Though I Walk Through the Valley (38/38)
Though I Walk through the Valley
Title:Though I Walk through the Valley (38/38)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: This seems to be a running trend. I am so sorry this is late. That fever that delayed Sunday's update... yeah, it came back for round two and this time my body just said fuck it and threw in the towel. Not such a nice day on Wednesday.
Here we are, final chapter! I'll put more notes at the end re-next segment etc, so for now, I hope you enjoy.
Warnings: Biology. (i.e. labour)
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 30 - Chapter 31 - Chapter 32 - Chapter 33 - Chapter 34 - Chapter 35 - Chapter 36 - Chapter 37 - Chapter 38
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They’d turned off the road through ornate gates long before Greg caught sight of their destination. When he did his mouth fell open in shock. He’d realised the Holmes family was well off, but the house, mansion, coming into view…
“Is that a castle?” He asked eyes glued to the red brick structure nestled at the bottom of the rise.
The building was surrounded by trees, with irregular chimneys dotting the rooftop seemingly at random. Castle like turrets mixed with gabled roofs and what must have been a fortune in windows during the era of the window tax.
“No, it’s a Tudor manor house. Yes, it does belong to the Holmes Family estate. No, they are not in residence. Mummy prefers to live at Castle Ashby, so Compton Wynyates was commandeered for use.” Anthea pre-empted his next questions.
Greg wrinkled his nose. “Mycroft’s hiding at home? That can’t be very secure.”
“If he were visiting his family he would be at Ashby, otherwise he rarely ventures to his other properties. It is not within his usual patterns and does not require a paper trail to make use of the facilities.” Anthea stretched, preparing to leave the car that was pulling to a smooth halt at the front door.
“Mycroft owns a castle.” Greg undid his seatbelt and climbed out after her.
“The estate of the Marquess of Northampton is one of the most land rich in the English peerage.” Anthea strolled inside, not looking back to see whether Greg was following.
He was, right on her heels and attempting not to stare too much. Over the entrance were coats of arms with dragons and greyhounds and another device Greg missed the details of as he hurried after.
Anthea led him on a circuitous route that seemed counterintuitive until Greg realised the building was surrounding an open central courtyard that she was circumnavigating as she led him to Mycroft’s rooms. Greg wasn’t sure whether it was the best route or whether she was keeping him out of eyesight of anyone else who might see him crossing, especially when she pushed aside a wall hanging and led him up a narrow staircase.
“If someone else sees me-” He started.
“I will be outside the room and should you wish to go elsewhere I will accompany you.” She replied blandly. “We’re almost there.”
Indeed, as they turned the corner liquid French syllables crested the air before them, beautiful even in their obvious rudeness. The words following were not French, perhaps Russian or German, then something that sounded like Italian, all in Mycroft’s rich voice.
An Omega hurried out of the room just ahead, fingers clenched in what Greg assumed was frustration. He was also assuming that this was Dr Koen, Mycroft’s doctor, and that he was in fact an Omega, but given how testy most Alphas tended to get about their Omegas being around other Doms while in labour, Greg thought it was a fairly safe presumption.
“Oh Ingrid, thank God.” The Omega’s voice was weary. Up close he had bags under his eyes and a substantial proportion of silvered grey in the short brown curls. “You’ve brought him.”
“Any complications?” Anthea asked.
“He’s progressing faster than expected, but no, no medical issues as of yet.” Dr Koen dragged his fingers through his frazzled hair. He looked done in.
Knowing that if there was anything he needed to be informed of Anthea would let him know, Greg ignored the Q&A session with Mycroft’s harassed doctor. The panic from the car was pushed down inside now, manifesting only in his pounding heartbeat. It left his steps smooth and even as he calmly walked over, turned the knob, and went through the door.
The first thing that hit him was the smell. No longer the intoxicating siren call it had been when he last saw Mycroft, it had grown to be rich, pungent scent that sunk into every pore and yanked at his being. This was not something that could be ignored, and Greg’s head fell back against the door with a thud as his body revelled in the release.
This was what he’d been craving, what he needed so desperately. Words could not describe it. No wonder his reference books had failed so miserably.
The room was quite small and heavy with age, modern hospital equipment blinking incongruously around the walls, pushed back as far as possible to allow some walkway between. Most of the room was full of the bed - big, heavy and dark it appeared to be original, making it a Tudor piece centuries older than any of them combined.
Mycroft lay in the centre, flat on his back with his head fallen to the side, eyes shut. Already the almost chestnut hair was sweat soaked, giving the fine strands the darker brown-black of charcoal. He looked exhausted. Even from the door Greg could make out the slight puffiness under his eyes where sallow skin gave way to purple red smudges.
There was a slight looseness to his skin, as though Mycroft had gained and lost weight rapidly. He was gaunt, not emancipated, but for the first time the suggestion of Sherlock’s highbrow prominent cheek bones could be seen on his brother’s face and there was a distinct hollowness around his collarbones. In fact the only two areas that had maintained their usual plumpness were his chest, now filled out just slightly in preparation for the baby, and his rounded stomach.
The baby bump was massive. No longer a slight pudginess or hard swell, it was a fully developed baby, made more prominent by the drape of the birthing gown Mycroft was swathed in. Greg could have starred at that sight for 100 years and never have had his fill.
“I told you to leave.” Mycroft’s mouth twisted into an unhappy moue of discomfort.
“Yes, you do seem quite determined to chase your staff away. Heard that from the hall.”
Mycroft’s eyes flew open. He attempted to sit up in the same move, but fell back the couple of inches he’d managed with a pain filled grimace.
“Don’t do that you idiot.” Greg scolded him.
He was drunk. It was the only explanation for his chastising tone and brazen confidence as he walked over to the bed: drunk on Mycroft, stress, adrenaline and relief.
“Ingrid.” Mycroft hissed angrily.
“Apparently you’ve been intolerable and owe Russia an apology.” Greg rearranged the piles of cushions and helped Mycroft into a more upright incline.
“They were being unreasonable.” Mycroft relaxed into the feathery support with a sigh.
“Of course they were. Nothing to do with you at all.” Greg replied tartly, before hurrying to occupy himself with the light bed sheet, pulling it over Mycroft’s lightly shivering body.
Definitely drunk.
“His fault anyway.” Mycroft mumbled, changing topic to an argument he thought he might win. “Stupid suppressants…”
There was the slightest scratchy hoarseness to Mycroft’s voice. As ever though someone was prepared and a large jug stood to the side with glasses.
“I thought it was the Sire who typically got blamed, not the doctor.” Greg brought the glass over and handed it to him.
“Even when incapacitated I must logically concede this situation was not your fault.” Mycroft gulped the contents, spilling some over his shaking hands.
“We’ll see if you’re still saying that in a few hours.” Greg retrieved the glass and refilled it.
“Are you cold?” He frowned.
“Shivering is a common bodily reaction to labour.” Mycroft spat back, calm voice turning acidic.
He broke off with a groan, fingers convulsing on the bed as another contraction rippled through him.
“It’s okay, it’s okay.” Greg hurried to the bed where his hand was snared in a bone crushing grip by Mycroft. “Breathe, Mycroft, aren’t you supposed to be breathing?” Greg looked towards the door, but Dr Koen was still outside.
“I am breathing.” Mycroft snapped back.
A moan followed his words and he squeezed Greg’s hand harder.
“Long breaths, you know, ooooo, huh u.” Greg demonstrated.
“You think?”
Only Mycroft Holmes could deliver that level of dry sarcasm whilst in the midst of a contraction.
“Well, I haven’t exactly been going to ante-natal classes now have I?” Greg snapped back. He took a deep breath. “Sorry, sorry.”
Contraction over Mycroft released Greg’s hand. A deep ache pulsed across the bones, which didn’t bode well for how Greg’d hold up during the active birth.
“Tell Ingrid,” the name was venomous, “I want my files, now.”
“So I’m not being summarily disposed of?” Greg raised an eyebrow.
He’d been expecting to be kicked out of Mycroft’s room and off the premises as soon as Mycroft had gathered enough scattered thought to do so.
“And who exactly would take care of that?” The irritation was tart. Greg smiled at the positive smorgasbord of emotions he was getting to see bursting free of Mycroft’s control. “Files, now!”
“You’re in labour.” Greg crossed his arms.
“Yes, thank you for pointing out the obvious.”
“Sometimes… Greg shook his head in fond exasperation. “You’re not working while you’re in labour, Mycroft.”
“Fuck off, Gregory.” Mycroft lay back, eyes closed again in exhaustion.
Greg’s lips twitched. He should probably be angry or insulted, but Mycroft descending to such common vernacular was a rare, and so amusing, incident.
“More water?” He asked instead.
“Yes, ple-gahhh…” Mycroft broke off, face contorted with pain.
Greg rushed back, surrendering his hand to Mycroft.
“How long have they been this close?” He asked, though he got no response until the contraction had passed.
“Hours.” Mycroft murmured, accepting the water though not Greg’s attempt to help steady it as he drank.
“How long does it go for? Are they going to get closer together? Are-”
“I thought you were reading your bloody books about this again.” Mycroft snatched his hand out of Greg’s tentative grip, covering his eyes with his arm and breathing heavily.
Yes, but not up to birth, Greg thought, his head spinning as silence fell.
Another contraction wracked Mycroft’s body, which he suffered through solely as he refused Greg’s offered fingers for abuse.
“You read my emails.” Greg said softly once Mycroft again lay silent on the bed,
Mycroft grunted uncommitted and moved his hand away from where Greg’s was pulling it into his grip. Greg pursued it across the bed, entangling their fingers in stubborn defiance. Mycroft didn’t pull away again.
Their hands were like them, literally them of course, but like them in the greater sense as well: Mycroft running away, Greg chasing belligerently after. Maybe he should have pushed harder earlier, entrapped and entwined their very selves. Maybe then Mycroft would have surrendered the way his loosely clasped fingers had, unresisting in Greg’s careful grip. Maybe that’s what Mycroft had wanted, proof Greg would always chase after him, no matter what.
Or maybe these were special circumstances.
Mycroft’s long fingers tightened around Greg’s, pressing hard enough his nails tilted into the wind roughened skin and dug in. Greg endured it willingly, bringing their joined hands to his lips and pressing kisses against Mycroft’s knuckles as his free hand curled into the covers.
This contraction seemed more painful and lasted longer. By the time it was through the shaking that had calmed slightly in the time since Greg arrived had intensified.
“My?” Greg took one of his hands away from his grip on Mycroft to smooth the stray hairs back from his eyes. “My are you-”
The next contraction engulfed Mycroft before Greg had finished.
“Shh, shh, I’m here, I’m here.” Greg leant over closer, hand running properly through the damp strands. “I’m here. Just breathe.”
“Leave.” Mycroft choked out.
His fingers countered his words, digging harder into Greg’s hand.
“Never.” Greg kissed his forehead. “Try and breathe with me, love. It’ll be over soon.”
“Ah..” Mycroft whimpered under him, head buried in Greg’s neck.
“I know, I know.” Greg whispered. “Come on, with me, in out, that’s it.”
After it was over, Greg stayed where he was a few moment, enjoying the shuddering feel of Mycroft against him, taking whatever small measure of comfort was available in Greg’s presence and scent.
“I told you to leave.” Mycroft repeated shakily.
“Only to get Dr Koen.” Greg replied. He kissed Mycroft’s temple, knowing he was taking liberties, but unable to stop himself as Mycroft’s body leant into every caress. “I’ll be right back.”
His hand was released abruptly, almost thrown away. Greg hesitated wanting to reassure Mycroft, but also wanting to fetch the doctor now that Mycroft’s labour really did seem to be progressing.
“Go.” Mycroft’s voice was cold.
One step forward, two steps back.
With a sigh Greg traipsed to the door, speeding up as the sound of Mycroft trying to hold back the pain of another contraction bled through despite the stubborn bureaucrat’s attempts to stay silent.
“Anthea, we- you’re here. Oh, good.”
Anthea and the doctor were standing outside the door, close at hand. As Dr Koen didn’t wait for Greg to speak before pushing past, Greg had to wonder whether they’d been waiting outside just to give him and Mycroft some time to talk.
“Can you give him anything for the pain?” Greg asked, resuming his prop beside Mycroft on the bed.
Mycroft growled and tried to bat Greg’s hands away, but Greg persevered, wrapping one arm around Mycroft’s shoulders and the other across his chest, clasping his right hand in Greg’s left.
“Unfortunately, I can’t give him more than I have.” Dr Koen pulled the sheet back. “You’ve almost fully dilated, that’s why the pain’s worse. You’re moving into the transition stage.”
“How much longer?” Mycroft half panted, half growled.
“Minutes to hours, I’m afraid. There is no way to predict.” Dr Koen shook his head. “It’s your first child and you’ve had an epidural, both of which suggest it may take some time.”
Mycroft crushed Greg’s hand, otherwise attempting to stay as blank as possible. Air hissed out through his teeth and when his grip on Greg’s hand released he began swearing creatively under his breath in foreign languages.
“Is there anything we can do to help with the pain?” Greg asked.
He wasn’t sure how much more his hand could take.
“Some people find massage can help their muscles relax.” Dr Koen offered the knowledge before turning to Mycroft’s chart to make notations.
“Touch me and spend the rest of your life working in a labour camp in Siberia.” Mycroft threatened as Greg opened his mouth.
Greg closed his mouth and didn’t comment on the fact he was practically wrapped around Mycroft as it was or that Mycroft himself was leaning into Greg’s body. He also didn’t comment on whether or not there were still labour camps in Siberia or whether Mycroft had the authority to send him there, probably as a gift wrapped apology to the Russians.
The next half hour was spent alternating between Mycroft leaning into Greg’s support and coldly telling him he was not needed and to leave. Several times Mycroft got as far as pushing Greg away. His resolve lasted through two sets of contractions before the fingers Greg had left next to him on the threshold of Mycroft’s self-declared Greg-free zone were crushed again in Mycroft’s grip.
Dr Koen gave Greg a call button and left to gather… something. Possibly just to escape Mycroft’s multilingual threats.
Greg dropped a gentle kiss to the top of Mycroft’s head. Mycroft gave a light grumble, but nothing as vocal as he had been. It occurred to Greg as Mycroft whimpered shamelessly into his neck that Mycroft hated being forced to show such an obvious weakness. It was such a simple and obvious revelation that Greg felt increasingly stupid for not realising more quickly, especially as Mycroft, intentionally or not, stopped hiding exactly how much pain he was actually in now they were alone.
The screaming hurt to hear, muted as it was by Mycroft’s increasingly dry throat. He was reluctant to let untangle himself to fetch the water as Mycroft was either using him as a stress ball or slumped against him panting and whimpering.
“It’s harder for Omega.” Anthea appeared and passed him the glass.
Greg started slightly, he hadn’t heard her come in, but accepted the water gratefully.
“My, My come on. Sip this.” He coaxed. “Come on.”
“I hate you.” Mycroft mouthed.
It didn’t stop him sipping the water.
“I know.” Anthea replied.
She patted his arm and took the glass to be refilled.
“Harder?” Greg asked.
“For all nature has made Omegas the irresistible mate and perfect conception vehicle, it failed to make them ideal birthing machines. Our internal systems are almost exclusively geared towards conception, making labour and delivery excruciating and complicated.” Dr Koen returned, coming in with a pile of towels and the blue blanket Greg recognised from Harrods.
“That’s supposed to be in the nursery.” Greg couldn’t help tearing up a little.
Anthea gave him a secret smile.
“Okay, Mycroft, you’re fully dilated now, so if you feel the urge to push with the next contraction, go right ahead.” Dr Koen smiled reassuringly.
Mycroft panted into Greg’s neck and mumbled more insults in French.
“Be polite.” Greg whispered, dragging his lips over the crown of Mycroft’s head - the only place he could reach without moving. “He’s trying to help.”
Mycroft looked like he was going to say something snarky back, but a contraction stole his breath and motivation to speak.
“That’s it, Mycroft. Breath in, and exhale and push with the next wave, okay.” Dr Koen kept up a soothing litany.
Several contractions passed before Dr Koen told Mycroft just to breathe and not to push with the next contraction.
“The baby’s close to crowning and your body wants it out, but if we’re going to minimise tearing and the chance of infection, you’re going to have to resist the urge, okay? That’s it, just breathe. Pant a little, yes, like that. That will help reduce the urge.”
“It’ll be over soon.” Greg tried to sound confident.
“If you ever come near me again,” Mycroft choked out through clenched teeth, “I am going to have you neutered.”
“See,” Greg let out a small laugh. “I said it would be my fault sooner or later.”
Mycroft groaned over his reply.
“You can push with the next contraction, Mycroft.” Dr Koen gathered the plush towels and moved them closer. “Gregory, the head is visible if you want to come and see.”
Greg considered it, but the way Mycroft held him tightly in place even before the contraction came made his actual choices clear.
The next few minutes were spent with Greg vibrating almost out of his skin with nerves as Dr Koen called out milestones: Crown, forehead, eyes, nose, head. The umbilical cord was tangled around their son’s neck, but despite Greg’s flash of panic it wasn’t tight enough to have caused any problems. Greg didn’t understand what the various noise making machines around him were saying, but Dr Koen reassured him briefly before both their attention was drawn back to Mycroft’s pain filled groan and the next contraction.
“Almost there, Mycroft. The shoulders are hardest.”
Greg thought Mycroft’s response was something along the lines of ‘fuck you’ in Polish, but it was hard to say.
“Come on, love.” He whispered into Mycroft’s hair. “You’re doing so well. Don’t you want to meet him?”
“You,” Mycroft’s voice was full of pain strewed anger, “try to do this, then you can-”
Greg winced in pain along with his Omega as Mycroft continued to try and break every bone in his hand.
“That’s it, that’s it-” Dr Koen’s voice was interrupted by a high pitched wail.
“That’s him.” Tears pricked Greg’s eyes. “That’s our baby, My.”
“Towels, Anthea. Mycroft, the contractions are going to calm a bit now, you get a break, so Gregory, do you want to come and cut the umbilical cord?” Dr Koen accepted the towels and wrapped them around the little crying bundle.
Greg’s eyes tore away from the baby to Mycroft. He desperately wanted to go and see his son up close, but it was up to Mycroft to let him go. Literally, as there was no way he could, would, tear his hand out of Mycroft’s grip.
“Go.” Mycroft gave him a weak, exhausted, but genuine smile.
“Like this.” Dr Koen handed him the scissors and showed him where to cut between the clamps. “Here you go.”
Greg put down the scissors with a shaking hand and nervously accepted the towel swathed bundle from Dr Koen. The baby, his son, was red and purple, with a little scrunched up face and a smattering of dark hair glued down to his skull by the birthing fluid.
“He looks like a little alien.” Greg choked out, completely overwhelmed.
He vaguely heard Anthea chuckle somewhere behind him.
“He’s still squashed from the birthing.” Dr Koen laughed gently. “Take him up to Mum so Mycroft can see him.”
Greg nodded numbly, eyes glued to the little boy in his arms. He felt hand catch him and redirect him around the bed. He assumed he’d been going the wrong way, maybe heading into a wall, but he hadn’t looked up to see, eyes stuck firmly on the little arms waving clumsily in the air.
“He’s so little.” He whispered as Anthea, of course Anthea, guided him to a stop next to Mycroft.
“Alphas and Omegas are always a little on the small side. I’ll weigh and measure him properly in a few minutes.” Dr Koen was washing his hands in a basin in the corner.
Mycroft didn’t say anything, holding his son gently against his chest in silence. One finger carefully stroked over the back of his hand, sending Greg into hysterical giggles as the baby hiccupped and let out a righteous squeal.
Mycroft looked slightly affronted at the noise, but the fine creases around his eyes softened his gaze as his finger tentatively retraced its path.
Greg was struggling not to cry. Everything was suddenly overwhelming: the panic, the relief, the tiny baby with his ten perfect little fingers and ten tiny toes lying on Mycroft’s chest, barely visible in his soft warm wrapping, the soft warm look in Mycroft’s eyes as he watched at their son making Greg hope, hope, hope in a heart already full to bursting love it hurt, hurt, hurt.
A handkerchief was pressed into his hand.
“He’s beautiful.” Mycroft whispered.
He glanced up and Greg thought Mycroft’s face softened as he looked at Greg, but that might have just been Greg hoping, hoping, hoping again. The expression didn’t last long enough to catch, not when so much rode on its veracity, before Mycroft’s face contorted in pain.
“My?” Greg stepped forward. “Is something wrong? Is he okay?”
“It’s just his body preparing to pass the afterbirth and the mucus plug.” Dr Koen reassured them both. “Now, this might take some time, but it won’t be as painful as before, I promise.”
Greg picked up his son, holding him carefully as Mycroft struggled to hide how much it hurt.
“Just keep breathing. While you’re passing the after birth I’ll get this little guy washed and weighed, okay?” Dr Koen asked cheerfully.
It wasn’t so much a question as a carefully framed direction. He held out his arms.
“You’re welcome to come next door with us.” Dr Koen smiled at Greg’s obvious reluctance to hand over the baby.
Greg hesitated as another wave of pain broke over Mycroft’s face. He didn’t want to leave Mycroft here alone and in pain, but his instincts were screaming at him not to let his son out of his sight.
“It’s common for Alphas not to want to leave the baby or their partner.” Dr Koen sensed his dilemma. “I can assure you Ingrid has been instructed what to watch for if anything goes wrong, and while her knowledge is mainly theoretical, it is extensive. We’ll be right next door, and it will be relatively quick. Just washing him off, putting him in something nice and warm, and collect some basic newborn test data, length, weight, that sort of thing so I can fill in the birth certificate.”
Greg didn’t think the words were directed solely at him, and sure enough the same indecision was writ large across Mycroft’s features in between grimaces of pain.
“Go.” Mycroft nodded.
Where before the word had been used as a banishment, an icy wall. This time their gaze held a shared purpose: look after him, protect him, love him. Greg nodded back, and didn’t ask whether Mycroft was sure. His face very clearly said he was.
“Right next door.” Dr Koen reminded them both.
He picked up the blue blanket and guided Greg out the door and down the corridor. It wasn’t far, but when every step was haunted by indecision the few feet it was, was too far.
Details of the room flew past Greg. He knew there were more machines beeping and blinking and whining away, and that there was furniture he navigated around, but it was all an inconsequential blur compared to the most important thing in his arms.
“Come here.” Dr Koen waved him over.
Reluctantly Greg obeyed and handed over the baby.
“I have to say,” Dr Koen’s voice was bright and relaxed, professionally designed to calm, while his hands were brisk and fluid, “you and Mycroft are a fascinating case. It’s certainly a change to have to deal with the both of you. A nice change, definitely. My colleagues have told some stories at the pub about overbearing panicked Alphas during labour, let me tell you. Much more pleasant and everyone’s much more reasonable this way round, if you don’t mind me saying, though an Omega who can kick his attending out whenever he wants is somewhat of a health risk I suppose.”
Dr Koen kept chattering as he pushed buttons and twiddled knobs. He finished just as the little boy bawled up his face to started crying, picking him up off the scale in a smooth movement and handing him back to Greg.
“There you are. 5lbs, even and 35.4 cms long. A little on the small side, but well within the range for a baby Alpha or Omega. He’ll do a lot of growing in the next few days to catch up. It will certainly be interesting to watch him grow.”
“So you’re not just-” Greg tried to ask while juggling the unexpected baby back in his arms.
“An Obgyn? No, not at all. I had to do a crash course in midwifery to look after Mycroft through this. I’m an Omegologist. Related field and sometimes I have patients I guide through the beginning of pregnancy, but I usually have someone else handle the actual late term stages and labour. Not an option here, for obvious reason.”
Dr Koen was washing his hands again in a basin of water. Another jug sat on a hot plate keeping warm, which Greg figured made sense as there was no adjoining bathroom for hot water.
The baby in his arm fussed again, face screwing up as he let out little cries.
“Hold him close to your chest.” Dr Koen had dried his hands and was now laying out the blanket and the clothing that was inside. “He’ll recognise your scent.”
Nervously Greg pulled him in closer. His son kept fussing, little arms and legs flailing, but his cries quieted.
“Can’t you go a little faster?” Greg asked nervously.
Dr Koen’s movements were all efficient, but slow. There was no great urgency, no great drive behind his actions while Greg could feel it nipping at his heels.
“No need to rush.” Dr Koen dipped a soft cloth in the warming jug and gestured Greg back over. “This last stage is a, frankly, disgusting process and most Omegas don’t want a lot of people witnessing it, let alone someone as image conscious as Mycroft Holmes.”
He wiped the cloth over the damp strands of hair, patting after with a clean corner of the towel.
“Ingrid will fetch me if I’m required, and in time honoured tradition of getting Dad out of the room we get to clean this little guy up.”
The cloth was wiped over and around the little fingers and up the long, chubby arms. This wasn’t appreciated by the new Holmes-Lestrade who started wailing as loudly as possible.
“Healthy lungs, that’s good.” Nothing seemed to dull the cheer in Dr Koen’s voice, even though Greg was all too familiar with the pinch between his eyebrows that usually signified a migraine. “Come here Dad, give him your finger. Yep, just like that. Palmer’s reflex. See little boy, he’s right here and Mummy’s right next door and you’ll be back with him as soon as you’re both cleaned up.”
This didn’t settle him, though Greg’s pinky was grasped with all the miniscule strength in his son’s grip.
“He’s probably getting cold and hungry.” Dr Koen’s wiping was a little faster now. “Have you ever put on a nappy before?”
“No.” Greg felt bewildered.
“You’ll have done plenty before the weekend is over, but I’ll do this one. It’s all right little one, we’ll have you back with Mummy soon.”
The length of material Greg had thought was a large handkerchief or spare towel was quickly wrapped around the clean, dry bottom and secured. Just as fast a pale cream onsie was pulled on and press studded into place. A little cream hat followed and before he knew it, the blue blanket was around the baby and he was back in Greg’s arms.
“Why don’t you two sit here and get acquainted.” Dr Koen guided them over to an antique rocking chair, manoeuvring Greg around it’s runners as he was utterly captivated once again by the bundle in his arms and had eyes for nothing else. “I’ll check how Mycroft’s going and see if he’s up for visitors yet.”
Greg nodded absently; too busy studying the little face looking up at him from the crook of his arms. Logically he knew his son was too young to be actually looking and seeing, but the pale eyes were seemingly focused straight on his face was they watched each other.
The nose was his, Greg decided proudly, as was the chin, but the chubby little cheeks could well be pure Holmes underneath the baby fat and his little rosebud nose mouth looked to be fuller than either Greg or Mycroft’s. More like Uncle Sherlock so that was probably a Holmes gene coming through there. Greg knew babies eyes quite often changed colour after birth so the almost colourless peepers that blinked up at him might yet darken to his own brown, or might stay light and fluid like Sherlock, or settle into Mycroft’s near stable grey-green.
With only his Sire and Uncle to compare to really on his side, and the Holmes brothers on the other it was hard to see which side the baby favoured more. Part of Greg hoped the baby looked after him, but another marvelled at the fascination of watching a little look-alike Mycroft growing up.
Mycroft had to compromise, he just had to because Greg couldn’t leave this little guy alone, not in a million years.
“Detective Inspector.” Anthea’s voice broke his reverie. She smiled at him in tired exultation.
Greg wondered what dopey love-struck look was on his own face.
“An adorable one. Come on through.”
Dr Koen stepped out of the birthing room as they approached, bringing with him a bulging laundry bag.
“All yours. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve been up for a good 36 hours and am off to sleep.” He waved goodbye, cheerful mask slipping as task finished, his exhaustion bled through.
Anthea took the laundry bag from his unresisting hand and shepherded him down the corridor, leaving Greg and the baby alone.
“Let’s go meet your Mummy then.” Greg whispered.
He opened the door with his hip, unwilling to take two hands off the baby. Mycroft was lying on the bed in new pyjamas. The sheets smelt like sun and outdoors, the old ones clearly the contents of the laundry bag. Through the miracle that was Anthea, Mycroft had managed a wash of some kind and looked merely tired rather than tired and sweaty.
“Hey.” Greg said quietly. “Got someone to meet you.”
Mycroft’s eyes fluttered open and gave a rundown smile. “Have you now?”
“Yeah.” Greg sat on the edge of the bed, mouth in his throat. Moment of truth. “What are we going to call him?”
“Abernathy.” Mycroft replied.
The bottom dropped out of Greg’s world. He’d not realised how much he really had let himself hope until it was yanked away, burning from his chest to his gut where it churned and roiled and made him feel like throwing up. He felt disconnected from the world as if everything was just a bad trip. It felt like the first time he’d challenged Mycroft and had almost collapsed in a shaking shock-y heap. It felt like that first walk from the Yard to Mycroft’s house where the colours and sounds had leeched from the world, leaving him a ghost in reality, unable to hear or see or process.
He was so instantly lost, so deeply thrown into his own turmoil, he almost didn’t realise Mycroft was still speaking.
“-Francois Holmes.”
“What?” Greg blinked, trying not to clutch the baby too tightly in his arms and squash him.
Mycroft leant back and closed his eyes, not looking at Greg, his usual tactic when he felt guilty or ashamed of showing sentiment.
“Abernathy Francois Holmes.” He repeated.
One hand nonchalantly moved to rest on Greg’s thigh, its owner trying to pretend it didn’t mean anything.
Tears pricked Greg’s eyes again, and one broke free to trickle down his cheek.
“Abernathy Francois Holmes.” He whispered in a clogged voice. “It’ll be years before you know, but meet your Mummy. He and I are very pleased you’re here.”
He handed the little bundle over to Mycroft who took it, holding him in one arm so the other hand could stay resting on Greg.
A declaration, commitment, compromise. Willingness to try. As he curled his bruised hand back around his love’s fingers, the hope didn’t rest quite so heavily in Greg’s heart.
Abernathy Francois Holmes.
Hope.
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The end. Before anyone starts going "huh, how on earth is that a positive end?", Greg's middle name in this verse is Francois, so in a sense, Mycroft just named the baby after him. Ish. It's a start. I can't remember off the top of my head which chapters it's mentioned in, but at last count I think I managed to get it in at least four, so if you feel like a treasure hunt, avant me hearties!
For those who would like to know, Mycroft's middle name is Ptolemy. Sherlock clues Greg into this in the chapter where Greg and John get very, very drunk.
There will be a part III (and a part IV). It's taken me 230k words to get them together and willing to try to get on the same page, so there is certainly more to tell. For those wanting more John and Sherlock, they have a much larger role in the next part. The title is Rolling in the Deep. Yes, as in the Adele song. Yes, you could consider the song spoilery if you wish.
In terms of the when, I've currently got 7 chapters written, but as I am old fashioned and use a pen and paper, there are only 5 of those on the computer and I haven't had a chance to edit them much yet. I won't finish the whole thing before positng because I don't want you to have to wait too long (predicting around 25 chapters for this one at the minute), so hopefully I'll be able to start posting it early April. It will be a slower positing schedule though. Sorry.
If there are any scenes you would particularly like to see, any sex scenes you want to request or fluffy moments with Ben, just let me know/leave suggestions and I'll try to work as many of them in as possible.
Lastly, thanks so much all of you for sticking through this. I know it's been a somewhat depressing journey, but hopefully in that good way. Every comment every person has left has been very much loved.
Ta ta for now.
Title:Though I Walk through the Valley (38/38)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: This seems to be a running trend. I am so sorry this is late. That fever that delayed Sunday's update... yeah, it came back for round two and this time my body just said fuck it and threw in the towel. Not such a nice day on Wednesday.
Here we are, final chapter! I'll put more notes at the end re-next segment etc, so for now, I hope you enjoy.
Warnings: Biology. (i.e. labour)
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 30 - Chapter 31 - Chapter 32 - Chapter 33 - Chapter 34 - Chapter 35 - Chapter 36 - Chapter 37 - Chapter 38
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They’d turned off the road through ornate gates long before Greg caught sight of their destination. When he did his mouth fell open in shock. He’d realised the Holmes family was well off, but the house, mansion, coming into view…
“Is that a castle?” He asked eyes glued to the red brick structure nestled at the bottom of the rise.
The building was surrounded by trees, with irregular chimneys dotting the rooftop seemingly at random. Castle like turrets mixed with gabled roofs and what must have been a fortune in windows during the era of the window tax.
“No, it’s a Tudor manor house. Yes, it does belong to the Holmes Family estate. No, they are not in residence. Mummy prefers to live at Castle Ashby, so Compton Wynyates was commandeered for use.” Anthea pre-empted his next questions.
Greg wrinkled his nose. “Mycroft’s hiding at home? That can’t be very secure.”
“If he were visiting his family he would be at Ashby, otherwise he rarely ventures to his other properties. It is not within his usual patterns and does not require a paper trail to make use of the facilities.” Anthea stretched, preparing to leave the car that was pulling to a smooth halt at the front door.
“Mycroft owns a castle.” Greg undid his seatbelt and climbed out after her.
“The estate of the Marquess of Northampton is one of the most land rich in the English peerage.” Anthea strolled inside, not looking back to see whether Greg was following.
He was, right on her heels and attempting not to stare too much. Over the entrance were coats of arms with dragons and greyhounds and another device Greg missed the details of as he hurried after.
Anthea led him on a circuitous route that seemed counterintuitive until Greg realised the building was surrounding an open central courtyard that she was circumnavigating as she led him to Mycroft’s rooms. Greg wasn’t sure whether it was the best route or whether she was keeping him out of eyesight of anyone else who might see him crossing, especially when she pushed aside a wall hanging and led him up a narrow staircase.
“If someone else sees me-” He started.
“I will be outside the room and should you wish to go elsewhere I will accompany you.” She replied blandly. “We’re almost there.”
Indeed, as they turned the corner liquid French syllables crested the air before them, beautiful even in their obvious rudeness. The words following were not French, perhaps Russian or German, then something that sounded like Italian, all in Mycroft’s rich voice.
An Omega hurried out of the room just ahead, fingers clenched in what Greg assumed was frustration. He was also assuming that this was Dr Koen, Mycroft’s doctor, and that he was in fact an Omega, but given how testy most Alphas tended to get about their Omegas being around other Doms while in labour, Greg thought it was a fairly safe presumption.
“Oh Ingrid, thank God.” The Omega’s voice was weary. Up close he had bags under his eyes and a substantial proportion of silvered grey in the short brown curls. “You’ve brought him.”
“Any complications?” Anthea asked.
“He’s progressing faster than expected, but no, no medical issues as of yet.” Dr Koen dragged his fingers through his frazzled hair. He looked done in.
Knowing that if there was anything he needed to be informed of Anthea would let him know, Greg ignored the Q&A session with Mycroft’s harassed doctor. The panic from the car was pushed down inside now, manifesting only in his pounding heartbeat. It left his steps smooth and even as he calmly walked over, turned the knob, and went through the door.
The first thing that hit him was the smell. No longer the intoxicating siren call it had been when he last saw Mycroft, it had grown to be rich, pungent scent that sunk into every pore and yanked at his being. This was not something that could be ignored, and Greg’s head fell back against the door with a thud as his body revelled in the release.
This was what he’d been craving, what he needed so desperately. Words could not describe it. No wonder his reference books had failed so miserably.
The room was quite small and heavy with age, modern hospital equipment blinking incongruously around the walls, pushed back as far as possible to allow some walkway between. Most of the room was full of the bed - big, heavy and dark it appeared to be original, making it a Tudor piece centuries older than any of them combined.
Mycroft lay in the centre, flat on his back with his head fallen to the side, eyes shut. Already the almost chestnut hair was sweat soaked, giving the fine strands the darker brown-black of charcoal. He looked exhausted. Even from the door Greg could make out the slight puffiness under his eyes where sallow skin gave way to purple red smudges.
There was a slight looseness to his skin, as though Mycroft had gained and lost weight rapidly. He was gaunt, not emancipated, but for the first time the suggestion of Sherlock’s highbrow prominent cheek bones could be seen on his brother’s face and there was a distinct hollowness around his collarbones. In fact the only two areas that had maintained their usual plumpness were his chest, now filled out just slightly in preparation for the baby, and his rounded stomach.
The baby bump was massive. No longer a slight pudginess or hard swell, it was a fully developed baby, made more prominent by the drape of the birthing gown Mycroft was swathed in. Greg could have starred at that sight for 100 years and never have had his fill.
“I told you to leave.” Mycroft’s mouth twisted into an unhappy moue of discomfort.
“Yes, you do seem quite determined to chase your staff away. Heard that from the hall.”
Mycroft’s eyes flew open. He attempted to sit up in the same move, but fell back the couple of inches he’d managed with a pain filled grimace.
“Don’t do that you idiot.” Greg scolded him.
He was drunk. It was the only explanation for his chastising tone and brazen confidence as he walked over to the bed: drunk on Mycroft, stress, adrenaline and relief.
“Ingrid.” Mycroft hissed angrily.
“Apparently you’ve been intolerable and owe Russia an apology.” Greg rearranged the piles of cushions and helped Mycroft into a more upright incline.
“They were being unreasonable.” Mycroft relaxed into the feathery support with a sigh.
“Of course they were. Nothing to do with you at all.” Greg replied tartly, before hurrying to occupy himself with the light bed sheet, pulling it over Mycroft’s lightly shivering body.
Definitely drunk.
“His fault anyway.” Mycroft mumbled, changing topic to an argument he thought he might win. “Stupid suppressants…”
There was the slightest scratchy hoarseness to Mycroft’s voice. As ever though someone was prepared and a large jug stood to the side with glasses.
“I thought it was the Sire who typically got blamed, not the doctor.” Greg brought the glass over and handed it to him.
“Even when incapacitated I must logically concede this situation was not your fault.” Mycroft gulped the contents, spilling some over his shaking hands.
“We’ll see if you’re still saying that in a few hours.” Greg retrieved the glass and refilled it.
“Are you cold?” He frowned.
“Shivering is a common bodily reaction to labour.” Mycroft spat back, calm voice turning acidic.
He broke off with a groan, fingers convulsing on the bed as another contraction rippled through him.
“It’s okay, it’s okay.” Greg hurried to the bed where his hand was snared in a bone crushing grip by Mycroft. “Breathe, Mycroft, aren’t you supposed to be breathing?” Greg looked towards the door, but Dr Koen was still outside.
“I am breathing.” Mycroft snapped back.
A moan followed his words and he squeezed Greg’s hand harder.
“Long breaths, you know, ooooo, huh u.” Greg demonstrated.
“You think?”
Only Mycroft Holmes could deliver that level of dry sarcasm whilst in the midst of a contraction.
“Well, I haven’t exactly been going to ante-natal classes now have I?” Greg snapped back. He took a deep breath. “Sorry, sorry.”
Contraction over Mycroft released Greg’s hand. A deep ache pulsed across the bones, which didn’t bode well for how Greg’d hold up during the active birth.
“Tell Ingrid,” the name was venomous, “I want my files, now.”
“So I’m not being summarily disposed of?” Greg raised an eyebrow.
He’d been expecting to be kicked out of Mycroft’s room and off the premises as soon as Mycroft had gathered enough scattered thought to do so.
“And who exactly would take care of that?” The irritation was tart. Greg smiled at the positive smorgasbord of emotions he was getting to see bursting free of Mycroft’s control. “Files, now!”
“You’re in labour.” Greg crossed his arms.
“Yes, thank you for pointing out the obvious.”
“Sometimes… Greg shook his head in fond exasperation. “You’re not working while you’re in labour, Mycroft.”
“Fuck off, Gregory.” Mycroft lay back, eyes closed again in exhaustion.
Greg’s lips twitched. He should probably be angry or insulted, but Mycroft descending to such common vernacular was a rare, and so amusing, incident.
“More water?” He asked instead.
“Yes, ple-gahhh…” Mycroft broke off, face contorted with pain.
Greg rushed back, surrendering his hand to Mycroft.
“How long have they been this close?” He asked, though he got no response until the contraction had passed.
“Hours.” Mycroft murmured, accepting the water though not Greg’s attempt to help steady it as he drank.
“How long does it go for? Are they going to get closer together? Are-”
“I thought you were reading your bloody books about this again.” Mycroft snatched his hand out of Greg’s tentative grip, covering his eyes with his arm and breathing heavily.
Yes, but not up to birth, Greg thought, his head spinning as silence fell.
Another contraction wracked Mycroft’s body, which he suffered through solely as he refused Greg’s offered fingers for abuse.
“You read my emails.” Greg said softly once Mycroft again lay silent on the bed,
Mycroft grunted uncommitted and moved his hand away from where Greg’s was pulling it into his grip. Greg pursued it across the bed, entangling their fingers in stubborn defiance. Mycroft didn’t pull away again.
Their hands were like them, literally them of course, but like them in the greater sense as well: Mycroft running away, Greg chasing belligerently after. Maybe he should have pushed harder earlier, entrapped and entwined their very selves. Maybe then Mycroft would have surrendered the way his loosely clasped fingers had, unresisting in Greg’s careful grip. Maybe that’s what Mycroft had wanted, proof Greg would always chase after him, no matter what.
Or maybe these were special circumstances.
Mycroft’s long fingers tightened around Greg’s, pressing hard enough his nails tilted into the wind roughened skin and dug in. Greg endured it willingly, bringing their joined hands to his lips and pressing kisses against Mycroft’s knuckles as his free hand curled into the covers.
This contraction seemed more painful and lasted longer. By the time it was through the shaking that had calmed slightly in the time since Greg arrived had intensified.
“My?” Greg took one of his hands away from his grip on Mycroft to smooth the stray hairs back from his eyes. “My are you-”
The next contraction engulfed Mycroft before Greg had finished.
“Shh, shh, I’m here, I’m here.” Greg leant over closer, hand running properly through the damp strands. “I’m here. Just breathe.”
“Leave.” Mycroft choked out.
His fingers countered his words, digging harder into Greg’s hand.
“Never.” Greg kissed his forehead. “Try and breathe with me, love. It’ll be over soon.”
“Ah..” Mycroft whimpered under him, head buried in Greg’s neck.
“I know, I know.” Greg whispered. “Come on, with me, in out, that’s it.”
After it was over, Greg stayed where he was a few moment, enjoying the shuddering feel of Mycroft against him, taking whatever small measure of comfort was available in Greg’s presence and scent.
“I told you to leave.” Mycroft repeated shakily.
“Only to get Dr Koen.” Greg replied. He kissed Mycroft’s temple, knowing he was taking liberties, but unable to stop himself as Mycroft’s body leant into every caress. “I’ll be right back.”
His hand was released abruptly, almost thrown away. Greg hesitated wanting to reassure Mycroft, but also wanting to fetch the doctor now that Mycroft’s labour really did seem to be progressing.
“Go.” Mycroft’s voice was cold.
One step forward, two steps back.
With a sigh Greg traipsed to the door, speeding up as the sound of Mycroft trying to hold back the pain of another contraction bled through despite the stubborn bureaucrat’s attempts to stay silent.
“Anthea, we- you’re here. Oh, good.”
Anthea and the doctor were standing outside the door, close at hand. As Dr Koen didn’t wait for Greg to speak before pushing past, Greg had to wonder whether they’d been waiting outside just to give him and Mycroft some time to talk.
“Can you give him anything for the pain?” Greg asked, resuming his prop beside Mycroft on the bed.
Mycroft growled and tried to bat Greg’s hands away, but Greg persevered, wrapping one arm around Mycroft’s shoulders and the other across his chest, clasping his right hand in Greg’s left.
“Unfortunately, I can’t give him more than I have.” Dr Koen pulled the sheet back. “You’ve almost fully dilated, that’s why the pain’s worse. You’re moving into the transition stage.”
“How much longer?” Mycroft half panted, half growled.
“Minutes to hours, I’m afraid. There is no way to predict.” Dr Koen shook his head. “It’s your first child and you’ve had an epidural, both of which suggest it may take some time.”
Mycroft crushed Greg’s hand, otherwise attempting to stay as blank as possible. Air hissed out through his teeth and when his grip on Greg’s hand released he began swearing creatively under his breath in foreign languages.
“Is there anything we can do to help with the pain?” Greg asked.
He wasn’t sure how much more his hand could take.
“Some people find massage can help their muscles relax.” Dr Koen offered the knowledge before turning to Mycroft’s chart to make notations.
“Touch me and spend the rest of your life working in a labour camp in Siberia.” Mycroft threatened as Greg opened his mouth.
Greg closed his mouth and didn’t comment on the fact he was practically wrapped around Mycroft as it was or that Mycroft himself was leaning into Greg’s body. He also didn’t comment on whether or not there were still labour camps in Siberia or whether Mycroft had the authority to send him there, probably as a gift wrapped apology to the Russians.
The next half hour was spent alternating between Mycroft leaning into Greg’s support and coldly telling him he was not needed and to leave. Several times Mycroft got as far as pushing Greg away. His resolve lasted through two sets of contractions before the fingers Greg had left next to him on the threshold of Mycroft’s self-declared Greg-free zone were crushed again in Mycroft’s grip.
Dr Koen gave Greg a call button and left to gather… something. Possibly just to escape Mycroft’s multilingual threats.
Greg dropped a gentle kiss to the top of Mycroft’s head. Mycroft gave a light grumble, but nothing as vocal as he had been. It occurred to Greg as Mycroft whimpered shamelessly into his neck that Mycroft hated being forced to show such an obvious weakness. It was such a simple and obvious revelation that Greg felt increasingly stupid for not realising more quickly, especially as Mycroft, intentionally or not, stopped hiding exactly how much pain he was actually in now they were alone.
The screaming hurt to hear, muted as it was by Mycroft’s increasingly dry throat. He was reluctant to let untangle himself to fetch the water as Mycroft was either using him as a stress ball or slumped against him panting and whimpering.
“It’s harder for Omega.” Anthea appeared and passed him the glass.
Greg started slightly, he hadn’t heard her come in, but accepted the water gratefully.
“My, My come on. Sip this.” He coaxed. “Come on.”
“I hate you.” Mycroft mouthed.
It didn’t stop him sipping the water.
“I know.” Anthea replied.
She patted his arm and took the glass to be refilled.
“Harder?” Greg asked.
“For all nature has made Omegas the irresistible mate and perfect conception vehicle, it failed to make them ideal birthing machines. Our internal systems are almost exclusively geared towards conception, making labour and delivery excruciating and complicated.” Dr Koen returned, coming in with a pile of towels and the blue blanket Greg recognised from Harrods.
“That’s supposed to be in the nursery.” Greg couldn’t help tearing up a little.
Anthea gave him a secret smile.
“Okay, Mycroft, you’re fully dilated now, so if you feel the urge to push with the next contraction, go right ahead.” Dr Koen smiled reassuringly.
Mycroft panted into Greg’s neck and mumbled more insults in French.
“Be polite.” Greg whispered, dragging his lips over the crown of Mycroft’s head - the only place he could reach without moving. “He’s trying to help.”
Mycroft looked like he was going to say something snarky back, but a contraction stole his breath and motivation to speak.
“That’s it, Mycroft. Breath in, and exhale and push with the next wave, okay.” Dr Koen kept up a soothing litany.
Several contractions passed before Dr Koen told Mycroft just to breathe and not to push with the next contraction.
“The baby’s close to crowning and your body wants it out, but if we’re going to minimise tearing and the chance of infection, you’re going to have to resist the urge, okay? That’s it, just breathe. Pant a little, yes, like that. That will help reduce the urge.”
“It’ll be over soon.” Greg tried to sound confident.
“If you ever come near me again,” Mycroft choked out through clenched teeth, “I am going to have you neutered.”
“See,” Greg let out a small laugh. “I said it would be my fault sooner or later.”
Mycroft groaned over his reply.
“You can push with the next contraction, Mycroft.” Dr Koen gathered the plush towels and moved them closer. “Gregory, the head is visible if you want to come and see.”
Greg considered it, but the way Mycroft held him tightly in place even before the contraction came made his actual choices clear.
The next few minutes were spent with Greg vibrating almost out of his skin with nerves as Dr Koen called out milestones: Crown, forehead, eyes, nose, head. The umbilical cord was tangled around their son’s neck, but despite Greg’s flash of panic it wasn’t tight enough to have caused any problems. Greg didn’t understand what the various noise making machines around him were saying, but Dr Koen reassured him briefly before both their attention was drawn back to Mycroft’s pain filled groan and the next contraction.
“Almost there, Mycroft. The shoulders are hardest.”
Greg thought Mycroft’s response was something along the lines of ‘fuck you’ in Polish, but it was hard to say.
“Come on, love.” He whispered into Mycroft’s hair. “You’re doing so well. Don’t you want to meet him?”
“You,” Mycroft’s voice was full of pain strewed anger, “try to do this, then you can-”
Greg winced in pain along with his Omega as Mycroft continued to try and break every bone in his hand.
“That’s it, that’s it-” Dr Koen’s voice was interrupted by a high pitched wail.
“That’s him.” Tears pricked Greg’s eyes. “That’s our baby, My.”
“Towels, Anthea. Mycroft, the contractions are going to calm a bit now, you get a break, so Gregory, do you want to come and cut the umbilical cord?” Dr Koen accepted the towels and wrapped them around the little crying bundle.
Greg’s eyes tore away from the baby to Mycroft. He desperately wanted to go and see his son up close, but it was up to Mycroft to let him go. Literally, as there was no way he could, would, tear his hand out of Mycroft’s grip.
“Go.” Mycroft gave him a weak, exhausted, but genuine smile.
“Like this.” Dr Koen handed him the scissors and showed him where to cut between the clamps. “Here you go.”
Greg put down the scissors with a shaking hand and nervously accepted the towel swathed bundle from Dr Koen. The baby, his son, was red and purple, with a little scrunched up face and a smattering of dark hair glued down to his skull by the birthing fluid.
“He looks like a little alien.” Greg choked out, completely overwhelmed.
He vaguely heard Anthea chuckle somewhere behind him.
“He’s still squashed from the birthing.” Dr Koen laughed gently. “Take him up to Mum so Mycroft can see him.”
Greg nodded numbly, eyes glued to the little boy in his arms. He felt hand catch him and redirect him around the bed. He assumed he’d been going the wrong way, maybe heading into a wall, but he hadn’t looked up to see, eyes stuck firmly on the little arms waving clumsily in the air.
“He’s so little.” He whispered as Anthea, of course Anthea, guided him to a stop next to Mycroft.
“Alphas and Omegas are always a little on the small side. I’ll weigh and measure him properly in a few minutes.” Dr Koen was washing his hands in a basin in the corner.
Mycroft didn’t say anything, holding his son gently against his chest in silence. One finger carefully stroked over the back of his hand, sending Greg into hysterical giggles as the baby hiccupped and let out a righteous squeal.
Mycroft looked slightly affronted at the noise, but the fine creases around his eyes softened his gaze as his finger tentatively retraced its path.
Greg was struggling not to cry. Everything was suddenly overwhelming: the panic, the relief, the tiny baby with his ten perfect little fingers and ten tiny toes lying on Mycroft’s chest, barely visible in his soft warm wrapping, the soft warm look in Mycroft’s eyes as he watched at their son making Greg hope, hope, hope in a heart already full to bursting love it hurt, hurt, hurt.
A handkerchief was pressed into his hand.
“He’s beautiful.” Mycroft whispered.
He glanced up and Greg thought Mycroft’s face softened as he looked at Greg, but that might have just been Greg hoping, hoping, hoping again. The expression didn’t last long enough to catch, not when so much rode on its veracity, before Mycroft’s face contorted in pain.
“My?” Greg stepped forward. “Is something wrong? Is he okay?”
“It’s just his body preparing to pass the afterbirth and the mucus plug.” Dr Koen reassured them both. “Now, this might take some time, but it won’t be as painful as before, I promise.”
Greg picked up his son, holding him carefully as Mycroft struggled to hide how much it hurt.
“Just keep breathing. While you’re passing the after birth I’ll get this little guy washed and weighed, okay?” Dr Koen asked cheerfully.
It wasn’t so much a question as a carefully framed direction. He held out his arms.
“You’re welcome to come next door with us.” Dr Koen smiled at Greg’s obvious reluctance to hand over the baby.
Greg hesitated as another wave of pain broke over Mycroft’s face. He didn’t want to leave Mycroft here alone and in pain, but his instincts were screaming at him not to let his son out of his sight.
“It’s common for Alphas not to want to leave the baby or their partner.” Dr Koen sensed his dilemma. “I can assure you Ingrid has been instructed what to watch for if anything goes wrong, and while her knowledge is mainly theoretical, it is extensive. We’ll be right next door, and it will be relatively quick. Just washing him off, putting him in something nice and warm, and collect some basic newborn test data, length, weight, that sort of thing so I can fill in the birth certificate.”
Greg didn’t think the words were directed solely at him, and sure enough the same indecision was writ large across Mycroft’s features in between grimaces of pain.
“Go.” Mycroft nodded.
Where before the word had been used as a banishment, an icy wall. This time their gaze held a shared purpose: look after him, protect him, love him. Greg nodded back, and didn’t ask whether Mycroft was sure. His face very clearly said he was.
“Right next door.” Dr Koen reminded them both.
He picked up the blue blanket and guided Greg out the door and down the corridor. It wasn’t far, but when every step was haunted by indecision the few feet it was, was too far.
Details of the room flew past Greg. He knew there were more machines beeping and blinking and whining away, and that there was furniture he navigated around, but it was all an inconsequential blur compared to the most important thing in his arms.
“Come here.” Dr Koen waved him over.
Reluctantly Greg obeyed and handed over the baby.
“I have to say,” Dr Koen’s voice was bright and relaxed, professionally designed to calm, while his hands were brisk and fluid, “you and Mycroft are a fascinating case. It’s certainly a change to have to deal with the both of you. A nice change, definitely. My colleagues have told some stories at the pub about overbearing panicked Alphas during labour, let me tell you. Much more pleasant and everyone’s much more reasonable this way round, if you don’t mind me saying, though an Omega who can kick his attending out whenever he wants is somewhat of a health risk I suppose.”
Dr Koen kept chattering as he pushed buttons and twiddled knobs. He finished just as the little boy bawled up his face to started crying, picking him up off the scale in a smooth movement and handing him back to Greg.
“There you are. 5lbs, even and 35.4 cms long. A little on the small side, but well within the range for a baby Alpha or Omega. He’ll do a lot of growing in the next few days to catch up. It will certainly be interesting to watch him grow.”
“So you’re not just-” Greg tried to ask while juggling the unexpected baby back in his arms.
“An Obgyn? No, not at all. I had to do a crash course in midwifery to look after Mycroft through this. I’m an Omegologist. Related field and sometimes I have patients I guide through the beginning of pregnancy, but I usually have someone else handle the actual late term stages and labour. Not an option here, for obvious reason.”
Dr Koen was washing his hands again in a basin of water. Another jug sat on a hot plate keeping warm, which Greg figured made sense as there was no adjoining bathroom for hot water.
The baby in his arm fussed again, face screwing up as he let out little cries.
“Hold him close to your chest.” Dr Koen had dried his hands and was now laying out the blanket and the clothing that was inside. “He’ll recognise your scent.”
Nervously Greg pulled him in closer. His son kept fussing, little arms and legs flailing, but his cries quieted.
“Can’t you go a little faster?” Greg asked nervously.
Dr Koen’s movements were all efficient, but slow. There was no great urgency, no great drive behind his actions while Greg could feel it nipping at his heels.
“No need to rush.” Dr Koen dipped a soft cloth in the warming jug and gestured Greg back over. “This last stage is a, frankly, disgusting process and most Omegas don’t want a lot of people witnessing it, let alone someone as image conscious as Mycroft Holmes.”
He wiped the cloth over the damp strands of hair, patting after with a clean corner of the towel.
“Ingrid will fetch me if I’m required, and in time honoured tradition of getting Dad out of the room we get to clean this little guy up.”
The cloth was wiped over and around the little fingers and up the long, chubby arms. This wasn’t appreciated by the new Holmes-Lestrade who started wailing as loudly as possible.
“Healthy lungs, that’s good.” Nothing seemed to dull the cheer in Dr Koen’s voice, even though Greg was all too familiar with the pinch between his eyebrows that usually signified a migraine. “Come here Dad, give him your finger. Yep, just like that. Palmer’s reflex. See little boy, he’s right here and Mummy’s right next door and you’ll be back with him as soon as you’re both cleaned up.”
This didn’t settle him, though Greg’s pinky was grasped with all the miniscule strength in his son’s grip.
“He’s probably getting cold and hungry.” Dr Koen’s wiping was a little faster now. “Have you ever put on a nappy before?”
“No.” Greg felt bewildered.
“You’ll have done plenty before the weekend is over, but I’ll do this one. It’s all right little one, we’ll have you back with Mummy soon.”
The length of material Greg had thought was a large handkerchief or spare towel was quickly wrapped around the clean, dry bottom and secured. Just as fast a pale cream onsie was pulled on and press studded into place. A little cream hat followed and before he knew it, the blue blanket was around the baby and he was back in Greg’s arms.
“Why don’t you two sit here and get acquainted.” Dr Koen guided them over to an antique rocking chair, manoeuvring Greg around it’s runners as he was utterly captivated once again by the bundle in his arms and had eyes for nothing else. “I’ll check how Mycroft’s going and see if he’s up for visitors yet.”
Greg nodded absently; too busy studying the little face looking up at him from the crook of his arms. Logically he knew his son was too young to be actually looking and seeing, but the pale eyes were seemingly focused straight on his face was they watched each other.
The nose was his, Greg decided proudly, as was the chin, but the chubby little cheeks could well be pure Holmes underneath the baby fat and his little rosebud nose mouth looked to be fuller than either Greg or Mycroft’s. More like Uncle Sherlock so that was probably a Holmes gene coming through there. Greg knew babies eyes quite often changed colour after birth so the almost colourless peepers that blinked up at him might yet darken to his own brown, or might stay light and fluid like Sherlock, or settle into Mycroft’s near stable grey-green.
With only his Sire and Uncle to compare to really on his side, and the Holmes brothers on the other it was hard to see which side the baby favoured more. Part of Greg hoped the baby looked after him, but another marvelled at the fascination of watching a little look-alike Mycroft growing up.
Mycroft had to compromise, he just had to because Greg couldn’t leave this little guy alone, not in a million years.
“Detective Inspector.” Anthea’s voice broke his reverie. She smiled at him in tired exultation.
Greg wondered what dopey love-struck look was on his own face.
“An adorable one. Come on through.”
Dr Koen stepped out of the birthing room as they approached, bringing with him a bulging laundry bag.
“All yours. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve been up for a good 36 hours and am off to sleep.” He waved goodbye, cheerful mask slipping as task finished, his exhaustion bled through.
Anthea took the laundry bag from his unresisting hand and shepherded him down the corridor, leaving Greg and the baby alone.
“Let’s go meet your Mummy then.” Greg whispered.
He opened the door with his hip, unwilling to take two hands off the baby. Mycroft was lying on the bed in new pyjamas. The sheets smelt like sun and outdoors, the old ones clearly the contents of the laundry bag. Through the miracle that was Anthea, Mycroft had managed a wash of some kind and looked merely tired rather than tired and sweaty.
“Hey.” Greg said quietly. “Got someone to meet you.”
Mycroft’s eyes fluttered open and gave a rundown smile. “Have you now?”
“Yeah.” Greg sat on the edge of the bed, mouth in his throat. Moment of truth. “What are we going to call him?”
“Abernathy.” Mycroft replied.
The bottom dropped out of Greg’s world. He’d not realised how much he really had let himself hope until it was yanked away, burning from his chest to his gut where it churned and roiled and made him feel like throwing up. He felt disconnected from the world as if everything was just a bad trip. It felt like the first time he’d challenged Mycroft and had almost collapsed in a shaking shock-y heap. It felt like that first walk from the Yard to Mycroft’s house where the colours and sounds had leeched from the world, leaving him a ghost in reality, unable to hear or see or process.
He was so instantly lost, so deeply thrown into his own turmoil, he almost didn’t realise Mycroft was still speaking.
“-Francois Holmes.”
“What?” Greg blinked, trying not to clutch the baby too tightly in his arms and squash him.
Mycroft leant back and closed his eyes, not looking at Greg, his usual tactic when he felt guilty or ashamed of showing sentiment.
“Abernathy Francois Holmes.” He repeated.
One hand nonchalantly moved to rest on Greg’s thigh, its owner trying to pretend it didn’t mean anything.
Tears pricked Greg’s eyes again, and one broke free to trickle down his cheek.
“Abernathy Francois Holmes.” He whispered in a clogged voice. “It’ll be years before you know, but meet your Mummy. He and I are very pleased you’re here.”
He handed the little bundle over to Mycroft who took it, holding him in one arm so the other hand could stay resting on Greg.
A declaration, commitment, compromise. Willingness to try. As he curled his bruised hand back around his love’s fingers, the hope didn’t rest quite so heavily in Greg’s heart.
Abernathy Francois Holmes.
Hope.
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The end. Before anyone starts going "huh, how on earth is that a positive end?", Greg's middle name in this verse is Francois, so in a sense, Mycroft just named the baby after him. Ish. It's a start. I can't remember off the top of my head which chapters it's mentioned in, but at last count I think I managed to get it in at least four, so if you feel like a treasure hunt, avant me hearties!
For those who would like to know, Mycroft's middle name is Ptolemy. Sherlock clues Greg into this in the chapter where Greg and John get very, very drunk.
There will be a part III (and a part IV). It's taken me 230k words to get them together and willing to try to get on the same page, so there is certainly more to tell. For those wanting more John and Sherlock, they have a much larger role in the next part. The title is Rolling in the Deep. Yes, as in the Adele song. Yes, you could consider the song spoilery if you wish.
In terms of the when, I've currently got 7 chapters written, but as I am old fashioned and use a pen and paper, there are only 5 of those on the computer and I haven't had a chance to edit them much yet. I won't finish the whole thing before positng because I don't want you to have to wait too long (predicting around 25 chapters for this one at the minute), so hopefully I'll be able to start posting it early April. It will be a slower positing schedule though. Sorry.
If there are any scenes you would particularly like to see, any sex scenes you want to request or fluffy moments with Ben, just let me know/leave suggestions and I'll try to work as many of them in as possible.
Lastly, thanks so much all of you for sticking through this. I know it's been a somewhat depressing journey, but hopefully in that good way. Every comment every person has left has been very much loved.
Ta ta for now.