Though I Walk Through the Valley (11/38)
Though I Walk through the Valley
Title:Though I Walk through the Valley (11/38)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: Short note today... because i'm about to crash. Night all.
If you've wondered here by mistake, you may wish to start at Part I of the series, Rarest of the Rare: Chapter 1.
Prologue - Chapter 10 - Chapter 11 - Chapter 12 - Chapter 13 - Chapter 14 - Chapter 15 - Chapter 16 - Chapter 17 - Chapter 18 - Chapter 19 - Chapter 20
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Greg walked out of the Yard and turned his collar up against the cold, resolutely ignoring the jitters in his stomach. Everything would be fine, just fine. He resisted the urge to run back inside for his gloves, lying forgotten in his desk drawer. Mycroft’s text had said the car was just around the corner so he wouldn’t have to suffer through winter’s last ditch efforts for long. Sure enough the discrete, only because every wealthy banker and politician in England drove one, black car pulled over in the space just a few feet away and Mycroft climbed out, holding the door open for Greg in his ridiculously pompous and formal way.
It was a good thing Greg had already started to move because at least that way when his legs went out from under him it looked like he tripped, rather than what actually happened which was a sudden absence of knees.
He’d been fine, he’d been totally fine, missing Mycroft, wanting to talk to Mycroft, feeling distinctly nervous about the demands he had to make tonight of Mycroft, but nothing that prepared him for the crackling jolt of need when he laid eyes on him. The raw need, the absolute drive to press Mycroft down and roll against him until Greg’s scent was indelibly etched into every pore exploded somewhere in his head and chest.
It was a good thing his knees had gone. Having to catch himself against the car prevented him doing something very stupid right there in the street.
“Gregory?” Mycroft took a concerned step towards him, eyes sweeping Greg top to toe trying to determine what was wrong.
“I’m fine.” Greg pushed off the bonnet before Mycroft touched him.
God only knows what he’d do if Mycroft touched him. He shoved his hands into his trouser pockets, more difficult to remove from than his overcoat, because Christ Almighty he needed all the help he could get.
He needed; holy hell he needed. He needed his hands on Mycroft’s skin, needed to caress the thin layer of skin between them and their child.
“Just tired. I think I hit a bit of a manic high. Must be crashing.” There was a tremor in his voice he couldn’t suppress and he hoped Mycroft got the message soon because he was almost out of stubborn, and he usually drew any additional resolve he required from his Alpha side. Here that would only make things infinitely worse because it was the Alpha who was craving.
“Indeed. It has been a trying week. Maybe if we drive?” Mycroft stood back to give Greg plenty of space to get into the car.
Thank Christ. They’d been meant to walk down to the Thai place only a couple of blocks over and Greg could not stop himself doing something stupid in such close proximity with Mycroft for that long.
Throwing himself into the car, Greg buried his head in the leather of the seat, breathing in phantom traces of Mycroft. He was barely aware of the uncomfortable position, squashed into the corner with the leather tacky against his suddenly sweaty cheeks. Breathe, just breathe. Control his thoughts, his breathing, then his actions.
He might have managed it better if Mycroft hadn’t climbed into the car and shut the door after him. Then burying his face in the leather became less about absorbing the reassuring scent and lingering warmth, and more about blocking both. He could not throw himself at Mycroft. Mycroft was iffy enough about this without Greg proving he had no self-control. Giving in would prove he was a liability. If he was a liability Mycroft would refuse to see him, or maybe revert to his original stance that this was too dangerous and terminate the baby anyway.
The baby, he had to do this for the baby. He could keep himself under control for the baby. He did not need to reach over there and run a hand under Mycroft’s suit stroking his skin while he buried his nose in Mycroft’s neck with all its addictive pheromones and...
Greg let out an involuntary whine and tried to curl tighter into a ball, fisted hands tucked up against his chest to prevent him reaching out.
“Gregory?” Mycroft’s voice was soft and concerned. It practically wrapped itself around Greg, a comforting and addictive blanket that pulled him over and -
No, he couldn’t. He couldn’t, he couldn’t, he couldn’t. He couldn’t risk the baby.
“My.” He choked out, not really aware of what he was saying. Talking was a secondary consideration after holding himself still. “I need...”
“Anything, Gregory. Anything you need.” There was a rarely heard bewilderment in Mycroft’s voice.
With a shove off the door Greg threw himself on the floor at Mycroft’s feet. If he’d been up to thinking he would have been thanking whoever chose the Government’s cars as the sinful amount of legroom meant there was space for him on the floor between Mycroft’s legs. Mycroft who was watching him with slowly dawning understanding that made no sense to Greg because he didn’t know what he was doing, just that his fingers were moving, pushing back Mycroft’s jacket, stripping his waistcoat buttons and then he was laying his head on Mycroft’s shirt clad front.
Almost as soon as his cheek made contact with the fabric something in him eased and the pressure drained away. He sighed and nuzzled Mycroft, belatedly realising when Mycroft gave a slight start that what he was actually doing was working his nose between the shirt buttons to touch Mycroft’s skin.
His cold nose on Mycroft’s warm skin.
He wrapped his arms around Mycroft’s waist, let out a contented sigh, and went still.
A hand came to rest on his head and gently carded through his hair. “Better?”
Greg nodded and tightened his arms briefly before returning to the looser embrace. “I’m sorry, I swear I was fine and then I don’t know what-”
“It’s okay. I should have expected it.”
“Mm?”
Mycroft’s hand was still gently moving through his hair. Greg considered moving upwards so he could bury himself in that delightful spot on Mycroft’s neck that was producing that intoxicating scent, but he didn’t want to move.
Mycroft gave a light chuckle. “Think about where you are, Gregory.”
Kneeling on the floor of an absurdly expensive government issue car curled around Mycroft’s-
Oh.
Curled around Mycroft’s abdomen.
He tilted his head up and gave Mycroft a guilty smile. “Sorry.”
Mycroft’s expression was soft, which for him meant the slightest relaxing of muscles around the eyes. “It’s not your fault. In fact I do believe your reaction fairly inevitable.”
“What do you mean?” Greg frowned slightly. He should get back up on the seat and take the crick out of his neck, but that really wasn’t an option.
“Pheromones.” Mycroft sounded utterly exasperated, but given his fingers still stroked along Greg’s neck and hair, he obviously wasn’t put out with Greg. “Survival instinct. My ridiculous body is trying to ensure your utmost devotion to me and our offspring, thus guaranteeing protection while I’m...vulnerable.”
There was no mistaking the little moue of distaste at that word. Mycroft Holmes did not do vulnerable.
“Protection?” Greg nuzzled Mycroft’s tummy again.
“Indeed. By now the foetus has pumped enough hormones through my system to make sure that I’m going to keep its best interests at the forefront of my mind, and survival guaranteed it’s now luring its Sire. Not,” Greg could feel a critical eye run over him, “that in this case he requires much luring, but it is an ancient instinct.”
Greg laughed softly into Mycroft’s belly. “Sorry.”
The car slid to a halt with the driver’s usual smooth precision (not that Greg knew who that was), but it was still enough for Greg to need to cling a little tighter to stop from over balancing. Mycroft didn’t say anything, but removed his hand from Greg’s hair.
Greg didn’t want to let go.
“Can we get takeaway?” He murmured into Mycroft’s belly.
“I suppose given your stumble outside the Yard it’s easy enough to say you’ve had a long and tiring week.”
Greg smiled contentedly, thinking ‘good, because I don’t want to have to not touch you that long’. He didn’t say it, wouldn’t do until he had worked out where they stood and what was and wasn’t part of their arrangement.
“You do, however, have to let go now so we can go and collect our order.”
There was light amusement in Mycroft’s voice and no exasperation so Greg pushed his luck with an overly exaggerated sigh before forcing himself to unwind his arms. It was certainly easier knowing he’d get to hold Mycroft again later.
Might get to hold Mycroft again later. If the talk Greg needed to have with Mycroft didn’t sink this whole thing faster than a stone.
He pushed up on the seat, determined to ignore the gripping impulse to stay curled where he was, and started to manoeuvre to a more conventional seated position. Started because moving to a partially upright pose put his nose that much closer to Mycroft’s neck and he couldn’t resist breathing in deeply, savouring the slightly gingery, vaguely spiced scent. There was something different from when he last smelt Mycroft’s unique chemical signature, though he couldn’t quite put a finger on it. He took another not so subtle deep breath in.
And froze.
Pheromones. Pheromones and a scent designed to be noticed.
Oh. Shit.
“Mycroft? Mycroft, how to we-”
“There’s no issue, Gregory.” Mycroft was calm, but that meant squat. Last time Mycroft had said there was no problem he’d be about to terminate their baby without a single tear.
He hadn’t changed his mind, had he? Greg didn’t think he could handle it if Mycroft changed his mind.
“Gregory, stop panicking. It’s not an issue as you’re the only person who can detect them.”
Greg paused. “Really?”
“Yes, now if we might go inside?”
There was no dominance, but with the raised eyebrow it was clearly not a request and Greg scrambled off Mycroft as fast as he could. He’d already pushed his luck and would have to push it again before the night was out.
Did he? Did he really?
Yes, he couldn’t not. It wouldn’t be right.
Mycroft stepped elegantly out of the car and watching him Greg could see that he was right - despite the delicious scent rolling off him no one so much as gave him a third glance (unless he was trying to be inconspicuous, Mycroft usually warranted a second one).
Right, fine. Protective instincts satisfied, though not sated, he clambered out and followed Mycroft into the restaurant.
He wasn’t sure why. They both walked in, Mycroft requested their meal be packaged for takeaway, they walked out, plastic shopping bags of Thai swinging from their hands. Greg could have just stayed in the car and stewed, it would have been just as productive. It wasn’t even like they said anything during the brief wait - Mycroft fussed on his phone, Greg pretended to read one of the newspapers.
In reality he stewed anyway talking himself around in circles and feeling the sinking knot of guilt, panic and worry grow and cure and fester in the pit of his belly.
How could he do this? He was risking everything. What if this was what convinced Mycroft it was too hard, that they were too much trouble and he left? Especially if Greg couldn’t keep his hands to himself, which he almost hadn’t, and was essentially a massive security risk.
No, Mycroft wouldn’t leave and they needed to have this conversation.
But what if?
By the time they’d reached Greg’s house it felt like there was an honest to God lead ball in his stomach.
“Would you like to verbalise it?” Mycroft left the bags on the kitchen table and was unerringly locating bowls and cutlery for dinner.
His dinner. Greg insisted on eating takeaway the way it was meant to be eaten: out of the container with the plastic cutlery provided.
“Verbalise it?” Greg pulled a bottle of red out and took great pride in having clean wine glasses.
Mycroft may not have commented on the state of the flat, but the fact that it was properly clean rather than just vaguely presentable was an unexpected source of pride for Greg. He’d never been a slob by choice (though with the Job his choices were often limited), but he’d never been a neat freak who had to return a book to its allocated space on the bookshelf either, and to gain so much satisfaction from cleaning was new.
“Whatever is on your mind. Come now, Gregory,” he must have flinched, “it’s fairly obvious.” Mycroft filled his wine glass with water after a longing glace at the wine. Mycroft enjoyed a good wine, especially a nice red, and this was a good bottle. Mycroft had given it to Greg after all.
They should talk, get everything out in the open so if he wanted to, Mycroft could leave without having to spend the evening with Greg under false pretences.
“After dinner.”
Greg could still remember the horrified look on Mycroft’s face when, on his first visit to Greg’s flat with takeaway, Greg had walked through to the lounge and plonked himself down on the couch. He’d had a very good view of it when he’d craned his head around to see what was taking Mycroft so long. Naturally eating takeaway on the couch was nothing Mycroft had ever done before, though desks were acceptable alternatives to tables, and Greg had just managed to prevent himself bursting into laughter at the ginger, awkward way Mycroft had lowered himself into the mismatched armchair. It made it all the more gratifying to see Mycroft carry his meal to the other room without waiting for Greg to insist.
There was no movie, there wasn’t always, and Greg wished wholeheartedly for one. He toyed with the idea of turning on the TV and finding something, anything, to create background noise.
Maybe John had been right; maybe things hadn’t been magically fixed. He didn’t remember these tense silences being part of their relationship. Silence, yes, they both regularly needed time to unwind and mentally readjust to a functioning social level after work, but that need for space had never been strained like this.
Maybe it was just Greg. Mycroft looked perfectly comfortable. It was Greg who couldn’t relax knowing he hadn’t even had this relationship a full week and he was going to push them well past firmly established boundaries. Boundaries that were very important to Mycroft, that were the only reason Mycroft had agreed to give this a try. That decision had taken place back at the kitchen table at Mycroft’s, fast becoming Greg’s least favourite place in Mycroft’s house as it seemed to be their designated Serious Conversation spot.
There were surprising few things that had been non-negotiable, which just emphasised how serious each one actually was, and now after less than a week Greg was going to try and negotiate one of them.
He took a bite of his food and forced himself to swallow. Greg had no idea what he was eating, but then he rarely did. Even when Mycroft didn’t order ahead he had a habit of ordering in the ‘appropriate’ language, assuming the wait staff were native. Given the Bangkok Dream was an authentic Thai restaurant, and that Greg’s language skills did not extend past Europe, Greg never knew the names of his Thai dishes, let alone what was in it. It always tasted good and dishes he enjoyed more than others made more frequent reappearances, so he never bothered to ask or complain.
It had always been his guilty pleasure, allowing Mycroft to order his food. Pretending to be a Dom, as an Alpha, he should have protested a lot more than he did, but once the power plays had ended and they were established as friends, the Alpha relaxed and the Sub liked Mycroft making those sorts of decisions. It made him feel like Mycroft was taking care of him, as if he were his Dom.
He took a bite and mixed the rice through, playing with his food. Eventually he forced himself to take another bite. He could feel the hard lump of food travel down his throat. It joined the hard ball rolling around his insides.
He chased a lump of...chicken (?) around the rice-curry mix. It wasn’t beef or lamb. Yeah, probably chicken. Mycroft wouldn’t order anything too exotic. Greg was just a working class punk rocker turned detective after all, and Mycroft knew his tastes didn’t run to the fancy. He’d take beef over venison, beer-battered flathead over salmon, and the more westernised the Chinese the better.
He’d seen Mycroft eat snails without balking. Mycroft had in fact ordered them, though he called them escargot. Greg called them what they were - slimy molluscs drowning in garlic and butter and had been proud to remember the word molluscs.
Mycroft called him unadventurous.
Greg maintained he got enough adventure on the job and liked to know his food had once mooed, or baaed, or oinked, or clucked or squarked, or maybe even gobbled, rather than meowed or woofed or hissed ... or whatever sound it was crocodiles made.
Food stories were among the few things Mycroft could pass on regarding his overseas trips. You would never catch Greg eating camel or whale or drinking snake blood vodka, even if it was necessary to avoid a conflict spawning political insult.
No, Greg liked his food safely westernised, from a farm, via an abattoir with appropriate prevention of animal cruelty regulations, and Mycroft knew that.
So chicken… chicken congealing in a gritty mess inside him.
Greg swallowed forcibly, food combining with stress and panic to produce a rather strong bout of nausea.
He wasn’t going to be able to eat anymore. It wasn’t like he was hungry anyway.
He moved the cooling mass around a bit more.
How was Mycroft going to take this? Greg really didn’t think he’d do anything to the baby, not anymore, but he might, and he might certainly get rid of Greg. As far as the reproductive process went, Greg had made his contribution and if Mycroft thought having him around was too much of a problem, well, he didn’t need Greg even if he kept the baby.
There was an audible sigh from the armchair and Mycroft’s plate, half empty (the curry a strange shade of green), appeared in Greg’s vision on the table.
He hurriedly shoved another fork load into his mouth.
“Gregory.”
He stubbornly took another bite and choked through an attempt to swallow.
He didn’t want to talk, didn’t want Mycroft to leave. Was it too much to ask for that evening, for one night with Mycroft by his side as more than his friend? Couldn’t his life be good, be fixed for one week? Didn’t he deserve a week?
Two weeks? A month? Nine months?
He knew that path. Every copper did. Didn’t he deserve a drink (or two or three); didn’t that rule deserve to be bent because that perp killed that child and destroyed that family even if it couldn’t be proven in court (and that one, and that one).You couldn’t start, because after the first one, no matter what your intentions, you never stopped.
“We need to talk.” His mouth was dry so he swapped his uneaten takeaway for his glass of untouched wine and took a mouthful.
“So I have inferred. What is troubling you, Gregory?” Mycroft steepled his fingers and let his gaze fall gently on Greg. It was his ‘I’m listening’ pose for when he wasn’t maintaining his aloof political exterior.
Whether he wanted it or not, Greg had Mycroft’s full attention.
“I... we... we need to tell John, My.”
When it came out, it came out as an indistinct rush, but from the way Mycroft’s body went very, very still, he had understood.
“That was not part of the agreement.” Mycroft’s voice was as still as his body. It practically screamed danger. “In fact I do believe the agreement was we do not tell anyone, no matter what, and we do not even discuss the possibility.”
“It was.” Greg admitted, heart hammering in his chest.
“So why are we discussing it?” Despite the lift at the end of the sentence, there was no real question in the hard and unyielding voice.
“John and Sherlock came and visited me.”
“Yesterday at approximately two pm. Yes, I am aware.”
Greg loosened his grip on his wineglass. He didn’t own so many he could afford to shatter one. “I felt awful Mycroft.”
“You knew this would involve an element of deception. I was under the impression that to you this was worth it.” His hands had moved since Greg last looked up, and the presence of one of them resting across Mycroft’s middle could not be coincidental.
“Yes, it is, anything.” Anything for their little baby.
“Then I fail to see the need for this conversation. You have accepted that you want the child, the guilt is an unfortunate, but necessary, side effect.” Mycroft took a small sip of his water. Greg wondered whether he wished it was wine.
He wished his was scotch.
“I’m not asking - I don’t mean me, Mycroft. I will hate myself for it, but I would lie to the Queen for you.” He took a deep breath. “But I agreed to this. Sherlock didn’t.”
“Sherlock?” There was a slight give in Mycroft’s tone following Greg’s affirmation of loyalty.
Greg didn’t dare hope Mycroft had been as nervous about the possibility of losing Greg as Greg was about him.
“He practically had to lie to John, Mycroft. If John pushes at all, Sherlock will have to.”
“Yes.” Mycroft’s affirmation was simply that: a short, bland acknowledgement.
“To John.”
“Yes.”
“And you think he will?”
“Yes.” There was a firmness behind the word that had been lacking from Mycroft’s other responses. “You need not worry about exposure from Sherlock, Gregory.”
“That’s what I’m worried about!” Greg exploded, leaping out of his chair. “He’s stupidly, recklessly stubborn and he will keep your secret until he breaks. Not,” he narrowed his eyes in Mycroft’s direction, “that I suspect he has a choice about it.”
Mycroft clearly understood the insinuation, but made no comment, as good as confirming Greg’s theory that at one stage or another, Sherlock had had that command dommed into him. “If you are not worried about him keeping our secret then-”
“Because we are forcing him to lie to his Bonded, Mycroft, his Bonded who has trust issues.”
Mycroft said nothing.
“Bonding doesn’t guarantee a successful relationship.”
A stillness settled over Mycroft’s body and without moving he was suddenly very threatening. “I am well aware of that, Gregory.”
There was clearly something there and Greg scrawled it down on his ‘Topics not to bring up’ mental list.
“We might destroy his relationship.” He pressed, keeping his voice as devoid of the anger and guilt he felt as possible. Experience showed Holmeses normally reacted better to facts and logic than emotional entreaties.
There was the slightest flinch, the tiniest break in Mycroft’s demeanour.
“Mycroft,” Greg dropped to his knees next to Mycroft’s leg and placed a hand gently on his thigh. Doms, with very few exceptions, responded most favourably when given the high ground and the appearance, or reality, of power. Given what was at stake, Greg’s pride could handle it. “Sherlock is happy. He’s actually happy and in love with John and so ridiculously obsessed with his collar he won’t even be without it to clean it. He puts on another one so his neck’s not bare even for the fifteen minutes it takes to buff it to some stupid level of shine.”
Mycroft had lost some of the stiffness and a fond smile was trying to tug the corner of his mouth upwards. Sherlock really was Mycroft’s biggest, almost only, weakness.
“Mycroft, we could destroy that.”
The twitch around Mycroft’s mouth was no longer a smile and his fingers had curled tightly into the chair.
“John won’t take Sherlock hiding this from him lightly, and if he asks more questions and Sherlock lies, you can’t be in a Bound relationship without trust Mycroft, Bonded or not. Sherlock will lose John, and you know as well as I if that happens, we’ll lose Sherlock to suicide in a week or a drug overdose in a month, no matter how closely you watch him.” Greg tightened his grip on Mycroft’s leg. “I don’t think I’m over exaggerating to say if we don’t do this, we are gambling with Sherlock’s life.”
“I would look after him.” Mycroft murmured.
Greg noticed Mycroft didn’t bother to argue that John would never leave. John was a good Alpha and an amazing Dom. That there was anyone who could handle Sherlock ‘dynamic, who cares about dynamic, just do as I say’ Holmes was miraculous. That there would ever be anyone else was, well, impossible. John Watson, RAMC - discharged, was unique, 100% unique. No one else could handle the body parts, let alone Sherlock’s fierce independence and propensity for trouble. John loved him for them.
Loving him wouldn’t be enough. Being Bonded wouldn’t be enough. Trust was essential; you couldn’t take or give control of a life without it. Subs had to trust their Doms to look after them, to take their bodies, hearts and souls and keep them safe. They had to trust that should they be requested they would be restored to them in the same condition they were surrendered in or better. Doms had to trust that their Subs wanted, that when their Sub was gone from their sight they would stay safe or go to their Dom for help. They had to trust that if they needed it their Subs would safeword out and not let their Doms go too far.
Trust was more important between Alpha-Omega Bonded pairs than any other gender combination. Alphas were biologically tied to their mates; their very DNA coded to protect, provide, and defend. Utter focus, utter devotion, a need that couldn’t be explained to wrap themselves around every facet of their Omega’s life. The only thing that kept the base urges in check was trust - trust that the Omega was theirs and no one else would interfere, that their Omega would give them everything and not hold anything back so they could guard, nurture, and worship.
Sherlock withholding what he knew from John when he’d specifically asked about it, even if Sherlock didn’t lie, struck right at the heart of that trust, especially given the extraordinary levels of freedom from John’s interference in his life Sherlock enjoyed, solely on the basis that now they were together, Sherlock would go to John when he needed.
It wasn’t that there were never lies in relationships, but this secret somehow carried a gravitas with it so an outright lie would shake the all-important bedrock, not just wisp past as daily life. This was outright, planned, deliberate deception.
Greg knew this; Mycroft knew this; Sherlock knew this and was terrified.
John was a good Dom, but Sherlock was not a good Sub and this could just be one shake too many to their relatively new foundations.
“You could look after him to all the best of your abilities, with all your resources and you couldn’t save him from that. Keep him away from drugs, he’ll make his own or slit his wrists. Lock him away from anything and everything, and he’ll refuse to eat. Force feed him and he’ll will himself to death anyway. You know he could.”
There was no doubt in Greg’s mind that that was exactly what Sherlock would do. John would probably recover enough to try and trust Sherlock again, but Sherlock would be long dead. His personality was addictive and obsessive and he’d replaced drugs with John, and this time would die from withdrawal.
“It’s not safe.” Mycroft murmured again. He wasn’t looking at Greg, face turned slightly, staring into midair.
Greg morbidly wondered whether he was looking at his brother’s grave. His line of sight appeared the right height for a tombstone.
“You’ve given John a government security clearance, My. He’s Bonded to your brother, and even if he wasn’t, he wouldn’t run his mouth off. You know this.” The fabric caught slightly on Greg’s fingers as he slid them gently along the thigh they rested on. “If we were going to trust anyone, it would be John.”
Mycroft made a non-committal sound deep in the back of his throat.
“I know you trust him or he’d never have got within ten feet of Sherlock. Why don’t you want to tell him, really?” Greg tried to coax a response, but Mycroft merely sat in meditative silence.
Finally, he sighed. “Only him.”
Greg couldn’t keep the smile off his face.
“You’re correct, there is no logical reason not to tell Dr Watson and every reason to.” Mycroft’s face was carefully impassive.
“Why are you so reluctant to tell him?” Greg pressed.
“I’ve already agreed to, Gregory.”
“You’re not worried he’ll let slip are you, because there is no way John would every betray-”
“John Watson is a paradigm of loyalty.”
Greg paused. He didn’t think Mycroft was being sarcastic.
“Then-”
“I do not wish to discuss it. We will tell John Watson, absolutely no one else.” Mycroft’s fingers had unclenched and now drummed restlessly on the arm of his chair.
Greg nodded and kept his mouth shut. His throat felt suspiciously full and he realised his own fingers were shaking on Mycroft’s thigh.
Ah, adrenaline rush.
He’d known intellectually about the heady rush Subs experienced when they challenged their Doms. As a policeman he’d dealt with Subs who panicked and ran, driven purely by the chemical influx, all the more potent for over powering their Doms, not merely defying them. He’d always looked down on them and been angry at them for perpetuating the stereotype.
Maybe, he decided clenching his hands into fists, he’d been too hard on them. He’d challenged Mycroft, not defied or attacked him, yet his head felt floaty and disconnected making it hard to think and he couldn’t stop the manic urge to do... he couldn’t even tell. Laugh? Cry? Hyperventilate? All he knew is his limbs felt heavy and tingly and he needed to move, move, move.
It would almost be addictive this high, except for the rolling blackness in his stomach that was partially guilt, partially nerves, partially nausea and mostly chicken curry that threatened to choke him with every strangled gasp. It was different to subspace, more like the high druggies described off some of the new designer drugs, and it was suddenly much easier to understand how a Sub could become a serial killer if it meant this power trip with every one of their Doms they killed.
Was that how Moriarty started? The ugly blackness probably wouldn’t bother the crazy psychopath Switch.
Christ, he and Mycroft weren’t even in a formalised relationship. Did they have to be? Being Bound was a different sort of relationship to being Bonded with no connective element on a physical or mental level. Maybe it was enough that they’d played together, maybe it was enough Greg wanted, maybe he wasn’t getting a full dose of the adrenal reaction.
Greg tried to tamp it down. Mycroft wasn’t happy, but he had agreed and he wasn’t unhappy either. He wasn’t going to leave Greg, even for pushing one of the unpushables because it had been for Sherlock who was the most important thing in Mycroft’s world so it was fine and he wouldn’t sever whatever thing they had despite Greg’s collapse in control earlier and the fact he could not stop shaking!
Would he? He wouldn’t.
Please?
“Gregory.” Fingers gently lifted his chin. A thumb smoothed over his cheek.
Greg kept his eyes closed and bit into his lip to keep from letting out a needy whine.
It was stupid, ridiculous. He was his own person; he was an Alpha; he was a DI. He did not need reassurance and mollycoddling just because he’d had a different opinion to Mycroft and stood his ground. They’d had arguments before, they’d undoubtedly have them again, and Greg would not let himself turn into a wet blanket to be walked over whenever Mycroft chose.
His body wanted the reassurance and he’d leant into the simple touch before he’d even realised.
“Up.” Mycroft’s voice was gentle despite the command. It was grounding and helped Greg find his bearings as he scrambled to his feet.
Mycroft steered him carefully around the table and lowered himself onto one end of the couch.
“Sit.”
Each dominant order soothed something in Greg, though it did nothing for his physical symptoms. He collapsed gracelessly onto the sofa cushions halfway between the end and Mycroft, wanting to be pressed close against his lover/partner/Dom/friend, but feeling like he had to keep his space.
It was stupid. Before any of this if he’d got Mycroft out of his preferred armchair and onto the couch he would have tucked up right next to him to share a blanket or sat at the other end and pulled Mycroft’s feet onto his knees (or shoved his across Mycroft’s). Now their relationship was technically more and he was keeping his distance, unsure what to do.
Hands guided him down until he was curled up, head resting in Mycroft’s lap. Finger started carding through Greg’s hair and like in the car earlier the tension slowly began to seep out of Greg’s body.
“I’m not going to leave because you brought it up.”
In a second all the remaining tension leaked out of Greg’s body and his muscles became jelly.
Thank Christ.
“This time you were correct.”
This time- unspoken warning not to bring it up again. That was fine, Greg had no desire to test his luck on another occasion.
He sighed and turned his head slightly so his nose was buried in Mycroft’s thigh. Mycroft kept gently stoking his hair. It was tempting, so tempting, to roll over and press his lips to Mycroft’s vest, but he was comfortable, so comfortable, and apparently merely basking in Mycroft’s presence was enough to deaden the pheromone induced drive to become a human octopus.
He breathed in deeply, trying to detect the delicious scent through Mycroft’s suit trousers, but it wasn’t a highly active scent region and so it was impossible to smell anything through Mycroft’s clothes.
“Are you really safe?” He mumbled, tucking one hand between Mycroft’s leg and the sofa.
“Yes.” Mycroft’s hand drifted to the nape of Greg’s neck. “It’s a biological imperative designed to protect me. Informing the world I was compromised would be counterproductive.”
“Just me then?” Greg asked for confirmation.
“Just you, any family Alphas, of which there are none, and Sherlock, though I don’t believe he will experience it the same way. My research indicates it’s meant to make Omega family members more inclined to feeding and hugging and other such behaviours, which are not things Sherlock engages in so I am confident the effect will be limited.”
Greg nodded. He’d suspected that Mycroft’s Sire was dead, but the Omega never spoke about his family. For all Greg knew there were other Holmes siblings running around terrorising the world. He didn’t even know Mummy’s name or what sort of Omega he was. Going by Mycroft and Sherlock’s general attitudes towards... well... everything, he didn’t think Mummy would be particularly prone to physical affection or interested in casual family trips to the beach, but he didn’t know. Maybe Mummy was actually a rather sweet and flighty Omega and their Sire had been strict.
Now wasn’t the time to ask as, sensing Greg was composed, Mycroft nudged him off his lap and returned to his armchair and meal. With his stomach finally unknotted enough to feel how long it was since he last ate, Greg decided it wasn’t a bad idea. He’d rather Mycroft had stayed on the couch to eat, but....
He picked up his curry and took a mouthful. It took some dedication to swallow.
“Microwave?”
“If you would please.” Mycroft held out his bowl.
Greg collected the meals and strolled back to the kitchen. Walking felt strange. He felt so light, as if his limbs were floating. He hadn’t realised how much everything had been weighing him down.
He couldn’t help the self-satisfied smirk at the kitchen (he really was impressed with himself over how clean it was) while he waited. He could hear quiet movement in the next room, the sort of quiet that arose from someone naturally soft-footed, not the harsh silence of someone trying to be quiet to hide their movements.
Retrieving the meals from the microwave he snagged the bottle of red off the table and mozied back to the lounge. Mycroft had re-seated himself, sans jacket, and the DVD menu for Yes, Minister waited in the background on mute.
Greg smiled as he handed Mycroft his food. Convincing Mycroft to watch a comedy about politics had taken a huge amount of work, but he’d absorbed it with a worrying intensity. The only verbal feedback Greg had ever had was an ‘it’s so accurate’ after the first episode, which sadly confirmed many of Greg’s theories about government, and since then it had almost become Mycroft’s go to selection when they felt like TV, but didn’t have anything to watch.
It was normal. Refreshingly so.
They watched a few episodes, Greg laughing aloud as Hacker tried to triumph Subs in the Civil Service only to be told to buzz off by the Subs, and poor Bernard tried his best to serve both Humphrey and Hacker, both the older Alphas firmly believing he would do as they said.
Greg appreciated the one liners. He had the nasty feeling Mycroft used the show for inspiration and occasionally took notes.
It was after the third episode finished that they both wordlessly decided one AM was late enough. Mycroft bent to put his shoes back on, unfortunately moving his leg from where it had been placed against Greg’s, and started to re-button his shirt collar. Greg procrastinated handing the tie back, having snared it from the chair arm, and ran the navy silk through his fingers. It made Mycroft look so formal, the charcoal grey suit and the navy tie. Greg resolved to buy him a gag tie or two. Something with a completely inappropriate image on the front. Mycroft would never wear it, but still.
He heaved off the couch and slung the tie around Mycroft’s neck. Now that he was leaving, Greg felt a sudden need to touch. He didn’t try to tie the tie, there was no way he’d manage to Mycroft’s satisfaction, and collected the jacket instead so he could help Mycroft into it. Mycroft didn’t say anything about the lingering caresses as Greg smoothed the material, and even imparted a few pointed touches of his own that raised goosebumps up and down Greg’s chest.
The touches continued as they moved towards the door - a hand ghosting along the small of the back, fingers mushing against thighs, hips bumping into each other with every step.
They stopped at the door. Greg retrieved Mycroft’s umbrella, propped at the ready next to the door, and passed it over, fingers sliding down the back of Mycroft’s hand and curling loosely around his wrist before falling away. Mycroft’s spare hand held the fabric of Greg’s trousers pinched between two fingers, pulling it tight across his bum and cutting lightly into his leg.
Mycroft was in shoes. Greg wasn’t. Not that it mattered given the distance between them was so slight. Greg was going cross-eyed trying to focus on Mycroft’s face.
He kept expecting Mycroft to move away, take the step back and say good bye, see you next week.
He didn’t.
So they stood there, and stood there, chests almost touching as they inhaled.
“You can kiss me.” The words were so soft they were little more than exhales dancing over Greg’s skin.
“Thank God.”
Greg’s arm encircled Mycroft’s waist, his other hand moving to Mycroft’s hair. The umbrella landed with a clatter on the floor as Mycroft simultaneously moved his hold to Greg’s neck, pulling him closer with his fabric holding fingers, changing grip from trouser to arse.
There was no press of lips. Their tongues met in an open and desperate kiss, Mycroft’s plunging straight into Greg’s pliant mouth to duel frantically with Greg’s own. Greg yielded for a couple more strokes before pressing forward with his tongue to taste Mycroft’s mouth while shoving him backwards against the wall.
Mycroft tasted like he smelt: gingery with lingering spices from the curry that started the edges of Greg’s tongue burning. Mycroft matched him stroke for stroke and twined sensuously around Greg’s tongue while it explored his mouth. The hand on Greg’s arse manoeuvred him sideways and suddenly he could feel Mycroft’s erection pressed hard against his hip.
That earned Mycroft’s lips a nip, quickly soothed away with long lavish caresses. Mycroft retaliated by biting Greg’s lower lip and sucking hard until it was verging on the wrong side of painful. It tingled as the suction stopped and light nips were applied to the swollen flesh with serious dedication.
Greg moaned and ground his body into Mycroft’s, trying to get them both the friction they craved. His mouth was released as Mycroft took a hissing breath and he trailed kisses up Mycroft’s neck, not letting himself stop to bite or suck until he reached Mycroft’s ear in case he left rather distinctive marks. Instead he rolled the earlobe between his teeth and suckled lightly. His tongue massaged the spot directly behind the ear that sent the little spasms through Mycroft’s body causing the irregular gaps in their rhythm as Mycroft rutted against Greg’s deliberately propped leg.
The breathy whispers were glorious, and Greg was so invested in drawing every last one possible out of Mycroft from this one spot that he missed Mycroft’s signals until he was shoved forcibly downwards. That one was fairly clear and he arranged his knees comfortably while fumbling with Mycroft’s belt. The button followed, giving up more quickly than the leather covering it, yielding with barely a twitch of Greg’s fingers.
“Use your teeth.” Mycroft’s voice was barely above a needy whisper.
Greg pulled his hands away from the zip and after a scant moment of consideration laced them loosely behind his back. The twist as Mycroft’s cock responded to the sight was visible through the still closed trousers.
Using his tongue to collect the tab, Greg slowly dragged the zip down, tortuous inch by tortuous inch until the trousers parted. The sound of the metal teeth unthreading was a sharp counterpoint to the soft and breathy tones since they’d sat down at the TV. Using his nose and teeth, Greg managed to feed Mycroft through the fly of his pants, resisting the urge to tease and mouth him through the material in favour of satisfying far stronger desires.
Greg started at the base, dragging the tip of his tongue along the pulsing vein until he reached the head where a drop of clear liquid already balanced precariously on the tip. In one very slow and drawn out motion Greg licked across the glans and collected the drop.
Mycroft’s hand settled in his hair, but it didn’t push him closer. He was allowed to take his time then.
Greg leant forward and carefully let Mycroft’s prick glide past his lips as far into his mouth as it was possible to go without touching the sides of his mouth or his throat. It took a lot of work to hover there with no hands to stabilise himself, but all those sit ups had to do some good and he was able to draw out the pause until Mycroft’s fingers flexed in silent command on his head. Then he closed the gap, not with his lips, but his teeth and lightly dragged them back up the shaft.
Mycroft shivered.
Greg ran his tongue around the head and corkscrewed it as far as he could without taking Mycroft back into his mouth. Another bead of musky pre-come squeezed out the tip and he collected that too.
He couldn’t be sure, but he thought Mycroft tasted different now to when he was in Heat. Less musk, but stronger flavours.
It was as addictive as his scent.
With agonising slowness Greg pressed kisses from the glans to the base of the reddened flesh and back again, fluttering his lips against the thin sheath of skin in little barely there butterfly kisses. The pheromones were definitely stronger here.
“Gregory.” Mycroft’s voice was soft and breathless, but had a definite growl as a base note.
Greg smiled cheekily, turned his face up to look at Mycroft, and finally took him properly into his mouth.
Mycroft’s head thumped back against the wall and he let out a sound that might have been “Yes” or might have been a groan as Greg’s lips closed firmly around his cock and sucked.
Greg turned his attention fully to the hot, hard length in his mouth, ignoring his own throbbing prick still uncomfortably trapped in his trousers. It had been a very long time since he’d done this, discounting last Saturday, and he wanted to make it good. Needed to make it good.
Sealing his lips, he sucked lightly and let his tongue dance over and around the length in his mouth. There was a texture difference, he discovered, between the main shaft, which felt velvety under his tongue, and the head, which felt smoother and firmer. He went back again and again, testing the difference with tongue and teeth, laving his tongue across the fraenum, and licking as far down the shaft as he could.
It wasn’t enough.
Experimentally he leant forward, taking Mycroft deep enough to almost hit the back of his throat, then pulled back. It was a lot harder than he remembered, which he blamed on the lack of hands, but he managed to establish a slow, burning pattern and gradually increased his suction. Back and forward, back and forward, it was too hard to keep using his tongue the way he had been so instead he ran it up the base of the shaft on the pull off and flicked it over the head once in range. From the convulsive spasm of the fingers in his hair that was good.
Greg sped up. His own erection was becoming almost painful and he longed to at least undo his trousers to let it free, but he’d placed his hands where they were and as a point of pride he couldn’t take them away. All he could do was work Mycroft faster towards his end so Greg could relieve some of the pressure soon.
“Gregory.” Mycroft’s voice was a strained sigh and his hips jerked forward hitting the back of Greg’s throat. Greg gagged, but resolutely drove forward again and tried to relax.
It was difficult. In the intervening years he’d lost the easy control that would allow him to take someone’s cock down his throat and let them fuck his face with abandon, but he wanted it. He didn’t know why, but the thought of Mycroft’s cock pounding into his mouth while he just took it... He moaned, and tried, and gagged again.
“Relax.”
Dominance. Greg felt his whole body go soft as muscles lost their tension in response to the command. The hand on his head instantly became controlling and Greg found himself with his nose in Mycroft’s pubic hair, every last inch of his cock buried deep in Greg’s throat and mouth.
The muscles in his throat spasmed uncontrollably and Greg fought back the need to vomit. Perversely it became easier when Mycroft became to move and Greg’s attention was split between the discomfort and how glorious it felt. He could barely breathe, each of Mycroft’s thrusts felt like it was cutting off his air supply, spit was dribbling liberally out the corners of his mouth, and a few tears rolled down his cheeks, but the feeling of being so full, the heavy press against his tongue, the stretch around Mycroft’s girth, the taste, and with every thrust being forced to bury his nose in those scintillating pheromones, was better than anything. He felt himself begin to unwind and sink into his body, detaching from his senses and he fell towards Subspace and surrendered his body to Mycroft.
It wasn’t possible to properly moan around the intrusion, but Greg tried anyway.
“Gregory, so close.” If possible Mycroft sped up. His movements were certainly jerkier, testimony to his coming unhinged. “So, so... Gregory!”
With an expletive Mycroft came thrust deep in his throat, giving Greg no option but to swallow his release. Greg suspected that he would have anyway (he had last time). Mycroft didn’t hold Greg in place, which meant as soon as Greg started to splutter and choke he was able to pull off the slowly softening organ, though not without one last suck on the way, and take a proper breath.
The visual was glorious. Mycroft Holmes splayed against the wall in his perfect suit and precisely done tie, the only flaws in his appearance the spots of colour high on his cheekbones, slightly swollen lips, and his undone and revealing trousers. It made him look all the more debauched for being almost completely unruffled.
Greg moaned and moved his hand quickly to his trousers. He needed to come now. It wouldn’t take much, a couple of strokes, but he was too turned on to be embarrassed.
“No.” Mycroft’s order stopped him before he reached the button.
Greg’s eyes flew up to Mycroft’s, half lidded and sated, yet still gleaming and hungry.
“The next time you come Gregory it will be in my bed after I’ve spent an hour riding you, not a second before.”
Greg whined. Yes, oh please, yes.
“Two weeks, Gregory.”
No, please no.
“Two weeks before you move in and I take you to my bed and ride you through the mattress. You may not come before then. You may touch yourself, tease yourself, play with yourself, but you may not orgasm.”
Greg leant, he preferred that to toppled, forward and pressed his forehead into Mycroft’s hip. He could feel his dick throbbing in his pants. It was unbearable, he needed, he needed...
“Two weeks, Gregory.” Long fingers gently tilted his chin up to meet Mycroft’s eyes, and bugger it all if the order, the idea of submitting to Mycroft’s wishes even when the Omega himself wasn’t present, wasn’t turning him on more and making the problem in his pants even more pressing. “You can be good, can’t you?”
“Yes, Master.” His voice was raspy after the abuse to his throat. He just knew every time he spoke for the next few days he’d think of this moment, kneeling at Mycroft’s feet, well used and submitting to his Dom’s pleasure over his own, and would have to fight down an erection.
From the shark’s grin, Mycroft knew it too.
He tilted his head back down and concentrated on breathing until Mycroft gently prodded him and he roused himself enough to fix Mycroft’s trousers.
“You’re a lot better at that than I thought you would be.” Mycroft remarked conversationally.
There was a definite question in his voice and a fair amount of snark. Greg chuckled. Mycroft hated not knowing anything, but loved being surprised.
“Guess my file doesn’t have everything in it.” He slid the belt buckle back into place.
“You were married to a woman and have shown a clear secondary interest in their gender.”
“Yes.” Reluctantly Greg pushed up to standing. Both knees cracked loudly and painfully. He really was too old for kneeling on hard floors.
“Even with my command you should not have been able to take me so easily without practice, which speaks to significant experience with Beta Submissives.”
“I did have a life before I was married. I had a fairly wild youth.” Greg retrieved the umbrella though Mycroft showed no inclination towards moving.
Either Greg’s not quite amateur blow job skills were that fascinating or this was his idea of pillow talk, and Greg couldn’t recall enough of their encounters during heat to say which for sure.
“I am aware,” of course Mycroft was aware, “but you clearly have some experience with deep throating, though some time ago, which is highly unusual for a Dominant, or someone pretending to be one.” Mycroft held out his hand for the umbrella and used it to pull Greg closer.
Apparently even Mycroft Holmes was tactile after sex, and the little touches were not helping Greg beat down his own neglected erection.
He sighed. “I told my Sub I didn’t feel comfortable asking anything like that of them without experiencing it in case I accidently pushed too far. I liked it, he, amazingly, liked it, so we did it several time. It was my last Beta relationship. It was...” Greg hesitated, unsure how to say it.
“Too easy to forget the role you were supposed to be playing and let some of your true Submissive nature show through, so you left him and restricted yourself to female partners as you are less attracted to them and so less likely to forget yourself during a session.” There was smug satisfaction in Mycroft’s voice. Mystery of the half-arsed blow job skills solved.
“Basically.” There’s been one too many close calls and Greg had broken it off. He could still remember the Beta’s name - Ryan Northy. If Ryan remembered him it was undoubtedly as the strangest Alpha he’d ever met, which wasn’t far off true.
“Indeed, well then.” Mycroft pushed off the wall and donned his great coat in one smooth motion. “I will see you tomorrow, Gregory.”
Greg looked at him in confusion. He knew his brain was slow, a good proportion of his blood and attention being otherwise occupied, but he didn’t remember that.
“Tomorrow?”
Not that he was complaining, but, tomorrow?
“Yes, of course. Four thirty, 221B Baker Street.”
“We’re telling John tomorrow?” Greg trailed Mycroft to the door.
“No time like the present.”
For an Omega who hadn’t wanted to say anything, Mycroft could move very fast.
“Oh, okay.” He opened the door to take away the awkward question of a good night kiss. As expected the black car was idling outside. “See you tomorrow.”
Mycroft favoured Greg with a full body sweep and a pointed quirked eyebrow. “Sleep well.”
He turned and was gone.
The erection Greg had been doing a good job at getting rid of was back.
“Bastard.” He hissed and resolutely shut the door knowing it would be a long night.
So when Mycroft, looking perfectly refreshed and smiling genially, met him on the steps of 221 in a cloud of provocative ginger and remarked that Greg really needed to get more sleep, he looked so tired and was working too hard again, it was all Greg could do to restrain himself to a whispered “I really hate you”.
Mycroft smiled patronisingly, the smile favoured by parents giving their children the ‘yes dear, now brush your teeth before bed’ look, fully aware that Greg would do absolutely anything for him and still love him for it.
“Ready for this?” Greg asked, keeping his hands in his pockets to make sure he didn’t touch.
Mycroft’s face changed to impassive, suggesting to Greg that the answer to that was no. Fair enough, Greg wasn’t sure he was either.
“Here we go.”
And he knocked.
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Previous - Next
Title:Though I Walk through the Valley (11/38)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: Short note today... because i'm about to crash. Night all.
If you've wondered here by mistake, you may wish to start at Part I of the series, Rarest of the Rare: Chapter 1.
Prologue - Chapter 10 - Chapter 11 - Chapter 12 - Chapter 13 - Chapter 14 - Chapter 15 - Chapter 16 - Chapter 17 - Chapter 18 - Chapter 19 - Chapter 20
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Greg walked out of the Yard and turned his collar up against the cold, resolutely ignoring the jitters in his stomach. Everything would be fine, just fine. He resisted the urge to run back inside for his gloves, lying forgotten in his desk drawer. Mycroft’s text had said the car was just around the corner so he wouldn’t have to suffer through winter’s last ditch efforts for long. Sure enough the discrete, only because every wealthy banker and politician in England drove one, black car pulled over in the space just a few feet away and Mycroft climbed out, holding the door open for Greg in his ridiculously pompous and formal way.
It was a good thing Greg had already started to move because at least that way when his legs went out from under him it looked like he tripped, rather than what actually happened which was a sudden absence of knees.
He’d been fine, he’d been totally fine, missing Mycroft, wanting to talk to Mycroft, feeling distinctly nervous about the demands he had to make tonight of Mycroft, but nothing that prepared him for the crackling jolt of need when he laid eyes on him. The raw need, the absolute drive to press Mycroft down and roll against him until Greg’s scent was indelibly etched into every pore exploded somewhere in his head and chest.
It was a good thing his knees had gone. Having to catch himself against the car prevented him doing something very stupid right there in the street.
“Gregory?” Mycroft took a concerned step towards him, eyes sweeping Greg top to toe trying to determine what was wrong.
“I’m fine.” Greg pushed off the bonnet before Mycroft touched him.
God only knows what he’d do if Mycroft touched him. He shoved his hands into his trouser pockets, more difficult to remove from than his overcoat, because Christ Almighty he needed all the help he could get.
He needed; holy hell he needed. He needed his hands on Mycroft’s skin, needed to caress the thin layer of skin between them and their child.
“Just tired. I think I hit a bit of a manic high. Must be crashing.” There was a tremor in his voice he couldn’t suppress and he hoped Mycroft got the message soon because he was almost out of stubborn, and he usually drew any additional resolve he required from his Alpha side. Here that would only make things infinitely worse because it was the Alpha who was craving.
“Indeed. It has been a trying week. Maybe if we drive?” Mycroft stood back to give Greg plenty of space to get into the car.
Thank Christ. They’d been meant to walk down to the Thai place only a couple of blocks over and Greg could not stop himself doing something stupid in such close proximity with Mycroft for that long.
Throwing himself into the car, Greg buried his head in the leather of the seat, breathing in phantom traces of Mycroft. He was barely aware of the uncomfortable position, squashed into the corner with the leather tacky against his suddenly sweaty cheeks. Breathe, just breathe. Control his thoughts, his breathing, then his actions.
He might have managed it better if Mycroft hadn’t climbed into the car and shut the door after him. Then burying his face in the leather became less about absorbing the reassuring scent and lingering warmth, and more about blocking both. He could not throw himself at Mycroft. Mycroft was iffy enough about this without Greg proving he had no self-control. Giving in would prove he was a liability. If he was a liability Mycroft would refuse to see him, or maybe revert to his original stance that this was too dangerous and terminate the baby anyway.
The baby, he had to do this for the baby. He could keep himself under control for the baby. He did not need to reach over there and run a hand under Mycroft’s suit stroking his skin while he buried his nose in Mycroft’s neck with all its addictive pheromones and...
Greg let out an involuntary whine and tried to curl tighter into a ball, fisted hands tucked up against his chest to prevent him reaching out.
“Gregory?” Mycroft’s voice was soft and concerned. It practically wrapped itself around Greg, a comforting and addictive blanket that pulled him over and -
No, he couldn’t. He couldn’t, he couldn’t, he couldn’t. He couldn’t risk the baby.
“My.” He choked out, not really aware of what he was saying. Talking was a secondary consideration after holding himself still. “I need...”
“Anything, Gregory. Anything you need.” There was a rarely heard bewilderment in Mycroft’s voice.
With a shove off the door Greg threw himself on the floor at Mycroft’s feet. If he’d been up to thinking he would have been thanking whoever chose the Government’s cars as the sinful amount of legroom meant there was space for him on the floor between Mycroft’s legs. Mycroft who was watching him with slowly dawning understanding that made no sense to Greg because he didn’t know what he was doing, just that his fingers were moving, pushing back Mycroft’s jacket, stripping his waistcoat buttons and then he was laying his head on Mycroft’s shirt clad front.
Almost as soon as his cheek made contact with the fabric something in him eased and the pressure drained away. He sighed and nuzzled Mycroft, belatedly realising when Mycroft gave a slight start that what he was actually doing was working his nose between the shirt buttons to touch Mycroft’s skin.
His cold nose on Mycroft’s warm skin.
He wrapped his arms around Mycroft’s waist, let out a contented sigh, and went still.
A hand came to rest on his head and gently carded through his hair. “Better?”
Greg nodded and tightened his arms briefly before returning to the looser embrace. “I’m sorry, I swear I was fine and then I don’t know what-”
“It’s okay. I should have expected it.”
“Mm?”
Mycroft’s hand was still gently moving through his hair. Greg considered moving upwards so he could bury himself in that delightful spot on Mycroft’s neck that was producing that intoxicating scent, but he didn’t want to move.
Mycroft gave a light chuckle. “Think about where you are, Gregory.”
Kneeling on the floor of an absurdly expensive government issue car curled around Mycroft’s-
Oh.
Curled around Mycroft’s abdomen.
He tilted his head up and gave Mycroft a guilty smile. “Sorry.”
Mycroft’s expression was soft, which for him meant the slightest relaxing of muscles around the eyes. “It’s not your fault. In fact I do believe your reaction fairly inevitable.”
“What do you mean?” Greg frowned slightly. He should get back up on the seat and take the crick out of his neck, but that really wasn’t an option.
“Pheromones.” Mycroft sounded utterly exasperated, but given his fingers still stroked along Greg’s neck and hair, he obviously wasn’t put out with Greg. “Survival instinct. My ridiculous body is trying to ensure your utmost devotion to me and our offspring, thus guaranteeing protection while I’m...vulnerable.”
There was no mistaking the little moue of distaste at that word. Mycroft Holmes did not do vulnerable.
“Protection?” Greg nuzzled Mycroft’s tummy again.
“Indeed. By now the foetus has pumped enough hormones through my system to make sure that I’m going to keep its best interests at the forefront of my mind, and survival guaranteed it’s now luring its Sire. Not,” Greg could feel a critical eye run over him, “that in this case he requires much luring, but it is an ancient instinct.”
Greg laughed softly into Mycroft’s belly. “Sorry.”
The car slid to a halt with the driver’s usual smooth precision (not that Greg knew who that was), but it was still enough for Greg to need to cling a little tighter to stop from over balancing. Mycroft didn’t say anything, but removed his hand from Greg’s hair.
Greg didn’t want to let go.
“Can we get takeaway?” He murmured into Mycroft’s belly.
“I suppose given your stumble outside the Yard it’s easy enough to say you’ve had a long and tiring week.”
Greg smiled contentedly, thinking ‘good, because I don’t want to have to not touch you that long’. He didn’t say it, wouldn’t do until he had worked out where they stood and what was and wasn’t part of their arrangement.
“You do, however, have to let go now so we can go and collect our order.”
There was light amusement in Mycroft’s voice and no exasperation so Greg pushed his luck with an overly exaggerated sigh before forcing himself to unwind his arms. It was certainly easier knowing he’d get to hold Mycroft again later.
Might get to hold Mycroft again later. If the talk Greg needed to have with Mycroft didn’t sink this whole thing faster than a stone.
He pushed up on the seat, determined to ignore the gripping impulse to stay curled where he was, and started to manoeuvre to a more conventional seated position. Started because moving to a partially upright pose put his nose that much closer to Mycroft’s neck and he couldn’t resist breathing in deeply, savouring the slightly gingery, vaguely spiced scent. There was something different from when he last smelt Mycroft’s unique chemical signature, though he couldn’t quite put a finger on it. He took another not so subtle deep breath in.
And froze.
Pheromones. Pheromones and a scent designed to be noticed.
Oh. Shit.
“Mycroft? Mycroft, how to we-”
“There’s no issue, Gregory.” Mycroft was calm, but that meant squat. Last time Mycroft had said there was no problem he’d be about to terminate their baby without a single tear.
He hadn’t changed his mind, had he? Greg didn’t think he could handle it if Mycroft changed his mind.
“Gregory, stop panicking. It’s not an issue as you’re the only person who can detect them.”
Greg paused. “Really?”
“Yes, now if we might go inside?”
There was no dominance, but with the raised eyebrow it was clearly not a request and Greg scrambled off Mycroft as fast as he could. He’d already pushed his luck and would have to push it again before the night was out.
Did he? Did he really?
Yes, he couldn’t not. It wouldn’t be right.
Mycroft stepped elegantly out of the car and watching him Greg could see that he was right - despite the delicious scent rolling off him no one so much as gave him a third glance (unless he was trying to be inconspicuous, Mycroft usually warranted a second one).
Right, fine. Protective instincts satisfied, though not sated, he clambered out and followed Mycroft into the restaurant.
He wasn’t sure why. They both walked in, Mycroft requested their meal be packaged for takeaway, they walked out, plastic shopping bags of Thai swinging from their hands. Greg could have just stayed in the car and stewed, it would have been just as productive. It wasn’t even like they said anything during the brief wait - Mycroft fussed on his phone, Greg pretended to read one of the newspapers.
In reality he stewed anyway talking himself around in circles and feeling the sinking knot of guilt, panic and worry grow and cure and fester in the pit of his belly.
How could he do this? He was risking everything. What if this was what convinced Mycroft it was too hard, that they were too much trouble and he left? Especially if Greg couldn’t keep his hands to himself, which he almost hadn’t, and was essentially a massive security risk.
No, Mycroft wouldn’t leave and they needed to have this conversation.
But what if?
By the time they’d reached Greg’s house it felt like there was an honest to God lead ball in his stomach.
“Would you like to verbalise it?” Mycroft left the bags on the kitchen table and was unerringly locating bowls and cutlery for dinner.
His dinner. Greg insisted on eating takeaway the way it was meant to be eaten: out of the container with the plastic cutlery provided.
“Verbalise it?” Greg pulled a bottle of red out and took great pride in having clean wine glasses.
Mycroft may not have commented on the state of the flat, but the fact that it was properly clean rather than just vaguely presentable was an unexpected source of pride for Greg. He’d never been a slob by choice (though with the Job his choices were often limited), but he’d never been a neat freak who had to return a book to its allocated space on the bookshelf either, and to gain so much satisfaction from cleaning was new.
“Whatever is on your mind. Come now, Gregory,” he must have flinched, “it’s fairly obvious.” Mycroft filled his wine glass with water after a longing glace at the wine. Mycroft enjoyed a good wine, especially a nice red, and this was a good bottle. Mycroft had given it to Greg after all.
They should talk, get everything out in the open so if he wanted to, Mycroft could leave without having to spend the evening with Greg under false pretences.
“After dinner.”
Greg could still remember the horrified look on Mycroft’s face when, on his first visit to Greg’s flat with takeaway, Greg had walked through to the lounge and plonked himself down on the couch. He’d had a very good view of it when he’d craned his head around to see what was taking Mycroft so long. Naturally eating takeaway on the couch was nothing Mycroft had ever done before, though desks were acceptable alternatives to tables, and Greg had just managed to prevent himself bursting into laughter at the ginger, awkward way Mycroft had lowered himself into the mismatched armchair. It made it all the more gratifying to see Mycroft carry his meal to the other room without waiting for Greg to insist.
There was no movie, there wasn’t always, and Greg wished wholeheartedly for one. He toyed with the idea of turning on the TV and finding something, anything, to create background noise.
Maybe John had been right; maybe things hadn’t been magically fixed. He didn’t remember these tense silences being part of their relationship. Silence, yes, they both regularly needed time to unwind and mentally readjust to a functioning social level after work, but that need for space had never been strained like this.
Maybe it was just Greg. Mycroft looked perfectly comfortable. It was Greg who couldn’t relax knowing he hadn’t even had this relationship a full week and he was going to push them well past firmly established boundaries. Boundaries that were very important to Mycroft, that were the only reason Mycroft had agreed to give this a try. That decision had taken place back at the kitchen table at Mycroft’s, fast becoming Greg’s least favourite place in Mycroft’s house as it seemed to be their designated Serious Conversation spot.
There were surprising few things that had been non-negotiable, which just emphasised how serious each one actually was, and now after less than a week Greg was going to try and negotiate one of them.
He took a bite of his food and forced himself to swallow. Greg had no idea what he was eating, but then he rarely did. Even when Mycroft didn’t order ahead he had a habit of ordering in the ‘appropriate’ language, assuming the wait staff were native. Given the Bangkok Dream was an authentic Thai restaurant, and that Greg’s language skills did not extend past Europe, Greg never knew the names of his Thai dishes, let alone what was in it. It always tasted good and dishes he enjoyed more than others made more frequent reappearances, so he never bothered to ask or complain.
It had always been his guilty pleasure, allowing Mycroft to order his food. Pretending to be a Dom, as an Alpha, he should have protested a lot more than he did, but once the power plays had ended and they were established as friends, the Alpha relaxed and the Sub liked Mycroft making those sorts of decisions. It made him feel like Mycroft was taking care of him, as if he were his Dom.
He took a bite and mixed the rice through, playing with his food. Eventually he forced himself to take another bite. He could feel the hard lump of food travel down his throat. It joined the hard ball rolling around his insides.
He chased a lump of...chicken (?) around the rice-curry mix. It wasn’t beef or lamb. Yeah, probably chicken. Mycroft wouldn’t order anything too exotic. Greg was just a working class punk rocker turned detective after all, and Mycroft knew his tastes didn’t run to the fancy. He’d take beef over venison, beer-battered flathead over salmon, and the more westernised the Chinese the better.
He’d seen Mycroft eat snails without balking. Mycroft had in fact ordered them, though he called them escargot. Greg called them what they were - slimy molluscs drowning in garlic and butter and had been proud to remember the word molluscs.
Mycroft called him unadventurous.
Greg maintained he got enough adventure on the job and liked to know his food had once mooed, or baaed, or oinked, or clucked or squarked, or maybe even gobbled, rather than meowed or woofed or hissed ... or whatever sound it was crocodiles made.
Food stories were among the few things Mycroft could pass on regarding his overseas trips. You would never catch Greg eating camel or whale or drinking snake blood vodka, even if it was necessary to avoid a conflict spawning political insult.
No, Greg liked his food safely westernised, from a farm, via an abattoir with appropriate prevention of animal cruelty regulations, and Mycroft knew that.
So chicken… chicken congealing in a gritty mess inside him.
Greg swallowed forcibly, food combining with stress and panic to produce a rather strong bout of nausea.
He wasn’t going to be able to eat anymore. It wasn’t like he was hungry anyway.
He moved the cooling mass around a bit more.
How was Mycroft going to take this? Greg really didn’t think he’d do anything to the baby, not anymore, but he might, and he might certainly get rid of Greg. As far as the reproductive process went, Greg had made his contribution and if Mycroft thought having him around was too much of a problem, well, he didn’t need Greg even if he kept the baby.
There was an audible sigh from the armchair and Mycroft’s plate, half empty (the curry a strange shade of green), appeared in Greg’s vision on the table.
He hurriedly shoved another fork load into his mouth.
“Gregory.”
He stubbornly took another bite and choked through an attempt to swallow.
He didn’t want to talk, didn’t want Mycroft to leave. Was it too much to ask for that evening, for one night with Mycroft by his side as more than his friend? Couldn’t his life be good, be fixed for one week? Didn’t he deserve a week?
Two weeks? A month? Nine months?
He knew that path. Every copper did. Didn’t he deserve a drink (or two or three); didn’t that rule deserve to be bent because that perp killed that child and destroyed that family even if it couldn’t be proven in court (and that one, and that one).You couldn’t start, because after the first one, no matter what your intentions, you never stopped.
“We need to talk.” His mouth was dry so he swapped his uneaten takeaway for his glass of untouched wine and took a mouthful.
“So I have inferred. What is troubling you, Gregory?” Mycroft steepled his fingers and let his gaze fall gently on Greg. It was his ‘I’m listening’ pose for when he wasn’t maintaining his aloof political exterior.
Whether he wanted it or not, Greg had Mycroft’s full attention.
“I... we... we need to tell John, My.”
When it came out, it came out as an indistinct rush, but from the way Mycroft’s body went very, very still, he had understood.
“That was not part of the agreement.” Mycroft’s voice was as still as his body. It practically screamed danger. “In fact I do believe the agreement was we do not tell anyone, no matter what, and we do not even discuss the possibility.”
“It was.” Greg admitted, heart hammering in his chest.
“So why are we discussing it?” Despite the lift at the end of the sentence, there was no real question in the hard and unyielding voice.
“John and Sherlock came and visited me.”
“Yesterday at approximately two pm. Yes, I am aware.”
Greg loosened his grip on his wineglass. He didn’t own so many he could afford to shatter one. “I felt awful Mycroft.”
“You knew this would involve an element of deception. I was under the impression that to you this was worth it.” His hands had moved since Greg last looked up, and the presence of one of them resting across Mycroft’s middle could not be coincidental.
“Yes, it is, anything.” Anything for their little baby.
“Then I fail to see the need for this conversation. You have accepted that you want the child, the guilt is an unfortunate, but necessary, side effect.” Mycroft took a small sip of his water. Greg wondered whether he wished it was wine.
He wished his was scotch.
“I’m not asking - I don’t mean me, Mycroft. I will hate myself for it, but I would lie to the Queen for you.” He took a deep breath. “But I agreed to this. Sherlock didn’t.”
“Sherlock?” There was a slight give in Mycroft’s tone following Greg’s affirmation of loyalty.
Greg didn’t dare hope Mycroft had been as nervous about the possibility of losing Greg as Greg was about him.
“He practically had to lie to John, Mycroft. If John pushes at all, Sherlock will have to.”
“Yes.” Mycroft’s affirmation was simply that: a short, bland acknowledgement.
“To John.”
“Yes.”
“And you think he will?”
“Yes.” There was a firmness behind the word that had been lacking from Mycroft’s other responses. “You need not worry about exposure from Sherlock, Gregory.”
“That’s what I’m worried about!” Greg exploded, leaping out of his chair. “He’s stupidly, recklessly stubborn and he will keep your secret until he breaks. Not,” he narrowed his eyes in Mycroft’s direction, “that I suspect he has a choice about it.”
Mycroft clearly understood the insinuation, but made no comment, as good as confirming Greg’s theory that at one stage or another, Sherlock had had that command dommed into him. “If you are not worried about him keeping our secret then-”
“Because we are forcing him to lie to his Bonded, Mycroft, his Bonded who has trust issues.”
Mycroft said nothing.
“Bonding doesn’t guarantee a successful relationship.”
A stillness settled over Mycroft’s body and without moving he was suddenly very threatening. “I am well aware of that, Gregory.”
There was clearly something there and Greg scrawled it down on his ‘Topics not to bring up’ mental list.
“We might destroy his relationship.” He pressed, keeping his voice as devoid of the anger and guilt he felt as possible. Experience showed Holmeses normally reacted better to facts and logic than emotional entreaties.
There was the slightest flinch, the tiniest break in Mycroft’s demeanour.
“Mycroft,” Greg dropped to his knees next to Mycroft’s leg and placed a hand gently on his thigh. Doms, with very few exceptions, responded most favourably when given the high ground and the appearance, or reality, of power. Given what was at stake, Greg’s pride could handle it. “Sherlock is happy. He’s actually happy and in love with John and so ridiculously obsessed with his collar he won’t even be without it to clean it. He puts on another one so his neck’s not bare even for the fifteen minutes it takes to buff it to some stupid level of shine.”
Mycroft had lost some of the stiffness and a fond smile was trying to tug the corner of his mouth upwards. Sherlock really was Mycroft’s biggest, almost only, weakness.
“Mycroft, we could destroy that.”
The twitch around Mycroft’s mouth was no longer a smile and his fingers had curled tightly into the chair.
“John won’t take Sherlock hiding this from him lightly, and if he asks more questions and Sherlock lies, you can’t be in a Bound relationship without trust Mycroft, Bonded or not. Sherlock will lose John, and you know as well as I if that happens, we’ll lose Sherlock to suicide in a week or a drug overdose in a month, no matter how closely you watch him.” Greg tightened his grip on Mycroft’s leg. “I don’t think I’m over exaggerating to say if we don’t do this, we are gambling with Sherlock’s life.”
“I would look after him.” Mycroft murmured.
Greg noticed Mycroft didn’t bother to argue that John would never leave. John was a good Alpha and an amazing Dom. That there was anyone who could handle Sherlock ‘dynamic, who cares about dynamic, just do as I say’ Holmes was miraculous. That there would ever be anyone else was, well, impossible. John Watson, RAMC - discharged, was unique, 100% unique. No one else could handle the body parts, let alone Sherlock’s fierce independence and propensity for trouble. John loved him for them.
Loving him wouldn’t be enough. Being Bonded wouldn’t be enough. Trust was essential; you couldn’t take or give control of a life without it. Subs had to trust their Doms to look after them, to take their bodies, hearts and souls and keep them safe. They had to trust that should they be requested they would be restored to them in the same condition they were surrendered in or better. Doms had to trust that their Subs wanted, that when their Sub was gone from their sight they would stay safe or go to their Dom for help. They had to trust that if they needed it their Subs would safeword out and not let their Doms go too far.
Trust was more important between Alpha-Omega Bonded pairs than any other gender combination. Alphas were biologically tied to their mates; their very DNA coded to protect, provide, and defend. Utter focus, utter devotion, a need that couldn’t be explained to wrap themselves around every facet of their Omega’s life. The only thing that kept the base urges in check was trust - trust that the Omega was theirs and no one else would interfere, that their Omega would give them everything and not hold anything back so they could guard, nurture, and worship.
Sherlock withholding what he knew from John when he’d specifically asked about it, even if Sherlock didn’t lie, struck right at the heart of that trust, especially given the extraordinary levels of freedom from John’s interference in his life Sherlock enjoyed, solely on the basis that now they were together, Sherlock would go to John when he needed.
It wasn’t that there were never lies in relationships, but this secret somehow carried a gravitas with it so an outright lie would shake the all-important bedrock, not just wisp past as daily life. This was outright, planned, deliberate deception.
Greg knew this; Mycroft knew this; Sherlock knew this and was terrified.
John was a good Dom, but Sherlock was not a good Sub and this could just be one shake too many to their relatively new foundations.
“You could look after him to all the best of your abilities, with all your resources and you couldn’t save him from that. Keep him away from drugs, he’ll make his own or slit his wrists. Lock him away from anything and everything, and he’ll refuse to eat. Force feed him and he’ll will himself to death anyway. You know he could.”
There was no doubt in Greg’s mind that that was exactly what Sherlock would do. John would probably recover enough to try and trust Sherlock again, but Sherlock would be long dead. His personality was addictive and obsessive and he’d replaced drugs with John, and this time would die from withdrawal.
“It’s not safe.” Mycroft murmured again. He wasn’t looking at Greg, face turned slightly, staring into midair.
Greg morbidly wondered whether he was looking at his brother’s grave. His line of sight appeared the right height for a tombstone.
“You’ve given John a government security clearance, My. He’s Bonded to your brother, and even if he wasn’t, he wouldn’t run his mouth off. You know this.” The fabric caught slightly on Greg’s fingers as he slid them gently along the thigh they rested on. “If we were going to trust anyone, it would be John.”
Mycroft made a non-committal sound deep in the back of his throat.
“I know you trust him or he’d never have got within ten feet of Sherlock. Why don’t you want to tell him, really?” Greg tried to coax a response, but Mycroft merely sat in meditative silence.
Finally, he sighed. “Only him.”
Greg couldn’t keep the smile off his face.
“You’re correct, there is no logical reason not to tell Dr Watson and every reason to.” Mycroft’s face was carefully impassive.
“Why are you so reluctant to tell him?” Greg pressed.
“I’ve already agreed to, Gregory.”
“You’re not worried he’ll let slip are you, because there is no way John would every betray-”
“John Watson is a paradigm of loyalty.”
Greg paused. He didn’t think Mycroft was being sarcastic.
“Then-”
“I do not wish to discuss it. We will tell John Watson, absolutely no one else.” Mycroft’s fingers had unclenched and now drummed restlessly on the arm of his chair.
Greg nodded and kept his mouth shut. His throat felt suspiciously full and he realised his own fingers were shaking on Mycroft’s thigh.
Ah, adrenaline rush.
He’d known intellectually about the heady rush Subs experienced when they challenged their Doms. As a policeman he’d dealt with Subs who panicked and ran, driven purely by the chemical influx, all the more potent for over powering their Doms, not merely defying them. He’d always looked down on them and been angry at them for perpetuating the stereotype.
Maybe, he decided clenching his hands into fists, he’d been too hard on them. He’d challenged Mycroft, not defied or attacked him, yet his head felt floaty and disconnected making it hard to think and he couldn’t stop the manic urge to do... he couldn’t even tell. Laugh? Cry? Hyperventilate? All he knew is his limbs felt heavy and tingly and he needed to move, move, move.
It would almost be addictive this high, except for the rolling blackness in his stomach that was partially guilt, partially nerves, partially nausea and mostly chicken curry that threatened to choke him with every strangled gasp. It was different to subspace, more like the high druggies described off some of the new designer drugs, and it was suddenly much easier to understand how a Sub could become a serial killer if it meant this power trip with every one of their Doms they killed.
Was that how Moriarty started? The ugly blackness probably wouldn’t bother the crazy psychopath Switch.
Christ, he and Mycroft weren’t even in a formalised relationship. Did they have to be? Being Bound was a different sort of relationship to being Bonded with no connective element on a physical or mental level. Maybe it was enough that they’d played together, maybe it was enough Greg wanted, maybe he wasn’t getting a full dose of the adrenal reaction.
Greg tried to tamp it down. Mycroft wasn’t happy, but he had agreed and he wasn’t unhappy either. He wasn’t going to leave Greg, even for pushing one of the unpushables because it had been for Sherlock who was the most important thing in Mycroft’s world so it was fine and he wouldn’t sever whatever thing they had despite Greg’s collapse in control earlier and the fact he could not stop shaking!
Would he? He wouldn’t.
Please?
“Gregory.” Fingers gently lifted his chin. A thumb smoothed over his cheek.
Greg kept his eyes closed and bit into his lip to keep from letting out a needy whine.
It was stupid, ridiculous. He was his own person; he was an Alpha; he was a DI. He did not need reassurance and mollycoddling just because he’d had a different opinion to Mycroft and stood his ground. They’d had arguments before, they’d undoubtedly have them again, and Greg would not let himself turn into a wet blanket to be walked over whenever Mycroft chose.
His body wanted the reassurance and he’d leant into the simple touch before he’d even realised.
“Up.” Mycroft’s voice was gentle despite the command. It was grounding and helped Greg find his bearings as he scrambled to his feet.
Mycroft steered him carefully around the table and lowered himself onto one end of the couch.
“Sit.”
Each dominant order soothed something in Greg, though it did nothing for his physical symptoms. He collapsed gracelessly onto the sofa cushions halfway between the end and Mycroft, wanting to be pressed close against his lover/partner/Dom/friend, but feeling like he had to keep his space.
It was stupid. Before any of this if he’d got Mycroft out of his preferred armchair and onto the couch he would have tucked up right next to him to share a blanket or sat at the other end and pulled Mycroft’s feet onto his knees (or shoved his across Mycroft’s). Now their relationship was technically more and he was keeping his distance, unsure what to do.
Hands guided him down until he was curled up, head resting in Mycroft’s lap. Finger started carding through Greg’s hair and like in the car earlier the tension slowly began to seep out of Greg’s body.
“I’m not going to leave because you brought it up.”
In a second all the remaining tension leaked out of Greg’s body and his muscles became jelly.
Thank Christ.
“This time you were correct.”
This time- unspoken warning not to bring it up again. That was fine, Greg had no desire to test his luck on another occasion.
He sighed and turned his head slightly so his nose was buried in Mycroft’s thigh. Mycroft kept gently stoking his hair. It was tempting, so tempting, to roll over and press his lips to Mycroft’s vest, but he was comfortable, so comfortable, and apparently merely basking in Mycroft’s presence was enough to deaden the pheromone induced drive to become a human octopus.
He breathed in deeply, trying to detect the delicious scent through Mycroft’s suit trousers, but it wasn’t a highly active scent region and so it was impossible to smell anything through Mycroft’s clothes.
“Are you really safe?” He mumbled, tucking one hand between Mycroft’s leg and the sofa.
“Yes.” Mycroft’s hand drifted to the nape of Greg’s neck. “It’s a biological imperative designed to protect me. Informing the world I was compromised would be counterproductive.”
“Just me then?” Greg asked for confirmation.
“Just you, any family Alphas, of which there are none, and Sherlock, though I don’t believe he will experience it the same way. My research indicates it’s meant to make Omega family members more inclined to feeding and hugging and other such behaviours, which are not things Sherlock engages in so I am confident the effect will be limited.”
Greg nodded. He’d suspected that Mycroft’s Sire was dead, but the Omega never spoke about his family. For all Greg knew there were other Holmes siblings running around terrorising the world. He didn’t even know Mummy’s name or what sort of Omega he was. Going by Mycroft and Sherlock’s general attitudes towards... well... everything, he didn’t think Mummy would be particularly prone to physical affection or interested in casual family trips to the beach, but he didn’t know. Maybe Mummy was actually a rather sweet and flighty Omega and their Sire had been strict.
Now wasn’t the time to ask as, sensing Greg was composed, Mycroft nudged him off his lap and returned to his armchair and meal. With his stomach finally unknotted enough to feel how long it was since he last ate, Greg decided it wasn’t a bad idea. He’d rather Mycroft had stayed on the couch to eat, but....
He picked up his curry and took a mouthful. It took some dedication to swallow.
“Microwave?”
“If you would please.” Mycroft held out his bowl.
Greg collected the meals and strolled back to the kitchen. Walking felt strange. He felt so light, as if his limbs were floating. He hadn’t realised how much everything had been weighing him down.
He couldn’t help the self-satisfied smirk at the kitchen (he really was impressed with himself over how clean it was) while he waited. He could hear quiet movement in the next room, the sort of quiet that arose from someone naturally soft-footed, not the harsh silence of someone trying to be quiet to hide their movements.
Retrieving the meals from the microwave he snagged the bottle of red off the table and mozied back to the lounge. Mycroft had re-seated himself, sans jacket, and the DVD menu for Yes, Minister waited in the background on mute.
Greg smiled as he handed Mycroft his food. Convincing Mycroft to watch a comedy about politics had taken a huge amount of work, but he’d absorbed it with a worrying intensity. The only verbal feedback Greg had ever had was an ‘it’s so accurate’ after the first episode, which sadly confirmed many of Greg’s theories about government, and since then it had almost become Mycroft’s go to selection when they felt like TV, but didn’t have anything to watch.
It was normal. Refreshingly so.
They watched a few episodes, Greg laughing aloud as Hacker tried to triumph Subs in the Civil Service only to be told to buzz off by the Subs, and poor Bernard tried his best to serve both Humphrey and Hacker, both the older Alphas firmly believing he would do as they said.
Greg appreciated the one liners. He had the nasty feeling Mycroft used the show for inspiration and occasionally took notes.
It was after the third episode finished that they both wordlessly decided one AM was late enough. Mycroft bent to put his shoes back on, unfortunately moving his leg from where it had been placed against Greg’s, and started to re-button his shirt collar. Greg procrastinated handing the tie back, having snared it from the chair arm, and ran the navy silk through his fingers. It made Mycroft look so formal, the charcoal grey suit and the navy tie. Greg resolved to buy him a gag tie or two. Something with a completely inappropriate image on the front. Mycroft would never wear it, but still.
He heaved off the couch and slung the tie around Mycroft’s neck. Now that he was leaving, Greg felt a sudden need to touch. He didn’t try to tie the tie, there was no way he’d manage to Mycroft’s satisfaction, and collected the jacket instead so he could help Mycroft into it. Mycroft didn’t say anything about the lingering caresses as Greg smoothed the material, and even imparted a few pointed touches of his own that raised goosebumps up and down Greg’s chest.
The touches continued as they moved towards the door - a hand ghosting along the small of the back, fingers mushing against thighs, hips bumping into each other with every step.
They stopped at the door. Greg retrieved Mycroft’s umbrella, propped at the ready next to the door, and passed it over, fingers sliding down the back of Mycroft’s hand and curling loosely around his wrist before falling away. Mycroft’s spare hand held the fabric of Greg’s trousers pinched between two fingers, pulling it tight across his bum and cutting lightly into his leg.
Mycroft was in shoes. Greg wasn’t. Not that it mattered given the distance between them was so slight. Greg was going cross-eyed trying to focus on Mycroft’s face.
He kept expecting Mycroft to move away, take the step back and say good bye, see you next week.
He didn’t.
So they stood there, and stood there, chests almost touching as they inhaled.
“You can kiss me.” The words were so soft they were little more than exhales dancing over Greg’s skin.
“Thank God.”
Greg’s arm encircled Mycroft’s waist, his other hand moving to Mycroft’s hair. The umbrella landed with a clatter on the floor as Mycroft simultaneously moved his hold to Greg’s neck, pulling him closer with his fabric holding fingers, changing grip from trouser to arse.
There was no press of lips. Their tongues met in an open and desperate kiss, Mycroft’s plunging straight into Greg’s pliant mouth to duel frantically with Greg’s own. Greg yielded for a couple more strokes before pressing forward with his tongue to taste Mycroft’s mouth while shoving him backwards against the wall.
Mycroft tasted like he smelt: gingery with lingering spices from the curry that started the edges of Greg’s tongue burning. Mycroft matched him stroke for stroke and twined sensuously around Greg’s tongue while it explored his mouth. The hand on Greg’s arse manoeuvred him sideways and suddenly he could feel Mycroft’s erection pressed hard against his hip.
That earned Mycroft’s lips a nip, quickly soothed away with long lavish caresses. Mycroft retaliated by biting Greg’s lower lip and sucking hard until it was verging on the wrong side of painful. It tingled as the suction stopped and light nips were applied to the swollen flesh with serious dedication.
Greg moaned and ground his body into Mycroft’s, trying to get them both the friction they craved. His mouth was released as Mycroft took a hissing breath and he trailed kisses up Mycroft’s neck, not letting himself stop to bite or suck until he reached Mycroft’s ear in case he left rather distinctive marks. Instead he rolled the earlobe between his teeth and suckled lightly. His tongue massaged the spot directly behind the ear that sent the little spasms through Mycroft’s body causing the irregular gaps in their rhythm as Mycroft rutted against Greg’s deliberately propped leg.
The breathy whispers were glorious, and Greg was so invested in drawing every last one possible out of Mycroft from this one spot that he missed Mycroft’s signals until he was shoved forcibly downwards. That one was fairly clear and he arranged his knees comfortably while fumbling with Mycroft’s belt. The button followed, giving up more quickly than the leather covering it, yielding with barely a twitch of Greg’s fingers.
“Use your teeth.” Mycroft’s voice was barely above a needy whisper.
Greg pulled his hands away from the zip and after a scant moment of consideration laced them loosely behind his back. The twist as Mycroft’s cock responded to the sight was visible through the still closed trousers.
Using his tongue to collect the tab, Greg slowly dragged the zip down, tortuous inch by tortuous inch until the trousers parted. The sound of the metal teeth unthreading was a sharp counterpoint to the soft and breathy tones since they’d sat down at the TV. Using his nose and teeth, Greg managed to feed Mycroft through the fly of his pants, resisting the urge to tease and mouth him through the material in favour of satisfying far stronger desires.
Greg started at the base, dragging the tip of his tongue along the pulsing vein until he reached the head where a drop of clear liquid already balanced precariously on the tip. In one very slow and drawn out motion Greg licked across the glans and collected the drop.
Mycroft’s hand settled in his hair, but it didn’t push him closer. He was allowed to take his time then.
Greg leant forward and carefully let Mycroft’s prick glide past his lips as far into his mouth as it was possible to go without touching the sides of his mouth or his throat. It took a lot of work to hover there with no hands to stabilise himself, but all those sit ups had to do some good and he was able to draw out the pause until Mycroft’s fingers flexed in silent command on his head. Then he closed the gap, not with his lips, but his teeth and lightly dragged them back up the shaft.
Mycroft shivered.
Greg ran his tongue around the head and corkscrewed it as far as he could without taking Mycroft back into his mouth. Another bead of musky pre-come squeezed out the tip and he collected that too.
He couldn’t be sure, but he thought Mycroft tasted different now to when he was in Heat. Less musk, but stronger flavours.
It was as addictive as his scent.
With agonising slowness Greg pressed kisses from the glans to the base of the reddened flesh and back again, fluttering his lips against the thin sheath of skin in little barely there butterfly kisses. The pheromones were definitely stronger here.
“Gregory.” Mycroft’s voice was soft and breathless, but had a definite growl as a base note.
Greg smiled cheekily, turned his face up to look at Mycroft, and finally took him properly into his mouth.
Mycroft’s head thumped back against the wall and he let out a sound that might have been “Yes” or might have been a groan as Greg’s lips closed firmly around his cock and sucked.
Greg turned his attention fully to the hot, hard length in his mouth, ignoring his own throbbing prick still uncomfortably trapped in his trousers. It had been a very long time since he’d done this, discounting last Saturday, and he wanted to make it good. Needed to make it good.
Sealing his lips, he sucked lightly and let his tongue dance over and around the length in his mouth. There was a texture difference, he discovered, between the main shaft, which felt velvety under his tongue, and the head, which felt smoother and firmer. He went back again and again, testing the difference with tongue and teeth, laving his tongue across the fraenum, and licking as far down the shaft as he could.
It wasn’t enough.
Experimentally he leant forward, taking Mycroft deep enough to almost hit the back of his throat, then pulled back. It was a lot harder than he remembered, which he blamed on the lack of hands, but he managed to establish a slow, burning pattern and gradually increased his suction. Back and forward, back and forward, it was too hard to keep using his tongue the way he had been so instead he ran it up the base of the shaft on the pull off and flicked it over the head once in range. From the convulsive spasm of the fingers in his hair that was good.
Greg sped up. His own erection was becoming almost painful and he longed to at least undo his trousers to let it free, but he’d placed his hands where they were and as a point of pride he couldn’t take them away. All he could do was work Mycroft faster towards his end so Greg could relieve some of the pressure soon.
“Gregory.” Mycroft’s voice was a strained sigh and his hips jerked forward hitting the back of Greg’s throat. Greg gagged, but resolutely drove forward again and tried to relax.
It was difficult. In the intervening years he’d lost the easy control that would allow him to take someone’s cock down his throat and let them fuck his face with abandon, but he wanted it. He didn’t know why, but the thought of Mycroft’s cock pounding into his mouth while he just took it... He moaned, and tried, and gagged again.
“Relax.”
Dominance. Greg felt his whole body go soft as muscles lost their tension in response to the command. The hand on his head instantly became controlling and Greg found himself with his nose in Mycroft’s pubic hair, every last inch of his cock buried deep in Greg’s throat and mouth.
The muscles in his throat spasmed uncontrollably and Greg fought back the need to vomit. Perversely it became easier when Mycroft became to move and Greg’s attention was split between the discomfort and how glorious it felt. He could barely breathe, each of Mycroft’s thrusts felt like it was cutting off his air supply, spit was dribbling liberally out the corners of his mouth, and a few tears rolled down his cheeks, but the feeling of being so full, the heavy press against his tongue, the stretch around Mycroft’s girth, the taste, and with every thrust being forced to bury his nose in those scintillating pheromones, was better than anything. He felt himself begin to unwind and sink into his body, detaching from his senses and he fell towards Subspace and surrendered his body to Mycroft.
It wasn’t possible to properly moan around the intrusion, but Greg tried anyway.
“Gregory, so close.” If possible Mycroft sped up. His movements were certainly jerkier, testimony to his coming unhinged. “So, so... Gregory!”
With an expletive Mycroft came thrust deep in his throat, giving Greg no option but to swallow his release. Greg suspected that he would have anyway (he had last time). Mycroft didn’t hold Greg in place, which meant as soon as Greg started to splutter and choke he was able to pull off the slowly softening organ, though not without one last suck on the way, and take a proper breath.
The visual was glorious. Mycroft Holmes splayed against the wall in his perfect suit and precisely done tie, the only flaws in his appearance the spots of colour high on his cheekbones, slightly swollen lips, and his undone and revealing trousers. It made him look all the more debauched for being almost completely unruffled.
Greg moaned and moved his hand quickly to his trousers. He needed to come now. It wouldn’t take much, a couple of strokes, but he was too turned on to be embarrassed.
“No.” Mycroft’s order stopped him before he reached the button.
Greg’s eyes flew up to Mycroft’s, half lidded and sated, yet still gleaming and hungry.
“The next time you come Gregory it will be in my bed after I’ve spent an hour riding you, not a second before.”
Greg whined. Yes, oh please, yes.
“Two weeks, Gregory.”
No, please no.
“Two weeks before you move in and I take you to my bed and ride you through the mattress. You may not come before then. You may touch yourself, tease yourself, play with yourself, but you may not orgasm.”
Greg leant, he preferred that to toppled, forward and pressed his forehead into Mycroft’s hip. He could feel his dick throbbing in his pants. It was unbearable, he needed, he needed...
“Two weeks, Gregory.” Long fingers gently tilted his chin up to meet Mycroft’s eyes, and bugger it all if the order, the idea of submitting to Mycroft’s wishes even when the Omega himself wasn’t present, wasn’t turning him on more and making the problem in his pants even more pressing. “You can be good, can’t you?”
“Yes, Master.” His voice was raspy after the abuse to his throat. He just knew every time he spoke for the next few days he’d think of this moment, kneeling at Mycroft’s feet, well used and submitting to his Dom’s pleasure over his own, and would have to fight down an erection.
From the shark’s grin, Mycroft knew it too.
He tilted his head back down and concentrated on breathing until Mycroft gently prodded him and he roused himself enough to fix Mycroft’s trousers.
“You’re a lot better at that than I thought you would be.” Mycroft remarked conversationally.
There was a definite question in his voice and a fair amount of snark. Greg chuckled. Mycroft hated not knowing anything, but loved being surprised.
“Guess my file doesn’t have everything in it.” He slid the belt buckle back into place.
“You were married to a woman and have shown a clear secondary interest in their gender.”
“Yes.” Reluctantly Greg pushed up to standing. Both knees cracked loudly and painfully. He really was too old for kneeling on hard floors.
“Even with my command you should not have been able to take me so easily without practice, which speaks to significant experience with Beta Submissives.”
“I did have a life before I was married. I had a fairly wild youth.” Greg retrieved the umbrella though Mycroft showed no inclination towards moving.
Either Greg’s not quite amateur blow job skills were that fascinating or this was his idea of pillow talk, and Greg couldn’t recall enough of their encounters during heat to say which for sure.
“I am aware,” of course Mycroft was aware, “but you clearly have some experience with deep throating, though some time ago, which is highly unusual for a Dominant, or someone pretending to be one.” Mycroft held out his hand for the umbrella and used it to pull Greg closer.
Apparently even Mycroft Holmes was tactile after sex, and the little touches were not helping Greg beat down his own neglected erection.
He sighed. “I told my Sub I didn’t feel comfortable asking anything like that of them without experiencing it in case I accidently pushed too far. I liked it, he, amazingly, liked it, so we did it several time. It was my last Beta relationship. It was...” Greg hesitated, unsure how to say it.
“Too easy to forget the role you were supposed to be playing and let some of your true Submissive nature show through, so you left him and restricted yourself to female partners as you are less attracted to them and so less likely to forget yourself during a session.” There was smug satisfaction in Mycroft’s voice. Mystery of the half-arsed blow job skills solved.
“Basically.” There’s been one too many close calls and Greg had broken it off. He could still remember the Beta’s name - Ryan Northy. If Ryan remembered him it was undoubtedly as the strangest Alpha he’d ever met, which wasn’t far off true.
“Indeed, well then.” Mycroft pushed off the wall and donned his great coat in one smooth motion. “I will see you tomorrow, Gregory.”
Greg looked at him in confusion. He knew his brain was slow, a good proportion of his blood and attention being otherwise occupied, but he didn’t remember that.
“Tomorrow?”
Not that he was complaining, but, tomorrow?
“Yes, of course. Four thirty, 221B Baker Street.”
“We’re telling John tomorrow?” Greg trailed Mycroft to the door.
“No time like the present.”
For an Omega who hadn’t wanted to say anything, Mycroft could move very fast.
“Oh, okay.” He opened the door to take away the awkward question of a good night kiss. As expected the black car was idling outside. “See you tomorrow.”
Mycroft favoured Greg with a full body sweep and a pointed quirked eyebrow. “Sleep well.”
He turned and was gone.
The erection Greg had been doing a good job at getting rid of was back.
“Bastard.” He hissed and resolutely shut the door knowing it would be a long night.
So when Mycroft, looking perfectly refreshed and smiling genially, met him on the steps of 221 in a cloud of provocative ginger and remarked that Greg really needed to get more sleep, he looked so tired and was working too hard again, it was all Greg could do to restrain himself to a whispered “I really hate you”.
Mycroft smiled patronisingly, the smile favoured by parents giving their children the ‘yes dear, now brush your teeth before bed’ look, fully aware that Greg would do absolutely anything for him and still love him for it.
“Ready for this?” Greg asked, keeping his hands in his pockets to make sure he didn’t touch.
Mycroft’s face changed to impassive, suggesting to Greg that the answer to that was no. Fair enough, Greg wasn’t sure he was either.
“Here we go.”
And he knocked.
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