Though I Walk Through the Valley (26/38)
Though I Walk through the Valley
Title:Though I Walk through the Valley (26/38)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. Still not one hundred percent happy with this chapter, but nothing I do seems to make me happier with it, so here you go. Lots of snuggling, biology and rain for you all.
Warnings: Nothing I can think of 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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Despite the fact it was Saturday and there had been no alarm set, Greg still woke early thanks to his damnable internal clock.
Waking did not imply moving.
A small contented sigh escaped, breath stirring the air and sending fresh ginger spice swirling through the room. His lips curled into a small smile, pressed gently against the back of Mycroft’s neck. Stray chocolate-orange strands tickled Greg’s nose, the edges just beginning to curl where Mycroft had let his hair get slightly longer than usual in between haircuts.
Greg sighed again, a small hug of breath, and lazily nuzzled the skin behind his love’s ear. He slowly, languidly stretched, feeling his skin slide along Mycroft’s body, way eased by the silk-satin slide of Mycroft’s pyjamas. One day, Greg thought as he rubbed his face lightly in Mycroft’s hair, he would convince Mycroft to leave off the sleep clothes and would be able to wake up skin to skin, fingers stroking over natural contours unsmoothed by slinky fabric.
His cock felt heavy and full, nestled up against Mycroft’s silk clad rear. He wasn’t hard, but he was definitely swollen and it felt glorious to slide lightly along the firm muscles, lax in sleep. Combined with the overnight build-up of pheromones it was a heady sensation, intoxicating and warm.
There was no urgency, no real arousal. It was more like being drunk, the edges of sight blurred, everything exaggerated and just a little bit fuzzy. It was that pleasant stage of intoxication, the world existing just out of focus, all sensual curves and limpid angles. Drunk on Mycroft.
Fingers slid delicately over the crest of Mycroft’s hip, caressing the thin line of exposed skin where his top had ridden up. Keeping the contact light as he slipped his fingers under the silk, Greg brushed wider and wider circles on the skin of Mycroft’s belly, feeling the firm, unyielding bulge that was their child.
Suddenly wanting to see, Greg pushed up onto his elbow, right hand still skating over Mycroft’s front while he arranged himself. Mycroft must have been worn to the bone; there was no other reason for his usual reflexes not to kick in and wake him at Greg’s movements. He placed a gentle kiss on Mycroft’s temple and let himself believe, just for a moment, that Mycroft hadn’t woken because his body recognised Greg’s scent, knew his Alpha was near and that he was safe to relax and sleep undisturbed.
Greg twisted his upper body so he could see down Mycroft’s lanky side, taking his torso out of direct contact with Mycroft’s back. The bureaucrat gave a sleepy grumble, body shifting in his slumber until he was once more pressed against Greg. With a quiet sigh he stilled, oblivious to the emotional reaction Greg had to stifle as his heart felt close to bursting, lest he disturb Mycroft’s much needed rest. Instead Greg contented himself with dropping barely there kisses over Mycroft’s face and hair while his fingers worked his way carefully up the row of buttons, undoing as he went.
The fabric fell apart as each button loosened, parting with nothing more than a gentle sweep of fingers to leave the creamy skin beneath bare. Mycroft’s nipples were slightly swollen, the areoles a little bit larger than Greg remembered and a slightly darker dusty pink. They were also more sensitive, causing Mycroft to shiver as the back of Greg’s fingers lightly brushed over one on their way down his body.
Too far from Mycroft’s scent when he was propped up on his elbow, Greg bent over so he could bury his nose in the juncture of neck and shoulder, greedily inhaling as much as his lungs could hold. It didn’t matter that Mycroft’s scent had saturated the room, renewed and replenished each night.
Greg was an addict and needed it straight from the source.
Still feasting on scent, his hand wandered down, fingers skating along the remaining buttons before dipping under the pants’ waistband. Mycroft’s cock was soft in its nest of curls, and for some time Greg just held it, enjoying the pliant weight in his fingers, feeling the slow steady lengthen as with each slow heartbeat it filled, until like Greg Mycroft existed in that half-hard state that could go either way and exist seemingly indefinitely.
Fingers stretching further, Greg was required by simple physics to pull away from Mycroft’s neck to softly palm the sacks hanging loose below his body. It meant Greg was in position to watch the expressions on Mycroft’s face and better hear the breathy sighs as he slowly rolled the heavy balls in his hand, feeling the veiny skin and the sparse wiry hair under the pads of his fingers.
Unwilling to lose the slow, weighty, syrup-like atmosphere to the lighter sharper arousal, Greg gently released Mycroft and drew his fingers up, heedless of the sleepy murmur of discontent his love gave at the loss of contact. Instead Greg’s fingers splayed over the sizeable baby bump, tracing fragile skin with questing digits.
Mycroft gave a contended sigh, his own fingers curling lightly into the pillow.
At about 19 weeks the swell of Mycroft’s stomach was clearly visible away from the clever tailoring and distracting lines of his suits. Mycroft must have reverted to using the outfit’s he’d stored away from when he was heavier, all of which had been out to flatter his figure and hide his middle. Either that or Mycroft’s tailor knew too, and Greg didn’t think that was likely.
Without the suits it was possible to see how much Mycroft had grown. It was lucky, Greg reflected, that Mycroft’s frame was broader and prone to bulk. They’d never have been able to hide a secret like this for so long if he’d shared Sherlock’s slender, bony physique. Any weight gain would have been immediately obvious, the slightest bump visible for the world to see.
It was astonishing to think that in there, curled up just out of reach, was a human being; Still developing, of course, but there and growing, a bundle of cells that was half him and half Mycroft, dividing and replicating and forming.
Greg stroked the skin separating him from the baby. How big was it now? John had said around 14cm, but that was tiny. So small, so fragile. He curled his hand protectively, trying to cover as great an area as possible.
He would look after this precious gift, protect it and its bearer from the world. Greg was aware it was very caveman, the absolute need filling him to love, protect, and possess, but he didn’t care. His baby, his Omega, his family.
His.
He tightened his grip and pulled Mycroft snug against his body, the lightest of growls, more a full bodied purr in the heavy feel of the room, erupting from his lips against Mycroft’s skin. The deep rumble in his chest obviously connected to some level of Mycroft’s awareness because a similar rumble escaped him and he arched his neck, opening that tantalising spot to full view and inviting Greg’s lips and tongue.
Greg accepted the invitation, grazing his teeth over the area, following up with long hard strokes savouring strokes. The phantom taste of Mycroft filled his taste buds and he latched on with his lips, sucking and licking to collect as much of the non-existent nectar as possible.
Mycroft gave a small moan and turned his face, blocking access to his neck, but placing his mouth conveniently within reach. Greg kissed his way up Mycroft’s jaw before slowly licking into his mouth, thin lips already parted before Greg’s tongue.
Greg kept his strokes lazy and long, matching his moves to their steady heartbeats. Despite the clear sexuality of the situation, it was still the sensuality, the decadence that flooded his senses. Mycroft’s mouth wasn’t helping, the chemical flavours of spice and cinnamon overpowering the lingering staleness of morning breath.
It was impossible to characterise Mycroft, define him in a few simple words, but if he had had to, despite Mycroft’s undeniable Englishness, Greg would have chosen orange, gold, and delicate cream mixed with saffron, vanilla, ginger, and sandalwood spice - all the opulence of the sub-continent threaded through Mycroft’s scent and taste with shots of almost visible colour.
“Gregory.” Mycroft purred against his lips.
Greg drew back a little, just far enough to see Mycroft’s eyes were hazily open and he was awake. The light olive sheets brought out the blue in Mycroft’s eyes and the vague hint of red in his hair, colours so far from his scent, but still so uniquely suited to him.
“Gorgeous,” Greg breathed, bending his lips back to Mycroft’s, hand drifting from his stomach to his shoulders to turn him to his back and better cradle the Omega against him.
The kiss was just as lingering, as lascivious as before, the slow burn building in his groin still smouldering, not yet alight. Mycroft’s hand slid off the bed, gliding up Greg’s arm in deceptive gentleness as his mouth surrendered under Greg’s. It hovered millimetres above Greg’s hair, almost burying itself in the strands, almost pulling him in closer, before it dropped to his shoulder and roughly shoved him off.
Greg landed on his back with a start, pheromone muzzled brain not understanding where his pliant, responsive love had gone.
Mycroft swung his legs off the bed and stood smoothly, posture stiff as his fingers worked furiously to re-button the pyjama top. He had almost reached the bottom when his face garnered a distinctly grey tinge and he rushed to the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.
Greg sighed and ran a hand over his face. Evidently that was too far, which, given some of the things they’d been doing to each other of a night, was a lot less extreme than some other acts they’d enjoyed, but apparently where Mycroft shuddering to completion around Greg’s cock, flogger still shakily gripped in one hand as he came, was acceptable, lazy Saturday morning kissing was not.
‘In all fairness,’ part of his brain piped up, ‘he was asleep for most of it.’
Well, yes, and Greg blushed lightly at the thought, but Greg hadn’t really been doing anything other than looking and Mycroft had woken up when they really started.
Woken up and bolted?
Woken up and kissed back, maybe even lovingly and…
‘Stop it!’ He told himself firmly, climbing out of bed and collecting his clothes from the night before. ‘Mycroft doesn’t love you, he only cares for you, and you know that and you said it was fine. Stop projecting your emotions onto him, before you lose him altogether.’
It was hard though, especially given the way Mycroft’s body reacted when his brain didn’t interfere to force him to remember otherwise. It was like Mycroft felt more, but wouldn’t allow it.
‘Or maybe,’ the ruthlessly logical part of his brain commented as he flipped a crepe with a practised flick of the wrist, ‘that’s you projecting again.’
Mycroft looked disconcerted to see Greg standing, showered and dressed, cooking crepes when he came down. Not everyone, Greg replied silently with a roll of his eyes, a response clear as day to a Holmes, took so long in the mornings in the bathroom.
Then he felt guilty, because at least some, maybe a lot, of that time was spent by Mycroft being sick, a state Greg was partly responsible for and so indirectly Greg’s fault.
“Crepe?” He asked instead, moving the plate he was stacking them on to the table so Mycroft could take one. “I know no eggs, but I hoped you might be able to manage these.”
“Thank you, yes.” Mycroft looked a little stunned, but helped himself to a crepe and some of the fruit already chopped and waiting on the table.
Greg made sure his back was fully to Mycroft before he let out a smug smirk. He could too take care of Mycroft.
It was raining by the time they finished eating so Greg’s tentative thoughts of a romantic stroll by the lake had to be set mentally aside. Mycroft appeared perfectly content to stretch out on the library couch with his book and not say another word for the day, so Greg perused his own small collection for suitable reading material to take downstairs and join him.
About to collect Sally’s book from the pile, his eyes fell on the collection of baby books John had got him a few weeks ago, still in their bag shoved half under the bed. Making a decision he pulled it out and retrieved one of the books, hand sliding over the glossy cover.
He’d been thinking about this this morning, wondering how his son was growing and marvelling at the rarely visible changes in Mycroft’s body while he was still enough for Greg to study him. It made sense to do some reading, prepare himself a bit, maybe even, he blushed at the thought, come up with some questions for John.
He drifted towards the door, cradling one of the books like the baby he’d soon be able to hold. Having second thoughts, he took the dust jacket off and left it on the bed. This would be touchy enough, reading the book near an Omega still not quite happy about his status, without giving Mycroft any obvious clues as to Greg’s current choice of literature.
The library painted a scene Greg had to struggle not to clutch to his chest over, heart determined to grow several sizes and thud its way out of his chest. The curtains were open, sheers drawn to disrupt easy sight lines, letting the stormy weather crash and wail in the background. The fire threw soft golden warmth over the room, augmenting the cool clear light from outside and taking the biting edge off the chill. Mycroft lay stretched out on the couch dressed in a white shirt and blue cashmere sweater that hugged the developing curves of his body, grey formal trousers ending over wool socks. He was propped partially upright against the arm, right elbow leaning on the leather, fingers curled absently in his hair. One knee was bent upright, a more relaxed pose than any Greg had ever seen him in, face tranquil as he read, utterly absorbed in the text.
It was so… was so… Greg didn’t know what it was, but it made his chest ache and fingers wish for a camera to capture the moment.
Mycroft had claimed the couch leaving no space for Greg without cuddling together, something Greg would adore, but he suspected Mycroft would be less amicable about. He could curl up on the floor next to Mycroft’s hip or shoulders, upper body leaning against the sofa as he sat at his Dom’s side where Mycroft’s fingers could casually drift through his hair, absent contact as they contentedly shared a space, each involved in their own activities, but together.
Greg’s throat worked as the longing to surrender so absolutely to Mycroft filled him, but he knew he wouldn’t. Although many stricter Doms regularly required their Subs to kneel next to them, Greg had never understood the matching desire to give. It had struck him as degrading, something Mycroft knew, and once he was no longer attempting to cow Greg he’d never taken them to a restaurant where it was required of Subs again, despite not knowing why it disturbed Greg on a personal as well as a moral level.
But this, this urge to sit there and hand everything over to his Dom and just relax and drift in their combined presence… it was different to the surrender during a session, involved handing over a more intimate and personal control that terrified Greg, precisely because it was outside of sex.
The act wasn’t degrading or belittling at all: it was a display of unbelievable strength and trust on the part of the Sub, especially when in public; one Greg knew he wasn’t brave enough for.
Even if he were, Mycroft wouldn’t accept the gesture.
Even if he would, they couldn’t, not with the curtains open to the world.
Greg pulled one of the high wing backed chairs closer to the couch. Mycroft watched him quizzically as Greg settled himself in it, tucking his feet under Mycroft’s legs on the couch in concession of his need to touch. Without protest, Mycroft arranged his legs around Greg’s feet.
Faint strains of classical music reached Greg’s ears once he settle, too low to be heard over the shuffle of moving or outside the room. The music was majestic despite the low volume, strings flowing between and around piping horns and sliding down their runs of notes like foam over waves. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back as the violins sparkled over the base notes, images from fantasia darting through his head, light and bright over heavier orchestra. He didn’t think it actually was one of the pieces from the Disney production, but from his vague memory of the images his wife had forced him through, it would have been a pretty piece to animate.
Though if it had been, he smiled absently, he might not enjoy it so much now.
“Handel’s Water Suite.” Mycroft said quietly, eyes still regarding Greg over the top of his book.
“It’s nice.” Greg let the music merge with the beat of the rain and wash over him. “Very appropriate.”
“I thought it might be.”
Greg opened his eyes and smiled at Mycroft, toes burrowing in further under Mycroft’s legs. Mycroft’s eyes dropped back to his book.
Taking the hint Greg turned his attention to his own book, cracking it open with a mix of wary enthusiasm and eager doubt. The first few chapters were about Estrus and the physiological changes both the Alpha and the Omega involved went through. Greg skipped over them on the theory that it was never going to be practically relevant to him again and he could read it for interest’s sake later.
He stopped at Chapter 3: Conception and the First Trimester. Health classes, he decided, really had been a long time ago. He barely remembered any of this.
Some of it was familiar. He could vaguely remember sniggering with his classmate as the stammering Beta teacher tried to explain the copious amounts of sperm the Alpha would produce to soak the ovum. He definitely remembered loudly moaning his way through loud fake orgasms as the teacher had attempted to explain knotting and multiple organisms. In an attempt to impress Susie Rogers, Jamie Stamwell had yelled out “I’ll give you multiple orgasms.” Susie had rolled her eyes and the rest of the class had burst out laughing.
Most of it was stuff he was sort of familiar with from Josephine as the initial stages of female and Omega pregnancies were the same. In fact most of the differences were in the Alpha, not the pregnancy itself. Unlike with Josephine, Greg could have expected to experience an increased attachment (check), increased need for physical affection (check), increased possessiveness (check-ish), and also an increased tolerance for his mate’s eccentricities (check, check, check), all due to pheromones. Apparently the reason they were so attractive to him and no one else was because the chemical scent was based partially off his genetic code, extracted, refined and processed by Mycroft’s body. As such another Alpha or Omega from his genetic line would also be susceptible, as would Alphas and Omegas from Mycroft’s, but no one else.
He flicked a few more pages, but the book didn’t explain the effect on Bonded Alphas or Omegas. He knew there was one, John had acknowledged it last time Mycroft had been at 221B, but there was no explanation given.
He read on, eager to catch up to where Mycroft was chronologically. The book warned that each baby developed individually and that the progress of events may not be accurate, but that didn’t stop Greg devouring the week by week milestones with helpfully illustrated pictures. Apparently the baby already had little fingerprints, a thought which made Greg smile goofily.
Just as interesting were the changes he and Mycroft were supposed to be experiencing. There wasn’t all that much on his side, other than increasing devotion to Mycroft and the baby that the book assured him would fade with the pheromones at the end of the pregnancy (but Greg knew wouldn’t given he’d felt a large dose of it before Mycroft had gone into Heat, and so knew he was actually in love with the annoying, amazing, completely repressed git), and a total lack of sexual interest in anyone other than his Omega, ditto, but Mycroft really did have some interesting developments his body was racing through.
Not only was Mycroft’s body continuing to produce the pheromones triggering all the changes in Greg’s body, but it was in fact a chemical war zone as the pregnancy hormones forced back his natural levels of testosterone and other androgens to allow the necessary physical changes. Swimming in his blood there were yet more pheromones, released by the foetus to ensure a fully formed maternal bond and corresponding pheromones released by Mycroft to familiarise the child with his scent and ‘inoculate’ him so he’d never be susceptible to Estrus pheromones released by anyone sharing his related genetic code.
The morning sickness should have tapered off, but the book warned that wasn’t true of everyone. It looked like Mycroft was going to be one of the unlucky few who suffered to the end.
Greg frowned at the detailed explanation of the development of the spinal column under week 17 and 18, trying to wrap his head around the medical terms.
“What are you reading?” Mycroft asked in an exasperated voice.
Greg peered over the top of his book. “What are you reading?” He returned, not really wanting to say.
“The Prince.” Mycroft kept looking at him.
“Machiavelli?” Greg closed his book, keeping a finger in to mark the page.
“Yes.” It was a slightly patronising yes.
“Original text?”
“Of course.” Mycroft seemed insulted at the thought of anything else.
Because everyone read their classics in Renaissance Italian.
He also kept looking at Greg.
“Why do you want to know?” Greg fidgeted in his chair.
“Because you have been sighing, mumbling, blushing and frowning at it in turn since breakfast.” Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “You know I could work it out without any effort.”
Greg sighed and surrendered the book.
“Surprised you asked at all.” He mumbled, passing it over.
“You prefer it.” Mycroft absently commented as he opened the cover. “Oh, of course.”
Greg blushed under Mycroft’s gaze, glad he’d at least chosen one of the more scientific texts and not Pregnancy for Dummies. “John got it for me.”
“Of course he did.” Mycroft muttered, handing the book back. “I should have expected no less from the estimable Doctor Watson.”
“I’ll tell him you said that.” Greg smiled and stretched. “I’m gnawish. Can I get you anything?”
“Just some tea, thanks.” Mycroft returned to his book. “Peppermint.”
The one good thing about peppermint tea, Greg decided, was that it did at least smell nice. Even back in the library, the scent managed to diffuse lightly through the room lifting and separating the potentially cloying components of Mycroft’s personal scent.
Mycroft grunted at the sandwich Greg placed at his elbow with the tea, but tea alone wasn’t sufficient for lunch.
It was still raining outside and Greg passed a pleasant half hour doing nothing more than studying the picturesque focal point Mycroft made against the weather. It would be fascinating, he decided, to see Mycroft out in the wilds, on the moor as it was so oft depicted in literature, and see his constrained exterior pulled asunder by the elements. There would have to be somewhere warm and dry to take him back to within a suitable distance, of course, but to see him wind and rain swept, so outside his world, would have to be magnificent.
Eventually he did return to reading. At some point, probably while he was getting lunch, Mycroft had changed the music to another classical suite, but one somehow darker and wilder befitting the storm that still raged outside.
At one point there was thunder.
“How’s your balance?” Greg asked absently, reading the blurb that warned due to the size and location of the foetus bearers might find their centre of gravity had shifted and they were a little unsteady. It was, according to this, worse in Omegas than in women as their internal organs required more rearranging for the uterus to fit low at the front of their bodies.
“Fine.” Mycroft replied, in the tone of voice usually reserved for comments from Sherlock about his diet.
Greg made a mental note to keep an eye out for trip hazards and have them removed.
“Have you had an ultrasound yet?” He asked, remembering John’s comment.
“Pardon? Yes, of course.” Mycroft didn’t look up from his book.
“And he’s healthy?” Greg tentatively looked up. He wouldn’t let himself ask who was there.
“Yes.” Mycroft drew the word out in a lazy offhand manner.
“Did you get a picture?” Greg pressed.
“Why would I?” Mycroft looked genuinely startled by the idea. “I’m not doing a baby book or anything that might require Baby’s first sonograph.”
“He’s my son, Mycroft.” Greg said quietly, staring at the vivid pictures covering the pages in front of him. “I would have liked to be there, or since that’s impossible at least have seen the picture.”
Mycroft shifted fractionally on the couch. Greg wondered whether that was because he hadn’t thought of that or had and he’d dismissed the need in a fit of pique. Given Mycroft’s determination to stay aloof from everything to do with his pregnancy and keep Greg at arm’s length about it, Greg rather suspected the latter.
“It’s possible that Melissa kept a copy.” Mycroft offered in what was probably meant to be a conciliatory move.
It made Greg want to grit his teeth.
“I’ll just ask her for a copy then, shall I?” He ground out.
“Indeed.” Mycroft sniffed, voice cool again.
Greg traced along the edge of the page, mind wondering as it would.
“There are probably things we need to talk about.” He heard himself say. At Mycroft’s cold, shuttered look he hastily clarified, “For the baby.”
Mycroft’s expression eased fractionally and some of the tension drained out of his calves, still resting on top of Greg’s feet.
“You need not worry yourself.” He turned back to his book. “All the arrangements are being taken care of.”
“It’s not just the arrangements I’m talking about.” Greg sighed and closed his book. “I’m talking about other things, though I’d like it if you’d tell me what you’ve got planned for the end of your pregnancy.”
“It’s all under control, Gregory.” Mycroft sounded irritable, which didn’t surprise Greg at all. He’d got the impression that if Mycroft could have ignored his situation right up until birth he would have with aplomb. Greg pushing to talk wouldn’t be popular.
“Mycroft,” He pushed back earnestly. “We need to sort things. Some stuff can wait, school, all that stuff, but I don’t know when you’ve leaving, we haven’t talked about rooms for the nursery and sleeping and babysitting arrangements, we haven’t even discussed names.”
Greg tried not to take it personally as Mycroft moved his legs so they were no longer touching Greg’s feet.
“I’ve been thinking about it.” Greg continued, hoping Mycroft would eventually look up from his book and participate. “Come up with a list of sorts.”
When he didn’t get a response of any sort from Mycroft, he kept going.
“I was thinking maybe Alexander or William, that’s a nice name. I suppose Brian’s a little too ordinary for your tastes, but Edmond? Just nothing like Eustace or Hubert, anything like that. I’d really prefer to avoid giving bullies any help finding a reason to try and target out kid.” Greg looked carefully at Mycroft, who was still pointedly reading his book.
“My,” he sighed. “We need to have a discussion about this. What about Michael? Thomas? Again, I’d rather avoid James, if you don’t mind, too many mental associations with Jim Moriarty to want to have to yell that up the stairs for my son, but Andrew? Samuel?-”
“Abernathy.” Mycroft interrupted.
“Aber-what?” Greg stared at him.
“Abernathy Emrys Holmes.” Mycroft didn’t bother to look up from his book.
“We can, uh, add it to the list of considerations.” Greg winced at the thought. That would be awful for the poor kid. He could almost picture the bullies lining up to take a swing at him in the playground.
“No need, Gregory. As I said, these things have been sorted.” Mycroft casually turned the page.
“They’ve been - Mycroft, this isn’t something you can ‘sort’. Medical things, arrangements to disappear, that you can sort. You cannot sort our child’s name without me.” Greg’s eyes were riveted on Mycroft in utter indignation. How could Mycroft even think Greg would be okay with that?
“It has been decided, Gregory.” Mycroft appeared totally insouciant, reclined against the couch.
“Decided!” Greg growled angrily. “Decided by you, or by you and your assistant?”
“By me.” Mycroft let out a bored huff. “She merely provided a list of recommendations based on extensive research into the family tree.”
Greg was surprisingly okay with Melissa wasting hours pouring over the Holmes Family Tree. He hoped it had been really boring. The rest he was still having issues with.
“You do not get to decide these things by yourself, Mycroft.” He was on the border of yelling. “I’m his Sire. I might not get much, but I get a say in his bloody name.”
“No, you don’t.” Mycroft finally raised his eyes from the book to pin Greg with his steel infused gaze. “It has been decided, Gregory, and it is not up for discussion.”
“No, I don’t.” Greg repeated dumbfounded, volume rising with each word as he struggled to stay calm. “No, I don’t. This is my son, Mycroft.”
Mycroft kept his gaze steady and didn’t say a word.
“My Son!” Greg reiterated, feeling the need to drive the point home.
Mycroft broke eye contact and nonchalantly turned another page of his book, despite not having read anything on the page before.
“No,” Greg snarled, grabbing the book out of Mycroft’s hands and pulling it away. “No, you are not doing that. We are having this conversation.”
“Are we?” Mycroft’s voice was soft and dangerous.
“What is going on here, Mycroft?” Greg demanded. “Not your Sub, yes, I know, but this is my baby too, I am his father, and I have a say in decisions relating to him.”
“It is organised, sorted, concluded. There is nothing for you to be involved in.” Mycroft’s voice was low, smooth, even.
“There is everything for me to be involved in.” Greg’s voice was low, harsh and angry. “Your assistant is more involved in this baby than I am.”
“You need not concern-”
“This is my SON, Mycroft,” Greg roared as he pushed to his feet, instinctively seeking the height advantage.
“So you keep saying.” Mycroft didn’t seem at all bothered by Greg’s bolt upright, voice level and measured.
“So I keep…” Greg clenched his hands into fists. “What am I doing here, Mycroft? I’m not your Sub, right now I’m barely your friend, and apparently I have no say in anything to do with our son, so why am I here exactly?”
“You tell me.”
“Living breathing sex toy?” Greg yelled. “I’m not friend, lover or father so that’s the only thing left.”
“Of course you’re his father.” Mycroft murmured. “You know that.”
“I’m not talking about genetics.” Greg hissed.
“You needn’t-”
“Am I his father or not?” Greg demanded.
“Gregory-”
“Am I his father or not?” He snarled over Mycroft’s words.
“Yes.” Mycroft acknowledged. “Of course.”
“So I get a say in-”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Mycroft said nothing, eyes fixed on the centre of Greg’s forehead.
“Why not?” Greg’s fingernails were digging into his palm.
Mycroft said nothing.
“Right. Fuck this. I am not having this bloody conversation on my fucking own.” Greg spun and stormed over to the door.
“Greg-”
“Are you going to fucking talk to me or not?” Greg whirled around. Seeing the blank look on Mycroft’s face, his lips twisted into a sneer. “No? Fine, I can’t fucking deal with you right now.”
His coat was hanging on the coat rack just off the hallway, a fortunate circumstance as Greg couldn’t imagine making the trek up to his room with the seething anger roiling beneath his breastbone. He probably would have just left without it. Shrugging it on, he deliberately snubbed the umbrellas in their stand underneath, ignoring the clash of thunder as the rain pelted down even harder.
“Where are you going?” Mycroft’s voice was soft, enough so for Greg to pause with his hand on the door and turn his head, despite being furious.
He considered saying nothing, but the blank look was tense around the edges in a way that suggested worry or guilt and Mycroft’s hands were clasped as if to prevent them trembling.
He turned back to the door. Bloody wishful thinking.
“221B.” Greg replied curtly, pulling the door open. Then he added, not because he thought Mycroft would, but because he needed to feel like he’d had the last word, “Don’t call.”
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And we cycle again...
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Title:Though I Walk through the Valley (26/38)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. Still not one hundred percent happy with this chapter, but nothing I do seems to make me happier with it, so here you go. Lots of snuggling, biology and rain for you all.
Warnings: Nothing I can think of 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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Despite the fact it was Saturday and there had been no alarm set, Greg still woke early thanks to his damnable internal clock.
Waking did not imply moving.
A small contented sigh escaped, breath stirring the air and sending fresh ginger spice swirling through the room. His lips curled into a small smile, pressed gently against the back of Mycroft’s neck. Stray chocolate-orange strands tickled Greg’s nose, the edges just beginning to curl where Mycroft had let his hair get slightly longer than usual in between haircuts.
Greg sighed again, a small hug of breath, and lazily nuzzled the skin behind his love’s ear. He slowly, languidly stretched, feeling his skin slide along Mycroft’s body, way eased by the silk-satin slide of Mycroft’s pyjamas. One day, Greg thought as he rubbed his face lightly in Mycroft’s hair, he would convince Mycroft to leave off the sleep clothes and would be able to wake up skin to skin, fingers stroking over natural contours unsmoothed by slinky fabric.
His cock felt heavy and full, nestled up against Mycroft’s silk clad rear. He wasn’t hard, but he was definitely swollen and it felt glorious to slide lightly along the firm muscles, lax in sleep. Combined with the overnight build-up of pheromones it was a heady sensation, intoxicating and warm.
There was no urgency, no real arousal. It was more like being drunk, the edges of sight blurred, everything exaggerated and just a little bit fuzzy. It was that pleasant stage of intoxication, the world existing just out of focus, all sensual curves and limpid angles. Drunk on Mycroft.
Fingers slid delicately over the crest of Mycroft’s hip, caressing the thin line of exposed skin where his top had ridden up. Keeping the contact light as he slipped his fingers under the silk, Greg brushed wider and wider circles on the skin of Mycroft’s belly, feeling the firm, unyielding bulge that was their child.
Suddenly wanting to see, Greg pushed up onto his elbow, right hand still skating over Mycroft’s front while he arranged himself. Mycroft must have been worn to the bone; there was no other reason for his usual reflexes not to kick in and wake him at Greg’s movements. He placed a gentle kiss on Mycroft’s temple and let himself believe, just for a moment, that Mycroft hadn’t woken because his body recognised Greg’s scent, knew his Alpha was near and that he was safe to relax and sleep undisturbed.
Greg twisted his upper body so he could see down Mycroft’s lanky side, taking his torso out of direct contact with Mycroft’s back. The bureaucrat gave a sleepy grumble, body shifting in his slumber until he was once more pressed against Greg. With a quiet sigh he stilled, oblivious to the emotional reaction Greg had to stifle as his heart felt close to bursting, lest he disturb Mycroft’s much needed rest. Instead Greg contented himself with dropping barely there kisses over Mycroft’s face and hair while his fingers worked his way carefully up the row of buttons, undoing as he went.
The fabric fell apart as each button loosened, parting with nothing more than a gentle sweep of fingers to leave the creamy skin beneath bare. Mycroft’s nipples were slightly swollen, the areoles a little bit larger than Greg remembered and a slightly darker dusty pink. They were also more sensitive, causing Mycroft to shiver as the back of Greg’s fingers lightly brushed over one on their way down his body.
Too far from Mycroft’s scent when he was propped up on his elbow, Greg bent over so he could bury his nose in the juncture of neck and shoulder, greedily inhaling as much as his lungs could hold. It didn’t matter that Mycroft’s scent had saturated the room, renewed and replenished each night.
Greg was an addict and needed it straight from the source.
Still feasting on scent, his hand wandered down, fingers skating along the remaining buttons before dipping under the pants’ waistband. Mycroft’s cock was soft in its nest of curls, and for some time Greg just held it, enjoying the pliant weight in his fingers, feeling the slow steady lengthen as with each slow heartbeat it filled, until like Greg Mycroft existed in that half-hard state that could go either way and exist seemingly indefinitely.
Fingers stretching further, Greg was required by simple physics to pull away from Mycroft’s neck to softly palm the sacks hanging loose below his body. It meant Greg was in position to watch the expressions on Mycroft’s face and better hear the breathy sighs as he slowly rolled the heavy balls in his hand, feeling the veiny skin and the sparse wiry hair under the pads of his fingers.
Unwilling to lose the slow, weighty, syrup-like atmosphere to the lighter sharper arousal, Greg gently released Mycroft and drew his fingers up, heedless of the sleepy murmur of discontent his love gave at the loss of contact. Instead Greg’s fingers splayed over the sizeable baby bump, tracing fragile skin with questing digits.
Mycroft gave a contended sigh, his own fingers curling lightly into the pillow.
At about 19 weeks the swell of Mycroft’s stomach was clearly visible away from the clever tailoring and distracting lines of his suits. Mycroft must have reverted to using the outfit’s he’d stored away from when he was heavier, all of which had been out to flatter his figure and hide his middle. Either that or Mycroft’s tailor knew too, and Greg didn’t think that was likely.
Without the suits it was possible to see how much Mycroft had grown. It was lucky, Greg reflected, that Mycroft’s frame was broader and prone to bulk. They’d never have been able to hide a secret like this for so long if he’d shared Sherlock’s slender, bony physique. Any weight gain would have been immediately obvious, the slightest bump visible for the world to see.
It was astonishing to think that in there, curled up just out of reach, was a human being; Still developing, of course, but there and growing, a bundle of cells that was half him and half Mycroft, dividing and replicating and forming.
Greg stroked the skin separating him from the baby. How big was it now? John had said around 14cm, but that was tiny. So small, so fragile. He curled his hand protectively, trying to cover as great an area as possible.
He would look after this precious gift, protect it and its bearer from the world. Greg was aware it was very caveman, the absolute need filling him to love, protect, and possess, but he didn’t care. His baby, his Omega, his family.
His.
He tightened his grip and pulled Mycroft snug against his body, the lightest of growls, more a full bodied purr in the heavy feel of the room, erupting from his lips against Mycroft’s skin. The deep rumble in his chest obviously connected to some level of Mycroft’s awareness because a similar rumble escaped him and he arched his neck, opening that tantalising spot to full view and inviting Greg’s lips and tongue.
Greg accepted the invitation, grazing his teeth over the area, following up with long hard strokes savouring strokes. The phantom taste of Mycroft filled his taste buds and he latched on with his lips, sucking and licking to collect as much of the non-existent nectar as possible.
Mycroft gave a small moan and turned his face, blocking access to his neck, but placing his mouth conveniently within reach. Greg kissed his way up Mycroft’s jaw before slowly licking into his mouth, thin lips already parted before Greg’s tongue.
Greg kept his strokes lazy and long, matching his moves to their steady heartbeats. Despite the clear sexuality of the situation, it was still the sensuality, the decadence that flooded his senses. Mycroft’s mouth wasn’t helping, the chemical flavours of spice and cinnamon overpowering the lingering staleness of morning breath.
It was impossible to characterise Mycroft, define him in a few simple words, but if he had had to, despite Mycroft’s undeniable Englishness, Greg would have chosen orange, gold, and delicate cream mixed with saffron, vanilla, ginger, and sandalwood spice - all the opulence of the sub-continent threaded through Mycroft’s scent and taste with shots of almost visible colour.
“Gregory.” Mycroft purred against his lips.
Greg drew back a little, just far enough to see Mycroft’s eyes were hazily open and he was awake. The light olive sheets brought out the blue in Mycroft’s eyes and the vague hint of red in his hair, colours so far from his scent, but still so uniquely suited to him.
“Gorgeous,” Greg breathed, bending his lips back to Mycroft’s, hand drifting from his stomach to his shoulders to turn him to his back and better cradle the Omega against him.
The kiss was just as lingering, as lascivious as before, the slow burn building in his groin still smouldering, not yet alight. Mycroft’s hand slid off the bed, gliding up Greg’s arm in deceptive gentleness as his mouth surrendered under Greg’s. It hovered millimetres above Greg’s hair, almost burying itself in the strands, almost pulling him in closer, before it dropped to his shoulder and roughly shoved him off.
Greg landed on his back with a start, pheromone muzzled brain not understanding where his pliant, responsive love had gone.
Mycroft swung his legs off the bed and stood smoothly, posture stiff as his fingers worked furiously to re-button the pyjama top. He had almost reached the bottom when his face garnered a distinctly grey tinge and he rushed to the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.
Greg sighed and ran a hand over his face. Evidently that was too far, which, given some of the things they’d been doing to each other of a night, was a lot less extreme than some other acts they’d enjoyed, but apparently where Mycroft shuddering to completion around Greg’s cock, flogger still shakily gripped in one hand as he came, was acceptable, lazy Saturday morning kissing was not.
‘In all fairness,’ part of his brain piped up, ‘he was asleep for most of it.’
Well, yes, and Greg blushed lightly at the thought, but Greg hadn’t really been doing anything other than looking and Mycroft had woken up when they really started.
Woken up and bolted?
Woken up and kissed back, maybe even lovingly and…
‘Stop it!’ He told himself firmly, climbing out of bed and collecting his clothes from the night before. ‘Mycroft doesn’t love you, he only cares for you, and you know that and you said it was fine. Stop projecting your emotions onto him, before you lose him altogether.’
It was hard though, especially given the way Mycroft’s body reacted when his brain didn’t interfere to force him to remember otherwise. It was like Mycroft felt more, but wouldn’t allow it.
‘Or maybe,’ the ruthlessly logical part of his brain commented as he flipped a crepe with a practised flick of the wrist, ‘that’s you projecting again.’
Mycroft looked disconcerted to see Greg standing, showered and dressed, cooking crepes when he came down. Not everyone, Greg replied silently with a roll of his eyes, a response clear as day to a Holmes, took so long in the mornings in the bathroom.
Then he felt guilty, because at least some, maybe a lot, of that time was spent by Mycroft being sick, a state Greg was partly responsible for and so indirectly Greg’s fault.
“Crepe?” He asked instead, moving the plate he was stacking them on to the table so Mycroft could take one. “I know no eggs, but I hoped you might be able to manage these.”
“Thank you, yes.” Mycroft looked a little stunned, but helped himself to a crepe and some of the fruit already chopped and waiting on the table.
Greg made sure his back was fully to Mycroft before he let out a smug smirk. He could too take care of Mycroft.
It was raining by the time they finished eating so Greg’s tentative thoughts of a romantic stroll by the lake had to be set mentally aside. Mycroft appeared perfectly content to stretch out on the library couch with his book and not say another word for the day, so Greg perused his own small collection for suitable reading material to take downstairs and join him.
About to collect Sally’s book from the pile, his eyes fell on the collection of baby books John had got him a few weeks ago, still in their bag shoved half under the bed. Making a decision he pulled it out and retrieved one of the books, hand sliding over the glossy cover.
He’d been thinking about this this morning, wondering how his son was growing and marvelling at the rarely visible changes in Mycroft’s body while he was still enough for Greg to study him. It made sense to do some reading, prepare himself a bit, maybe even, he blushed at the thought, come up with some questions for John.
He drifted towards the door, cradling one of the books like the baby he’d soon be able to hold. Having second thoughts, he took the dust jacket off and left it on the bed. This would be touchy enough, reading the book near an Omega still not quite happy about his status, without giving Mycroft any obvious clues as to Greg’s current choice of literature.
The library painted a scene Greg had to struggle not to clutch to his chest over, heart determined to grow several sizes and thud its way out of his chest. The curtains were open, sheers drawn to disrupt easy sight lines, letting the stormy weather crash and wail in the background. The fire threw soft golden warmth over the room, augmenting the cool clear light from outside and taking the biting edge off the chill. Mycroft lay stretched out on the couch dressed in a white shirt and blue cashmere sweater that hugged the developing curves of his body, grey formal trousers ending over wool socks. He was propped partially upright against the arm, right elbow leaning on the leather, fingers curled absently in his hair. One knee was bent upright, a more relaxed pose than any Greg had ever seen him in, face tranquil as he read, utterly absorbed in the text.
It was so… was so… Greg didn’t know what it was, but it made his chest ache and fingers wish for a camera to capture the moment.
Mycroft had claimed the couch leaving no space for Greg without cuddling together, something Greg would adore, but he suspected Mycroft would be less amicable about. He could curl up on the floor next to Mycroft’s hip or shoulders, upper body leaning against the sofa as he sat at his Dom’s side where Mycroft’s fingers could casually drift through his hair, absent contact as they contentedly shared a space, each involved in their own activities, but together.
Greg’s throat worked as the longing to surrender so absolutely to Mycroft filled him, but he knew he wouldn’t. Although many stricter Doms regularly required their Subs to kneel next to them, Greg had never understood the matching desire to give. It had struck him as degrading, something Mycroft knew, and once he was no longer attempting to cow Greg he’d never taken them to a restaurant where it was required of Subs again, despite not knowing why it disturbed Greg on a personal as well as a moral level.
But this, this urge to sit there and hand everything over to his Dom and just relax and drift in their combined presence… it was different to the surrender during a session, involved handing over a more intimate and personal control that terrified Greg, precisely because it was outside of sex.
The act wasn’t degrading or belittling at all: it was a display of unbelievable strength and trust on the part of the Sub, especially when in public; one Greg knew he wasn’t brave enough for.
Even if he were, Mycroft wouldn’t accept the gesture.
Even if he would, they couldn’t, not with the curtains open to the world.
Greg pulled one of the high wing backed chairs closer to the couch. Mycroft watched him quizzically as Greg settled himself in it, tucking his feet under Mycroft’s legs on the couch in concession of his need to touch. Without protest, Mycroft arranged his legs around Greg’s feet.
Faint strains of classical music reached Greg’s ears once he settle, too low to be heard over the shuffle of moving or outside the room. The music was majestic despite the low volume, strings flowing between and around piping horns and sliding down their runs of notes like foam over waves. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back as the violins sparkled over the base notes, images from fantasia darting through his head, light and bright over heavier orchestra. He didn’t think it actually was one of the pieces from the Disney production, but from his vague memory of the images his wife had forced him through, it would have been a pretty piece to animate.
Though if it had been, he smiled absently, he might not enjoy it so much now.
“Handel’s Water Suite.” Mycroft said quietly, eyes still regarding Greg over the top of his book.
“It’s nice.” Greg let the music merge with the beat of the rain and wash over him. “Very appropriate.”
“I thought it might be.”
Greg opened his eyes and smiled at Mycroft, toes burrowing in further under Mycroft’s legs. Mycroft’s eyes dropped back to his book.
Taking the hint Greg turned his attention to his own book, cracking it open with a mix of wary enthusiasm and eager doubt. The first few chapters were about Estrus and the physiological changes both the Alpha and the Omega involved went through. Greg skipped over them on the theory that it was never going to be practically relevant to him again and he could read it for interest’s sake later.
He stopped at Chapter 3: Conception and the First Trimester. Health classes, he decided, really had been a long time ago. He barely remembered any of this.
Some of it was familiar. He could vaguely remember sniggering with his classmate as the stammering Beta teacher tried to explain the copious amounts of sperm the Alpha would produce to soak the ovum. He definitely remembered loudly moaning his way through loud fake orgasms as the teacher had attempted to explain knotting and multiple organisms. In an attempt to impress Susie Rogers, Jamie Stamwell had yelled out “I’ll give you multiple orgasms.” Susie had rolled her eyes and the rest of the class had burst out laughing.
Most of it was stuff he was sort of familiar with from Josephine as the initial stages of female and Omega pregnancies were the same. In fact most of the differences were in the Alpha, not the pregnancy itself. Unlike with Josephine, Greg could have expected to experience an increased attachment (check), increased need for physical affection (check), increased possessiveness (check-ish), and also an increased tolerance for his mate’s eccentricities (check, check, check), all due to pheromones. Apparently the reason they were so attractive to him and no one else was because the chemical scent was based partially off his genetic code, extracted, refined and processed by Mycroft’s body. As such another Alpha or Omega from his genetic line would also be susceptible, as would Alphas and Omegas from Mycroft’s, but no one else.
He flicked a few more pages, but the book didn’t explain the effect on Bonded Alphas or Omegas. He knew there was one, John had acknowledged it last time Mycroft had been at 221B, but there was no explanation given.
He read on, eager to catch up to where Mycroft was chronologically. The book warned that each baby developed individually and that the progress of events may not be accurate, but that didn’t stop Greg devouring the week by week milestones with helpfully illustrated pictures. Apparently the baby already had little fingerprints, a thought which made Greg smile goofily.
Just as interesting were the changes he and Mycroft were supposed to be experiencing. There wasn’t all that much on his side, other than increasing devotion to Mycroft and the baby that the book assured him would fade with the pheromones at the end of the pregnancy (but Greg knew wouldn’t given he’d felt a large dose of it before Mycroft had gone into Heat, and so knew he was actually in love with the annoying, amazing, completely repressed git), and a total lack of sexual interest in anyone other than his Omega, ditto, but Mycroft really did have some interesting developments his body was racing through.
Not only was Mycroft’s body continuing to produce the pheromones triggering all the changes in Greg’s body, but it was in fact a chemical war zone as the pregnancy hormones forced back his natural levels of testosterone and other androgens to allow the necessary physical changes. Swimming in his blood there were yet more pheromones, released by the foetus to ensure a fully formed maternal bond and corresponding pheromones released by Mycroft to familiarise the child with his scent and ‘inoculate’ him so he’d never be susceptible to Estrus pheromones released by anyone sharing his related genetic code.
The morning sickness should have tapered off, but the book warned that wasn’t true of everyone. It looked like Mycroft was going to be one of the unlucky few who suffered to the end.
Greg frowned at the detailed explanation of the development of the spinal column under week 17 and 18, trying to wrap his head around the medical terms.
“What are you reading?” Mycroft asked in an exasperated voice.
Greg peered over the top of his book. “What are you reading?” He returned, not really wanting to say.
“The Prince.” Mycroft kept looking at him.
“Machiavelli?” Greg closed his book, keeping a finger in to mark the page.
“Yes.” It was a slightly patronising yes.
“Original text?”
“Of course.” Mycroft seemed insulted at the thought of anything else.
Because everyone read their classics in Renaissance Italian.
He also kept looking at Greg.
“Why do you want to know?” Greg fidgeted in his chair.
“Because you have been sighing, mumbling, blushing and frowning at it in turn since breakfast.” Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “You know I could work it out without any effort.”
Greg sighed and surrendered the book.
“Surprised you asked at all.” He mumbled, passing it over.
“You prefer it.” Mycroft absently commented as he opened the cover. “Oh, of course.”
Greg blushed under Mycroft’s gaze, glad he’d at least chosen one of the more scientific texts and not Pregnancy for Dummies. “John got it for me.”
“Of course he did.” Mycroft muttered, handing the book back. “I should have expected no less from the estimable Doctor Watson.”
“I’ll tell him you said that.” Greg smiled and stretched. “I’m gnawish. Can I get you anything?”
“Just some tea, thanks.” Mycroft returned to his book. “Peppermint.”
The one good thing about peppermint tea, Greg decided, was that it did at least smell nice. Even back in the library, the scent managed to diffuse lightly through the room lifting and separating the potentially cloying components of Mycroft’s personal scent.
Mycroft grunted at the sandwich Greg placed at his elbow with the tea, but tea alone wasn’t sufficient for lunch.
It was still raining outside and Greg passed a pleasant half hour doing nothing more than studying the picturesque focal point Mycroft made against the weather. It would be fascinating, he decided, to see Mycroft out in the wilds, on the moor as it was so oft depicted in literature, and see his constrained exterior pulled asunder by the elements. There would have to be somewhere warm and dry to take him back to within a suitable distance, of course, but to see him wind and rain swept, so outside his world, would have to be magnificent.
Eventually he did return to reading. At some point, probably while he was getting lunch, Mycroft had changed the music to another classical suite, but one somehow darker and wilder befitting the storm that still raged outside.
At one point there was thunder.
“How’s your balance?” Greg asked absently, reading the blurb that warned due to the size and location of the foetus bearers might find their centre of gravity had shifted and they were a little unsteady. It was, according to this, worse in Omegas than in women as their internal organs required more rearranging for the uterus to fit low at the front of their bodies.
“Fine.” Mycroft replied, in the tone of voice usually reserved for comments from Sherlock about his diet.
Greg made a mental note to keep an eye out for trip hazards and have them removed.
“Have you had an ultrasound yet?” He asked, remembering John’s comment.
“Pardon? Yes, of course.” Mycroft didn’t look up from his book.
“And he’s healthy?” Greg tentatively looked up. He wouldn’t let himself ask who was there.
“Yes.” Mycroft drew the word out in a lazy offhand manner.
“Did you get a picture?” Greg pressed.
“Why would I?” Mycroft looked genuinely startled by the idea. “I’m not doing a baby book or anything that might require Baby’s first sonograph.”
“He’s my son, Mycroft.” Greg said quietly, staring at the vivid pictures covering the pages in front of him. “I would have liked to be there, or since that’s impossible at least have seen the picture.”
Mycroft shifted fractionally on the couch. Greg wondered whether that was because he hadn’t thought of that or had and he’d dismissed the need in a fit of pique. Given Mycroft’s determination to stay aloof from everything to do with his pregnancy and keep Greg at arm’s length about it, Greg rather suspected the latter.
“It’s possible that Melissa kept a copy.” Mycroft offered in what was probably meant to be a conciliatory move.
It made Greg want to grit his teeth.
“I’ll just ask her for a copy then, shall I?” He ground out.
“Indeed.” Mycroft sniffed, voice cool again.
Greg traced along the edge of the page, mind wondering as it would.
“There are probably things we need to talk about.” He heard himself say. At Mycroft’s cold, shuttered look he hastily clarified, “For the baby.”
Mycroft’s expression eased fractionally and some of the tension drained out of his calves, still resting on top of Greg’s feet.
“You need not worry yourself.” He turned back to his book. “All the arrangements are being taken care of.”
“It’s not just the arrangements I’m talking about.” Greg sighed and closed his book. “I’m talking about other things, though I’d like it if you’d tell me what you’ve got planned for the end of your pregnancy.”
“It’s all under control, Gregory.” Mycroft sounded irritable, which didn’t surprise Greg at all. He’d got the impression that if Mycroft could have ignored his situation right up until birth he would have with aplomb. Greg pushing to talk wouldn’t be popular.
“Mycroft,” He pushed back earnestly. “We need to sort things. Some stuff can wait, school, all that stuff, but I don’t know when you’ve leaving, we haven’t talked about rooms for the nursery and sleeping and babysitting arrangements, we haven’t even discussed names.”
Greg tried not to take it personally as Mycroft moved his legs so they were no longer touching Greg’s feet.
“I’ve been thinking about it.” Greg continued, hoping Mycroft would eventually look up from his book and participate. “Come up with a list of sorts.”
When he didn’t get a response of any sort from Mycroft, he kept going.
“I was thinking maybe Alexander or William, that’s a nice name. I suppose Brian’s a little too ordinary for your tastes, but Edmond? Just nothing like Eustace or Hubert, anything like that. I’d really prefer to avoid giving bullies any help finding a reason to try and target out kid.” Greg looked carefully at Mycroft, who was still pointedly reading his book.
“My,” he sighed. “We need to have a discussion about this. What about Michael? Thomas? Again, I’d rather avoid James, if you don’t mind, too many mental associations with Jim Moriarty to want to have to yell that up the stairs for my son, but Andrew? Samuel?-”
“Abernathy.” Mycroft interrupted.
“Aber-what?” Greg stared at him.
“Abernathy Emrys Holmes.” Mycroft didn’t bother to look up from his book.
“We can, uh, add it to the list of considerations.” Greg winced at the thought. That would be awful for the poor kid. He could almost picture the bullies lining up to take a swing at him in the playground.
“No need, Gregory. As I said, these things have been sorted.” Mycroft casually turned the page.
“They’ve been - Mycroft, this isn’t something you can ‘sort’. Medical things, arrangements to disappear, that you can sort. You cannot sort our child’s name without me.” Greg’s eyes were riveted on Mycroft in utter indignation. How could Mycroft even think Greg would be okay with that?
“It has been decided, Gregory.” Mycroft appeared totally insouciant, reclined against the couch.
“Decided!” Greg growled angrily. “Decided by you, or by you and your assistant?”
“By me.” Mycroft let out a bored huff. “She merely provided a list of recommendations based on extensive research into the family tree.”
Greg was surprisingly okay with Melissa wasting hours pouring over the Holmes Family Tree. He hoped it had been really boring. The rest he was still having issues with.
“You do not get to decide these things by yourself, Mycroft.” He was on the border of yelling. “I’m his Sire. I might not get much, but I get a say in his bloody name.”
“No, you don’t.” Mycroft finally raised his eyes from the book to pin Greg with his steel infused gaze. “It has been decided, Gregory, and it is not up for discussion.”
“No, I don’t.” Greg repeated dumbfounded, volume rising with each word as he struggled to stay calm. “No, I don’t. This is my son, Mycroft.”
Mycroft kept his gaze steady and didn’t say a word.
“My Son!” Greg reiterated, feeling the need to drive the point home.
Mycroft broke eye contact and nonchalantly turned another page of his book, despite not having read anything on the page before.
“No,” Greg snarled, grabbing the book out of Mycroft’s hands and pulling it away. “No, you are not doing that. We are having this conversation.”
“Are we?” Mycroft’s voice was soft and dangerous.
“What is going on here, Mycroft?” Greg demanded. “Not your Sub, yes, I know, but this is my baby too, I am his father, and I have a say in decisions relating to him.”
“It is organised, sorted, concluded. There is nothing for you to be involved in.” Mycroft’s voice was low, smooth, even.
“There is everything for me to be involved in.” Greg’s voice was low, harsh and angry. “Your assistant is more involved in this baby than I am.”
“You need not concern-”
“This is my SON, Mycroft,” Greg roared as he pushed to his feet, instinctively seeking the height advantage.
“So you keep saying.” Mycroft didn’t seem at all bothered by Greg’s bolt upright, voice level and measured.
“So I keep…” Greg clenched his hands into fists. “What am I doing here, Mycroft? I’m not your Sub, right now I’m barely your friend, and apparently I have no say in anything to do with our son, so why am I here exactly?”
“You tell me.”
“Living breathing sex toy?” Greg yelled. “I’m not friend, lover or father so that’s the only thing left.”
“Of course you’re his father.” Mycroft murmured. “You know that.”
“I’m not talking about genetics.” Greg hissed.
“You needn’t-”
“Am I his father or not?” Greg demanded.
“Gregory-”
“Am I his father or not?” He snarled over Mycroft’s words.
“Yes.” Mycroft acknowledged. “Of course.”
“So I get a say in-”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Mycroft said nothing, eyes fixed on the centre of Greg’s forehead.
“Why not?” Greg’s fingernails were digging into his palm.
Mycroft said nothing.
“Right. Fuck this. I am not having this bloody conversation on my fucking own.” Greg spun and stormed over to the door.
“Greg-”
“Are you going to fucking talk to me or not?” Greg whirled around. Seeing the blank look on Mycroft’s face, his lips twisted into a sneer. “No? Fine, I can’t fucking deal with you right now.”
His coat was hanging on the coat rack just off the hallway, a fortunate circumstance as Greg couldn’t imagine making the trek up to his room with the seething anger roiling beneath his breastbone. He probably would have just left without it. Shrugging it on, he deliberately snubbed the umbrellas in their stand underneath, ignoring the clash of thunder as the rain pelted down even harder.
“Where are you going?” Mycroft’s voice was soft, enough so for Greg to pause with his hand on the door and turn his head, despite being furious.
He considered saying nothing, but the blank look was tense around the edges in a way that suggested worry or guilt and Mycroft’s hands were clasped as if to prevent them trembling.
He turned back to the door. Bloody wishful thinking.
“221B.” Greg replied curtly, pulling the door open. Then he added, not because he thought Mycroft would, but because he needed to feel like he’d had the last word, “Don’t call.”
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And we cycle again...
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