that was genuine, and still too wound up to really care. His anger had faded with distance and drink, but just because it wasn’t the emotion lodged in his chest didn’t mean something wasn’t there, something that was making his heart rate rise painfully, the muscle fluttering like a panicked rabbit in his chest.
“Big enough.” He replied shortly, turning and walking up the stairs without looking back.
“How was the couch at 221B?” Greg could hear the sharp edge in Mycroft’s voice, aimed at his back. “I imagine it’s not the most comfortable place to sleep.”
Instead of yelling back Greg slammed the bathroom door behind him as he headed for the shower. Mycroft must have got the point because he didn’t say more, nor did he follow Greg up the stairs. Greg thrust his head under the shower spray and refused to consider whether or not that hurt.
Pulling on his rattiest, grungiest, softest, most comfortable tracksuit and a stretched t-shirt felt like sliding into old, familiar skin. At some point yesterday, Mycroft had come up and turned off the stereo. He’d also picked up the snow globe and placed it on the bedside table.
Greg left the stereo off. Turning it on seemed childish, especially turning it up loud. Moving the snow globe seemed just as childish, but he did it anyway because it irritated the lump of emotion he was steadfastly ignoring. He pushed the DVDs off his pillow, dug into his drawer for his ancient laptop, and plugged in his headphones.
He’d been intending to read one of the books shortlisted for the latest Man Brooker Prize leant to him by Sally for ages, mostly so she’d shut up about it, but the subject matter took too much effort and too much time. It would be perfect for today.
He read through lunch.
His stomach rumbled mid-afternoon, but Greg ignored it and took a nap instead.
He wasn’t hiding in his room. He just didn’t want to see Mycroft.
He was struggling through the middle of the book when there was a light knock on his door, barely audible over the guitar strumming in his ears. Greg pulled out one of the ear buds.
“Come in.” He left the book on his chest, absolutely not a protective shield.
It was dark outside and Greg’s bedside lamp wasn’t strong enough to light up Mycroft’s face completely, creating an interesting play of shadows and light as the glow from the corridor set certain features into relief.
“Dinner is ready.” Mycroft’s voice was quiet. At a stretch Greg would let himself characterise it as subdued.
“I’m not hungry. I’ll eat later.” Greg’s voice was similarly quiet, but distant.
Mycroft lifted his upper body defiantly.
“The pizza will get cold.” Mycroft’s voice held a definite challenge, but also a tiny quaver on the first word, thoroughly quashed by the last.
“Pizza?” Greg pulled the other ear bud out and tapped the spacebar to pause the music.
Mycroft hated pizza, avoiding it like the plague lest it wreak havoc on his diet.
“Yes.” Mycroft nodded stiffly and left.
Feeling a little like Alice, confused by the shifting principles of reality, Greg brushed the headphones aside and placed the book on the bed, eyes pinned on Mycroft’s retreating figure. Wondering to the door, Greg was surprised to see Mycroft head up the stairs, not down. The smell of oily garlicy cheese wafted faintly through the air, giving credence to Mycroft’s words.
Almost trancelike, Greg wondered bewilderedly down the hall, pausing at the bottom of the stairs and hearing Mycroft’s retreating footsteps.
He followed him up.
The door to the TV room was open and the delicious scent much stronger.
Greg slowly walked to the door, peering in. He didn’t recognise the logo, but they were definitely pizza boxes stacked neatly on the table in front of the sinful leather couch. There was a jug of water and two glasses. There was also a single bottle of beer that had not previously been in the fridge.
Mycroft had settled onto the single chair, using the remote to turn on the TV and DVD player. Greg hesitantly sank onto the couch, halfway down so as not to be too close.
The opening notes to the Yes, Minister DVD menu caught his attention.
His DVDs were down in his room, shoved unceremoniously off his pillow so he could read. That meant these were Mycroft’s, which meant at some point Mycroft had bought his own copy.
The edges of Greg’s eyes burned with unshed tears, irrationally moved by the fact.
Mycroft said nothing, pressing play, pouring water and silently handing Greg his pizza.
Greg opened the lid. His pizza was covered in bacon, beef, salami, extra cheese and onion, without a green vegetable in sight. Breaking out a piece revealed the cheese laden crust, Greg’s guilty pleasure. It was exactly the sort of mess of fat, oil, grease and carbohydrate Mycroft had been trying to talk Greg out of for years.
Humphrey was talking down to Hacker on screen, the voice track forming a muffled noise in the background.
Greg eyed Mycroft, watching him instead of the TV. Mycroft’s gaze was glued almost forcefully to the screen, mechanically bringing slices of his own pizza to his mouth. It was almost the opposite of Greg’s - smallest size possible, thin crust, loaded with vegetables and almost completely grease free.
Greg turned back to the TV, lump in his throat.
An apology. This was an apology. Mycroft might not explicitly say the words, but this was his way of saying sorry: setting up the evening Greg had craved.
He forced out a weak chuckle at one of the witty one-liners.
Mycroft’s shoulders loosened.
He was worried, Greg realised, really worried he’d pushed too far and broken the tenuous frayed connection between them, driving Greg away.
The knot of emotion didn’t unravel, but flipped, twisted, in some way moved, maybe even eased, so it felt different in Greg’s chest. Not gone, just different, but the next time Bernard let his mouth run ahead of his brain, Greg let himself properly laugh.
~*~
The text message reminder of the Monday meeting arrived part way through Greg’s morning run. As he’d been arriving at the Yard plenty early in the mornings, Greg finished his full course in defiance of muscles, aching after a few days inaction, trying to convince him otherwise.
Despite the casual friendly conversation that had sprung up by the end of the first disk and continued long past they both should have been asleep, by unspoken consensus they’d retired to their separate rooms for bed, both still feeling brittle. Even though Greg had slept better, it had still been a mostly frustrating night, probably not helped by his afternoon nap.
Holding his coffee he strolled into the Yard, seeing Sally already at her desk shuffling paperwork around into already neat piles. She sent him a relaxed smile, remnants of her black eye artfully hidden by her makeup. It was a skill many policewomen shared with the victims they investigated.
Even with the required allowance to get to the meeting a few minutes early, Greg still had some time so he shuffled his own paperwork around his desk into semi-organised piles until Sally knocked politely on his door and they headed to the allocated conference room.
Whiting was already present, chatting to a grumpy looking Gregson with a huge ‘I’m a morning person’ smile on his face. Both acknowledged Greg and Sally as they walked in, Whiting with a smile and Gregson with a half-hearted grunt, but Gregson was always a surly bastard until after his third coffee or two in the afternoon, whichever came first.
His black eye was a spectacular bloom of colour.
There were some other sergeants present, including Gregson’s overly enthusiastic DS and Johnson who’d helped wrestle Michael Carson down to holdings. The DIs were slightly slower to trickle in, and most of them were holding large coffee cups having had to get up and do the school run before they’d been able to rush to the station.
Unusually Sally stuck to Greg’s side rather than wondering off to chat and socialise with her peers. There weren’t many DC’s present and Sally wasn’t the kind of person to hide behind someone else rather than talk to her friends in fear of a rival maybe showing up, so Greg was left wondering whether the other officers had been giving her a hard time over the latest drama with Anderson. There was a fine line between companionable teasing and hurtful bullying, and in a high stress environment it was very easy to step over that line, especially if Sally was still feeling sensitive.
Alternatively she was sticking with him in a show of moral support, worried maybe that if she left he’d be on his own. Either way, she snagged a seat next to him and crumpled into it with a sigh.
“How was your weekend?” She asked quietly.
Greg shrugged. “Watched the match. You?”
“Slept.” She grinned contentedly. “And when I woke up, ate and slept some more.”
“Glad to hear it.” Greg was going to say more, but the hum faded as the Super stood up at the front of the room.
“Good Morning.” Packenham said formally.
Dimmock rushed in in a clatter of doors, metal and thumps, tie askew and shirt not quite tucked in. Flushing bright red at being so obviously late, he slunk into a chair at the back.
“As I was saying,” Packenham glared into the corner Dimmock was hiding in, “good morning and thank you all for being here as requested. Your DCI and I have a fairly serious topic to talk to you all about. We’re sorry it’s come to this, but some things are past acceptable in this division and must be fixed.”
Everyone shifted in their chairs self-consciously. Staff meetings involving all the detectives were rare and generally meant very bad things. Greg could only remember five in his entire career with the Yard.
“It’s not everyone here,” Packenham continued, “but it is felt that this needs to be dealt with now before it becomes a wider issue.”
Mulgrave nodded sagely behind Packenham, presenting a picture of total agreement.
“It has come to my attention that certain team members have not been acting professionally and that personal problems and relationships have been inappropriately played out across a wider sphere.”
Greg and Sally stiffened as the whole room very deliberately did not look at them.
Words continued to flow past Greg’s ears in a haze. True, Sally and Anderson’s affair wasn’t the most professional act, but they were hardly the only two officers sleeping with each other and they certainly fought less, in public, than many of their peers who had nothing more than chips on their shoulders.
Besides which all three of them, Sally, Anderson and the hapless Weatherly had proven at Leicester Square, that they could work together, if a little frostily.
It was this public condemnation that was inappropriate. If Mulgrave or Packenham had had a problem they should have come to Greg and instructed him to have a word with them, or, if they had totally lost faith in him after his mini-breakdown, they should have had Sally come in for a private chat. The public farce, which was most definitely aimed at his team and everyone knew it, was just wrong.
After all, while Greg imagined Weatherly was cringing in her seat somewhere, Anderson was nowhere to be seen as he technically fell under the remit of SOCO, not the Serious Crime Directorate.
Packenham continued speaking, Mulgrave nodding beside him, both of them with eyes glued somewhere above their gathered detectives not looking down. Everyone was not looking, and Sally and Greg sat like stone under their non-existent stares.
Greg at least found the timing suspicious. There had been much worse breakdowns between Sally and Anderson before they managed to reach come form of equilibrium, and never even a quiet word had been said. Now a public meeting? Was this because Greg had opened himself up to attack, shown a weakness to be pounced on? Although rationally it was unlikely all this was aimed for some reason at Greg, he couldn’t help feeling that way and Packenham’s next words, cutting through Greg’s contemplation, didn’t do anything to help that feeling.
“Lastly, to emphasise how seriously this matter is being taken, any DI whose subordinate officers are found to be acting in such an unprofessional manner will be subject to disciplinary action, internal proceedings, and possible demotion.”
Out of the corner of his eye Greg could see Whiting, the DI Weatherly worked with most often, flex his jaw.
Packenham said a couple more words and dismissed them all, leading the way out of the room with Mulgrave.
No one else moved, eyes still locked to the front.
Without looking at each other, Greg and Sally smoothly stood and started towards the door. It wasn’t that far, but with the tremendous weight of all the eyes not on them it felt like miles.
A few meters from the door Dimmock, who had evidently stood and started moving, tripped over a chair and thumped loudly into Greg. Apologising profusely, he managed to get them even more tangled and in his overly eager puppy-dog way almost sent them crashing to the floor. It effectively broke the tension in the room, like it was intended to Greg realised when Dimmock gave him a small smile as Gregson unceremoniously hauled the young DI out of the tangled mess he’d created by the collar, berating him the whole time for being late, for being clumsy and for the capital offense of disturbing Gregson before he’d had enough coffee.
Greg didn’t protest when Sally said she was going to spend the day chasing down leads for the Leicester Square case and would be out of the office all day. If she hadn’t he probably would have kicked her out for a list of similar tasks himself.
His day was full of the paperwork to bring Carson before a Magistrate, the bail hearing, and once he was sure Carson was going to be held on remand until trial, explaining everything to Sam and Daniel.
Sam he’d given an edited version, unsure how much Peter would want his friend and flatmate to know. Daniel he told everything, working on the philosophy that Peter needed an Alpha who would be fully dedicated to him and resolving his issues, and that if that wasn’t going to be Daniel it would be better Daniel left now and never found out what hospital Peter was in.
There were some tense seconds when Greg thought he’d misjudged Daniel Hill and that the Alpha would leave, but the moment passed and a shaking voice began pleading with Greg for Peter’s hospital suite.
Relief was a heady emotion.
Dinner was friendly, cordial. Greg updated Mycroft on the latest Yard gossip, Mycroft laughed and smiled in all the right places and recounted salacious stories of unnamed MPs, diplomats, bureaucrats and spies that made Greg gape and blush.
It felt like a date in their own kitchen.
They slept in separate rooms.
Tuesday Greg ‘kept’ Sally following up leads. She reported back to him at lunch and the end of the day with lots of completed tasks, but no real progress.
Greg completed mounds of paperwork for his cases in the ‘preparing for court’ stage, now including the Carson/Robinson case. He also dug through some more missing person’s reports. Industry, but no production.
Tuesday night was their first session in over a week, leaving Greg shuddering out his orgasm over Mycroft’s leather clad hands, the only touch of flesh on flesh Greg’s lips around Mycroft’s cock as he worked the plug in and out at Mycroft’s increasingly breathy commands.
Technically it was one of the best sessions, the best orgasms, of Greg’s life, but it felt distant, almost empty.
Greg spent the night curled as tightly as possible around Mycroft, nose buried in the crook of his neck, hands plastered under Mycroft’s pyjamas, cradling the small, but firm bump.
When he woke the knot in Greg’s chest felt like it had shifted, sections loosening while others clenched tighter.
Wednesday Greg dragged Sally to Baker St to finally get back his case file. She waited in the car while he ran up to collect the file, Sherlock’s deductions (and insults), and John’s notes and logical gap filling.
Sherlock had been busy, and Greg turned a deliberate blind eye to the glaring gaps in John’s notes where certain information was not legally obtained. By the end of the day they’d tracked down sufficient official evidence to arrest Kelly Peterson’s science teacher, who was having an affair with a student and had been stumbled across by the young girl after school. Faced with the proof, she’d crumpled readily and Greg was able to spend an emotional hour with the family gently explaining what had happened to their baby girl.
It had meant he was an hour late home.
He did text.
That night Mycroft bound tight and thrashed him until every nerve had sung.
He spent that night in an almost identical position to the night before.
Thursday was spent praying nothing came up that would require him to work stupid hours over the weekend and wondering where Sally, who was meant to have nipped down to Brighton for a quick statement from a green grocer, was. She arrived back just before closing with the statement and a message from the local force commending her for her help in unravelling a string of robberies. Apparently she’d noticed the vital piece of evidence that led them to the culprits and she’d stayed to help arrest them.
Greg copied the memo and stored it in her personnel file, but they both agreed mentioning it to Mulgrave would seem too obvious, so they left it as a talking point for Sally’s yearly reviews instead and avoided the political shit storm, despite the fact that both of them really wanted to pin it to the DCI’s door and highlight the most complementary lines in bright fluorescent pink highlighter.
Thursday night involved all things B: bondage, ball gags, beads and buggery.
Friday something did come up, just after lunch, but with a couple of witnesses who’d seen the deceased fighting with someone matching the person in the love heart frame in the apartment and the victim’s phone contacts, the whole thing fell apart extremely quickly.
He let Sally go an arrest the Dom, a double edged gift as it meant she also had to do all the paperwork.
Greg took home takeaway: Chinese from the place near the Yard Mycroft preferred to the one near their place. They watched movies and Greg left his ankle against Mycroft’s leg when they touched.
His chest felt looser.
For the first time in almost two weeks, Mycroft kissed him during sex.
Lying pressed up against Mycroft’s back while he slept, Greg knew that it was no good. Despite knowing otherwise, despite telling himself otherwise over and over again, he’d once again stupidly begun to hope.
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