Though I Walk Through the Valley (12/38)
Though I Walk through the Valley
Title:Though I Walk through the Valley (12/38)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: As so many of you were looking forward to or dreading... John finds out!
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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John shuffled past his lover, forcing himself gamely between the kitchen chair and the bench on his way back to the sitting room with his fresh cup of tea. Exactly what Sherlock was doing that involved so much stuff that the kitchen table had had to be moved he wasn't sure. He wasn't even sure what was equipment and what were samples, or even whether they were connected to why Sherlock was peering through the microscope now. It was entirely possible he'd moved the table for the light and it was all just junk.
He let his fingers trail along the back of Sherlock's chair as he passed by, but made no contact with his Sub. Sherlock was concentrating and would not appreciate being distracted by touch at a critical point in his venture. Whenever Sherlock was disturbed, it was always a critical point in his venture.
John settled into his armchair with a sigh. There were no cases, Sherlock wasn't bored enough to be destructive, his blog was up to date, and he couldn't clean the flat until Sherlock's latest mess making enterprise was concluded. It was one of those days and times he could just relax.
Except he couldn't.
Unlike Sherlock, John actually understood what Mycroft meant when he claimed to worry constantly. It was all part of being an Alpha Dom, the driving imperative to protect what was yours, and the more Dominant the Alpha the more that was considered 'mine'. If John and Sherlock hadn't Bonded there would likely have been some clashes between him and Mycroft resulting from competing claims on the Omega, but the short time between relationship and Bonding had circumvented that as even a more Dominant Alpha had to cede to a Bond claim, and before their relationship had commenced John had refrained through great strength of will from laying a competing claim on his flatmate.
You didn't claim fellow Alphas. As Sherlock's elder brother, Mycroft's territorial claim over the Detective could, at a stretch, be justified, though such a thing would usually have petered out with puberty. Mycroft being Mycroft (and Sherlock being Sherlock) John hadn't even thought to question why Mycroft actively considered Sherlock his despite their ages. Discovering that Sherlock was an Omega had turned the protectiveness from unusual to expected and even approved of.
John sighed and sipped his tea. You didn't claim fellow Alphas, but that didn't make it any easier to reign in his protective and possessive instincts when it came to people he cared about, and Greg was definitely a person he cared about. Plus, for some reason it was harder to restrain himself regarding Greg. Not impossible, just difficult. Different.
He tried, he definitely tried. He hadn't raced straight over when Molly had first shared the latest gossip filtered down from the Yard about DI Lestrade's gambling problems. Greg was an Alpha and a Dom in his own right and would not appreciate being smothered by his younger friend. He'd learnt that lesson the hard way with Harry, who may not have been an Alpha, but was a reasonably dominant Dom and had resented John's childish attempts to protect her their whole childhood. It had not improved with age. Maybe John could have managed to scale back his protectiveness; maybe John could give Harry a bit more space, if Harry would just pull her life together!
He knew she hated it, but he worried.
The news that Greg was so badly off that he was being forced to sell his flat had been too much, but as expected Greg had not appreciated John's interference and so John had backed off. Greg obviously was getting things in hand, but the whole situation settled like an unscratchable itch between John's shoulder blades.
He wouldn't hover; he wouldn't make such an obvious mistake with Greg having already made it with Harry.
But he wanted to.
But he wouldn't.
But he wanted to.
There was a knock on the door downstairs and he could hear Mrs Hudson fussing her way to answer it.
He took another sip of tea and craned his head back to look at Sherlock, instinctive smile touching his lips. He'd never thought he'd have a Bonded Omega, but here he was Bonded to probably the most unusual Omega in London, no, the world.
"You're looking at me." Sherlock's deep baritone rumbled across the gap between them as his fingers nimbly switched slides under the microscope.
"Yes, sorry, is it distracting?" John was never sure what was distracting for Sherlock. It seemed to change capriciously at rather frequent intervals.
Sherlock turned his head and sent a warm smile John's way. "No, it's fine."
John let his smile grow. He loved these times, when they weren't running around frantically, but neither of them (Sherlock) was suffering from an overload of nervous energy. In these short windows, after one satisfactory case, but before the next, Baker Street seemed quiet, content, like the whole world could disappear and they'd never notice.
His heart gave an insistent throb and John bit his lip. Moments like these, pauses in life, let him feel exactly how much he loved Sherlock, and it frightened him sometimes how intense his emotions were when they rose up from the depths of his heart, kept safe away from interference in John's everyday life lest he drive Sherlock away by being too overbearing. Right then he felt the strongest urge to go over, run his fingers through Sherlock's hair and take him to bed until John scent covered his skin, the need to hold him and remind him with tongue and teeth that he was John's, John's, John's.
He turned his head back to the main room. Those intense bursts of feeling always left him morose, an aching emptiness in his chest because they always triggered thoughts of Sherlock lounging dramatically on the couch cradling his slightly swollen stomach demanding tea or prancing around the flat, belly rotund, carrying their child.
He wanted their child. He knew it wasn't just up to him and that a baby wouldn't fit with their lifestyle, but that didn't stop him imagining what their son would look like. Dark hair, dominant genetic trait, but maybe lightened to brown like Harry's was naturally if not all the way up to John's dirty blonde. Curls, he hoped their child got Sherlock's gorgeous curls, and his cheekbones...and his eyes and his height and his mind and hell, just a miniature Sherlock.
Their miniature Sherlock.
Their miniature Sherlock with John's EQ and some manners.
It wouldn't happen. Really it shouldn't, given that an ADD genius and an adrenaline junkie were probably the two least qualified people in the world to raise a child, but John couldn't stop hoping. It had been almost nine months since Sherlock's last Heat so there would hopefully be one soon and maybe this time -
There was a knock. Apparently the visitors were for them and John had missed the footsteps on the stairs.
"Coming." He put his tea aside and went and opened the door. It wasn't people he expected. "Greg, Mycroft, come in."
This, John thought as he ushered them through to the sitting area and offered tea, was unusual. Even though he knew Greg and Mycroft were good friends, actually seeing them together was rare. Most of their socialising was done one on one, and it probably didn't help that Sherlock and Mycroft only really socialised with each other under duress. If Mycroft wanted something he kidnapped John or barged into Baker Street to annoy Sherlock into submission. He didn't just drop in for afternoon tea without a reason.
Which begged the question, what was the reason he was here now and how did Greg come into it?
There were two obvious options, each as likely as the other: 1. Greg's gambling; 2. International terrorist plot ending in an interesting murder. John hoped for one, though Sherlock's preference would probably be option two. Option one involved too much potential for emotion and 'that caring lark', which still made his younger love uncomfortable. John supposed there was also the additional discomfort for Sherlock as his own addiction memories were still relatively fresh and this probably hit too close to the bone. Certainly Sherlock had been reluctant to confront Greg about the issue and had not been quite himself when they'd gone to the Yard.
"Sorry, he'll probably be a few minutes." John said as he handed out the tea mugs. "Experiment, you know."
"Ah, actually John we're here to talk to you." Greg appeared flustered and wrapped his hands around his mug, looking away from John.
"Oh, right, okay." John lowered himself onto the couch, Mycroft having purloined his chair as usual.
This was different.
Greg didn't say anything, but fumbled with his mug seemingly unable to decide whether to hold it or set it down. In contrast Mycroft was almost aggressively still and dressed in a suit that even by his usual standards was very posh. The self-striped glossy black three-piece made him look very severe, and he'd even changed his habitual umbrella for a matching dark handled version. He looked as if he were about to attend a state funeral.
There was something else different too, something John couldn't quite describe, maybe a scent, but it made him glad he was between the door and Mycroft in case someone stormed through.
Greg looked over at Mycroft and when Mycroft failed to do or say anything, rallied to go 'it' alone, whatever it was.
"Well, you see, well, we, well, I felt that we needed to... well, it's just not... we're... um, Christ, look the thing is... well..."
John didn't bother to conceal his confusion (Mycroft would see it even if he did). He belatedly realised the noise in the kitchen had stopped,
Sherlock's interest must be piqued too, so he slid sideways to the edge of the couch from where he could just see him through the kitchen door thanks to the absurd angle the table was now on. Sherlock was frozen, still bent over his microscope.
Very interested then.
"Oh damn and blast, John, I'm not a Dom." Greg finally spat his sentence out, looking both nervous and defiant, and it was more than enough to grab John's wondering attention.
"What?"
"I'm not a Dom." Greg repeated.
"You're an Alpha."
"Yes."
"But not a Dom."
"Correct."
"You're an Alpha Submissive."
"Yes."
"Right, okay, pull the other one." John took a sip and blew a bit more on his tea. “So why are you here?”
“I mean it, John.” Greg’s brown eyes bore pleadingly into John’s soul. “I’m a Sub, not a Dom.”
John raised his eyebrow sceptically. It was unbelievable. Alphas were Dominants that was just the way it was. The genes were linked, it was supposed to be impossible to separate them even in a lab, and if what Greg was saying was true then he was living refutation of all John's medical training.
Of course, there was no way it was true. Greg seemed to believe it, but he was obviously confused, right?
Sighing at the pleading expression Greg was sending him, John cast his mind back trying to find any proof in his memories that all this was an elaborate misconception, or any possible signs of Greg developing some form of mental psychosis. Greg was definitely an Alpha. While it was possible to get these things wrong, Sherlock being case in point, Greg scanned very much as an Alpha and John knew his ex-wife had had a miscarriage early in their relationship, which was irrefutable proof confirming what John already instinctively knew.
Admittedly when he tried to find examples of Greg's dominance he couldn't. Greg had never Dommed anyone that John had seen, something John had attributed to the DI being pedantic about the rules and a bit new age-y in the management of his team. True though, he bent (broke) other rules yet still never used dominance to control his people at the Yard, even when there were situations like the last time Sherlock had visited that really did require it. It had been John who had broken off the fight, not Greg despite the damage to the office.
It would rather conveniently explain why John was having so much trouble stopping himself acting like an overprotective mother bear. Similarly to how Harry triggered his instincts despite being a Dom because they were related, Greg might trigger them because he wasn't one, despite being an Alpha.
But, no... really? Greg was certainly convinced and there wasn't anything John could come up with to refute it except the utter impossibility and -
"Alright then, if that’s true, how has no one figured it out?" He challenged, presenting the smallest hurdle to watch Greg stumble from the start.
Greg gave him a weary smile. "Because everyone assumes an Alpha is a Dom and vice versa, even Holmeses who should know better. Besides, I've had a lot of practice acting."
"Yeah, but..." John could think of so many ways that Greg's secret could be uncovered.
"A lot of people confuse Alpha and Dominant traits, they see one and believe it’s the other. Being an Alpha offsets most of the really obvious Submissive tells." Greg shrugged. "Or maybe I got lucky."
"Right." John honestly couldn't say much more. It was utterly insane, and worse, Greg seemed to believe it.
Greg relaxed back into his chair, finally comfortable John wasn't going to call him a liar and challenge him over it. John wasn't sure what he was going to do. He'd always known Greg wasn't a strong Dom, outright pathetic for an Alpha really, but to actually be a Sub... To believe himself to be one…
It was a lot to accept, but it was equally clear Mycroft did believe Greg and that was a fairly weighty bit of evidence in its own right.
"Okay, I’ll play ball. Who knows?" John asked.
"Only the people in this room."
"Huh, and... not that we don't appreciate it, but why are you telling us? Is this because I didn't think the two of you moving in was a good idea? I’m sorry if I was a bit much, but really Greg, you do need to think this through properly." John looked between the two of them suspiciously.
There was rustling as Greg, who almost seemed the only one of the two of them involved in the conversation as Mycroft was neither reacting nor adding anything, shifted looking very discomfited.
"Well, partially."
"Partially?" John leant forward to rest his elbows on his knees.
"Yeah, um, well, you see... we," he gestured to indicate himself and Mycroft, "well, there really weren't many options and I feel ruddy awful about it, but in this case it really couldn't go on cause - look, you don't need to worry about me, the gambling thing. I, uh, don't actually have a gambling addiction it was just convenient-"
Instead of getting more confused like he felt he should be, things suddenly fell into place in John's head. "How long?"
Greg startled at the interruption and looked very confused despite not having any real reason to.
"How long have you two been together?" John clarified.
There was disbelief tinged with grudging approval faintly visible on Mycroft's face. The older Holmes always did expect John to need things spelled out (though by Mycroft's standards, he did).
"That's what this is about, right?" John continued. "You need an excuse to justify moving in together and this is it. You don't want people realising you're in a relationship."
“Well, um... yes. That’s exactly right.” Greg looked a little uncomfortable, having lost control of the conversation.
“Then-” John stopped as a thought suddenly crossed his mind. "Sherlock."
The clatter of Sherlock's latest scientific escapade resumed more loudly than it had been before.
"Sherlock." John called again, putting enough force behind the word to let his Sub know that he was serious despite the fact he wasn't giving an order.
Slowly and reluctantly Sherlock set down the pipette and unglued his eyes from the microscope. He moved carefully to secure the lids of the various chemicals he was using, an obvious delaying tactic, but one that was always allowed as he tended to use some very nasty compounds, before finally pushing back his chair and walking to John's side. His head was thrown back defiantly and he met John's gaze and held it, but his hands were trembling and John saw him swallow convulsively as he sank to his knees next to John.
He had known then.
"John," Greg started, but stopped when John held up a warning finger.
"You knew." He didn't frame it as a question.
"Yes."
No attempt to hide it, no pause, no dissembling, just an answer.
An answer that confirmed Greg wasn’t around the bend, because there was no way he could spend that many years around both Holmes brothers without one of them noticing he was insane.
John wondered if he was going insane just at the idea of it.
"And you knew Greg didn't have a gambling problem?"
Sherlock raised his chin just a fraction higher. "I didn't lie."
"No," John conceded, "you didn't lie" There was the slightest relaxing of Sherlock's shoulders. "But you deliberately set out to deceive, and never mentioned it or contradicted my conclusions despite the numerous conversations we've had on the topic in the last week and how worried you knew I was."
“Yes." It was becoming visibly harder for Sherlock to maintain his defiance, John could see his fingers convulsing on the floor, but his stubborn Sub refused to back down.
Greg went to speak, but John could see the restraining finger Mycroft crooked warningly out of the corner of his eye, gaze still locked on Sherlock's.
"And if Greg hadn't come today, you would have continued to keep this from me."
"Yes." Sherlock's fingers moved to grip his thighs, but he maintained eye contact, back ramrod straight. He clearly understood the significance of the conversation, how much more was being said than the words implied.
"And if I had asked, demanded an answer from you, instead of letting the issue go, would you have told me?"
Please answer yes. Every bone in John’s body prayed that Sherlock would say yes.
"No." Sherlock's voice was trembling with his body.
"You would have lied to me."
"Yes." Sherlock's voice cracked mid-word. His left hand was wound tight around his bracelet now, and his shoulders had begun to bow.
John took a deep breath and tried to force back his instincts enough to make sense of the storm unfurling inside him. Everything was simultaneously screaming at him to take Sherlock into his arms and protect him and chase away the pain, but also screaming with the pain of his Omega's rejection, the hurt, and anger, so, so much anger.
His instincts were driving emotions that were unforgiving, a hard baseline of anger and pain. How dare Sherlock do this? This was outright betrayal of them and their Bond on every level. A total betrayal of everything they’d ever worked towards, as friends or lovers. A knife in the gut would have hurt less than this metaphorical knife in the back. His instincts howled rampaging through his muscles until he shook from it all.
John pushed off the couch and walked over to the wall, needing space, needing to put floor between him and his Sub (deceiver, backstabber, betrayer, traitor) before he did something unforgivable.
How could Sherlock do this? To him, to them? (Calm, calm, breathe) Sherlock knew how hard it had been for John when they'd started, how reluctant John had been to give in to his feelings for Sherlock because he didn't think he could control his instincts well enough not to demand the control over everything, destroying all the unique aspects of Sherlock he loved, to keep him contained in a fluffy safe haven with John as his gaoler. He'd managed, but he'd managed only because Sherlock promised, he’d promised - no more lies, no more leaving John out, no more hiding, and despite past experience, despite knowing he'd be let down again because he'd been let down before, he'd forced himself to shelve his issues and trust Sherlock so he could adapt, because he loved him, he loved him, and he had since the start and he needed him, and how dare Sherlock, how dare he do this to them!
How dare he kneel there, the rage thundered, and look John in the eye and admit he would lie to John and deceive him, break his trust over something so simple and meaningless as his brother and their friend's relationship.
John pressed his arm across his mouth to restrain the sounds his throat was trying to release, not knowing if they were angry snarls or broken wails. He felt like something deep inside him was tearing, something deeper and more precious than his heart, and it hurt!
Calm, calm, breathe. Channel the anger, channel the hurt, don't let it rule him. This was not like before, it hurt more, but he had training now, he could and would control himself and not do something he'd regret. He'd been in a war now, he could handle this. This wasn’t last time.
Slowly John turned away from the wall, not a full 180° so he could see Sherlock, but far enough around he could see Greg and Mycroft. Greg was partway out of his chair, body leaning towards Sherlock. He looked absolutely desperate to comfort him. Mycroft's whole hand was wrapped around Greg's wrist, keeping him in place. The other Alpha was perfectly composed, merely waiting for the scene to resolve.
John ignored the muffled whimpers he could hear. He had two choices and he couldn't let Sherlock's state influence him into a poor choice that would hurt them more in the long run. He could turn around, go over to Sherlock and try and find some way to get through this despite the tearing in what had to be their Bond, and he had to do it now, or he could walk out the door, give himself some real space and privacy, 5-10 minutes to think, and accept that no matter how much he loved Sherlock he couldn't be around him if he couldn't trust him.
John knew he could walk out. Sherlock, and Greg apparently, if he were to be believed, couldn't stop him and Mycroft would let him go without comment. He also knew that Sherlock would not be here when he got back even if he was only gone for ten minutes, and no matter how hard he searched, Mycroft would ensure he never found Sherlock ever again.
He had to choose to fight or flight, right now, this very second, full to the brim of pain, anger, and old hurt.
He was a soldier, he’d gone to war.
He would always fight.
He stepped away from the wall and let himself face his errant Sub (betrayer, deceiver, Judas). Sherlock was knelt precisely where John had left him, not an inch out of place. His whole body was shaking so hard he looked like he was having a seizure and he'd collapsed in on himself, shoulders hunched over and head bowed. His hands were round his neck, fingers clutched tight at his collar even though fitting them all in and around the leather circle was causing it to half choke him, reducing the sobs and whimpers to barely anything.
Oh, Sherlock. His poor, poor love.
The sight set up a renewed clamour under John's skin, arousing his need to protect and reassure, and his disgust, and hurt, and loathing.
He moved slowly to stand in front of Sherlock. John wanted to kneel and cradle him in his arms until they were both covered in each other's scent.
He wanted to kick him and whip him until he bled, bright crimson stains splashed across the garish wallpaper. He wanted to hurt him, take his pound of flesh to pay for the excruciating rage inside him.
He did neither. He ruled his instincts, not the other way around and his rational mind knew there was one very important thing he hadn't asked that could well change everything, could potentially save, or send John to the door.
"Why?" He didn't need to raise his voice for it to carry.
"I'm sorry." Sherlock's voice was strained. "I'm sorry."
"Why didn't you tell me, Sherlock?"
"Because I didn't expect - it was just a relationship!" Sherlock's voice was hoarse from where his collar was restricting his collar. "I - you've never cared who was sleeping with whom when I've s-said before and he clearly d-didn't want it made p-public and it was Mycroft and you've said b-before that's not g-good and then suddenly it w-was more and there were other things ah-and I knew they d-didn't want to say but I didn't have time to work out what I s-should and I'm sorry."
John collapsed down onto the couch and buried his face in his hands. His stupid genius, his brilliant idiotic genius. Trying so hard to do the right thing and screwing up so completely.
"And after?" His own voice was choked up with emotion. All this suffering for both of them because for once Sherlock had tried to be good. “After we heard the rumours, after we talked to Greg? Why didn’t you say anything then?”
Sherlock didn't answer, if possible wrapping more of his long fingers around the leather, forcing himself to breathe in short huffs. John leant forward and gently tugged the hands away before Sherlock caused himself to pass out.
Sherlock froze, and let out a keening wail as he curled down, wrapping his arms under his legs. He started rocking side to side and moaning what John managed to decipher after a few moments as "please, please, no, please." The bewilderment only lasted a few seconds longer before John realised why Sherlock's distress had escalated.
"Oh, Sherlock, no, no, no, love, no. Come here." John tugged on Sherlock's shirt collar. "Come here." Sherlock stayed where he was curled on the floor. "Come here."
Slowly Sherlock's body unfurled and John helped him up on the couch next to him. There were no tears, Sherlock looked too panicked and upset to cry, and his lip was chewed ragged. John ran a finger gently across the reddened flesh.
"I'm not taking it off, Sherlock, you just needed to stop before you passed out."
John could see the change flow over Sherlock with the reassurance, his body slightly sagging with relief, though losing none of its tension. He held out a hand, expecting Sherlock's to be given in return.
It hurt, he realised, it really hurt how desperately six foot and one half inch of consulting detective tried to fit himself into John's lap like a child, face buried in John's neck, body scrunched as small as possible to press every last one of those inches within the space of John's frame. The pain was different to the pain earlier, tugged at a different heart string because this hurt was hurt for Sherlock not because of him.
John buried his nose in Sherlock's hair and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's body. Even with John's efforts at feeding him up the detective was still too thin and he could completely encircle him with ease.
"I love you." He whispered into the inky curls. "I love you and I will never take that collar off you. You are mine and I will fight for you, for us, for as long as I'm alive."
There was a strangled sob into his neck and hot wetness as the adrenaline grip over Sherlock's body finally gave enough to allow him to cry.
"I love you." John whispered again. He could feel his own eyes burning as his body responded. Decision made, he needed the reassurance of Sherlock in his arms as much as Sherlock needed to be in them.
Sherlock's fisted grip on his shirt tightened in response.
"We'll leave you two alone." Mycroft stood and collected his umbrella.
"Thank you." John lifted his head enough to meet Greg's eyes without taking his nose out of Sherlock's hair.
If Greg had waited...If Sherlock had actually lied…John wasn’t sure he could have fought his instinctive reaction down enough to face the truth: that no matter what he never wanted to let Sherlock go.
Greg tried to smile reassuringly, but was preoccupied casting confused looks in Mycroft's direction, Mycroft who was now strolling past John towards the door and creating the strangest urge in John to turn his head and pay attention to him. It wasn’t enough to offset his immediate need for Sherlock and his scent, but it was distracting.
“Mycroft?” Greg hadn’t moved from his chair. He still sounded bewildered. “Mycroft, I thought we said-”
“They clearly need some time, Gregory.” Mycroft unhooked his great coat from where he’d stored it behind the door when John got tea.
John appreciated it, the sentiment, but the embarrassment he could slowly feel creeping in now the emotional drive was gone was faint enough still, as long as he was able to hold Sherlock. From the silent sobs still wracking Sherlock’s body he wasn’t going to be in any condition to talk for a bit. John didn’t want to press, but Sherlock still owed him an answer and if the wound wasn’t lanced and all possible infection burned off now it could and would fester and become much, much worse. However that was for later, not this second, not if Greg still needed something.
Greg looked annoyed, even a little angry and had most definitely not moved from his seat in Sherlock’s armchair.
“No, Mycroft.” His voice was firm. “We said everything.”
He sent a pointed glance John’s, or rather John suspected Sherlock’s, way. Behind him he could hear the reluctant sounds of Mycroft hanging his coat back up.
Mycroft’s walk back to his chair was measured, dignified and very formal, like a man going to his execution. He brushed close to John on the way, and John found himself instinctively taking a deep lungful of air, even though all he could smell was Sherlock and his fussy, salon-branded shampoo.
Greg kept looking at Mycroft once he resumed his seat, though it quickly became clear Mycroft wasn’t saying anything and he let out an exasperated sigh.
“You see, John, the thing is,” he’d scooted forward to the edge of the seat and was leaning forward earnestly, right knee obscured by one of Sherlock’s soft silky curls, “I’m not actually gay, you know, in any sense of the word.”
Well that was enlightening. Word games, more word games. John’s brain was really not functioning and he just wanted whatever it was explained so he could concentrate on his Sub, but Greg was giving him a pleading please-work-it-out look and Sherlock’s crying had stuttered slightly and he now pressed even closer into John, almost as though he was hiding from Greg’s words.
With a sigh John let his head shift so he was once again buried with his eyes closed in Sherlock’s curls.
So Greg wasn’t gay. Right, and why did John care, especially right at this second? Surely Greg’s sexuality crisis could wait? No, that was being horrible when Greg had just saved him so much.
The term gay was usually used now to refer to those who fancied people of the same dynamic as themselves. Greg had just revealed he believed he was a Sub. Was he trying to reassure John that he’d never been interested in Sherlock? Not only was that pointless as it had never occurred to John, but if that was what Greg had meant there wouldn’t have been any reason to caveat his sentence with ‘in any sense’.
John sighed again, breath ruffling the curls against his skin. So that could only mean that Greg didn’t fancy his own gender. Well, that was hardly a revelation, most Alphas didn’t after -
John stopped, thoughts coming to a screeching halt.
Greg was an Alpha.
He wasn’t gay.
He was in a relationship with Mycroft.
But he wasn’t gay.
Sherlock’s stillness in his arms, sobs forced down again out of fear, suddenly made a lot more sense.
It was possible Mycroft was a Beta. After all, Greg had posed as a Dom for years purely off the strength of being an Alpha and Sherlock had faked enough Dominance to be taken as an Alpha Dom despite being neither. Mycroft was Dominant, very Dominant. John had come across other Doms stronger than himself in the army, but he thought Mycroft might be another step up again. It was hard to tell without all parties there to compare, but it seemed that way, so it would be stupidly easy for Mycroft to fake being an Alpha based off nothing more than that.
If he were a Beta, he would be the most Dominant Beta John had ever met by miles.
“Sherlock,” John murmured into the hair, “are you and Mycroft full siblings?”
He kept his voice low for him and Sherlock alone because it seemed the thing to do more than because he didn’t want Greg and Mycroft to hear. He nuzzled his Sub, waiting with a thudding heart for the answer. Somehow it seemed so important, so very important, that Sherlock be the one to answer this not anyone else.
It wasn’t uncommon for families not to differentiate between siblings and half-siblings given how often Alpha parents involuntarily strayed. Even at the height of their arguments when they were hurting each other in every way possible with every low blow they had ever found effective, John and Harry never put any weight to the fact they only had their Sire in common, and John’s Mum was Mrs Caroline Watson, not whoever had given birth to him. Given the social and political prominence of the Holmes family, John could easily believe that small genetic difference would be hidden from the world.There was the slightest nod against his neck and Sherlock started trembling again, hands still buried in John’s shirt.
John held him close.
Full siblings.
“This is your answer, isn’t it? Why you didn’t come forward this week.” John gently rocked him. “You were protecting him.”
Full siblings.
God.
He bared his teeth in what might possibly have been mistaken for a smile, but was a feral challenge, and raised his face from Sherlock’s hair to meet Mycroft’s eyes. Suddenly Mycroft’s sepulchral presence in the room when he wasn’t adding anything to the conversation made a lot more sense.
I see you.
“Omega.”
Mycroft’s jaw tilted up, not quite enough to accept the challenge in John’s territory, but certainly in warning. “Omega Dominant.”
John’s mind kept flying ahead, pulling together scraps of information he hadn’t realised he’d noticed and slotting them together into place. Was this what it felt like to be Sherlock? It was mind blowing.
“You wouldn’t let him say.” John’s voice was flat.
He could feel the anger building again, but this time it was focused outwards not at a piece of his soul, and he felt himself growing calm in automatic response. He had always functioned well under external pressure, emotional or otherwise.
“All this,” John stroked a hand down Sherlock’s back, “you caused all this because you wouldn’t let him tell me.”
Mycroft said and did nothing.
“What did you do?” John hissed. “Did you threaten him? Dom him?”
Mycroft shifted slightly in his chair.
“How dare you, how DARE you!” John vaguely noticed Greg moving to put himself between Mycroft and John, but Mycroft stopped him. Greg didn’t sit, merely hovered halfway between the chairs, visibly unable to keep going or convince himself to go back.
It was a needless gesture. John wouldn’t move Sherlock to stand and even if he did he felt no desire to actually attack Mycroft despite his anger.
“You would have just left. Would you even be here if Greg hadn’t made you come?”
“No.”
“So you’d let him suffer!” John knew his fingers were pressing into Sherlock so hard he’d probably leave bruises, but he needed to feel him under his skin, needed the tactile grounding in his Sub. “You don’t care about him at all!”
Something snapped in Mycroft and he was on his feet before John finished his sentence.
“Do you think I wanted this!” Mycroft roared, gesturing to his body. “You don’t think I wouldn’t prefer to be an Alpha so both our lives could have been easier! I’m taking a substantial risk informing you and I am accepting it solely for his sake, so do not ever again so much as insinuate I do not care for my brother!”
They stayed there, Mycroft standing aggressively, chest heaving, John holding Sherlock with teeth bared and silent snarl, until Sherlock broke the tension.
“It’s not his fault.”
John instantly broke contact in preference of fussing over his Sub. Sherlock slowly lifted his face out of the crook of John’s neck and wiped tear tracks away with his silk shirt. He still looked awful, miles too pale with red rimmed bloodshot eyes and the minutest of tremors still in his hand.
John bit back a growl, knowing it would be taken the wrong way by Sherlock. He would make someone pay for this, for putting them in this position and hurting his Omega so much.
“He’s not the one - Mycroft has only used force over this problem once and I was off my head on cocaine and about to mouth off everything in the A&E. He was right to.” Sherlock’s beautiful baritone was worn from crying.
The growl slipped past John’s control.
“No, really John.” Sherlock looked frantic; obviously scared John was going to challenge Mycroft over this.
John hadn’t decided.
“John, he’s a politician, a diplomat, he is the Government. Do you have any idea what would happen to him if this was uncovered.” Sherlock moved to straddle John and bracketed his face with hands. “It really is life or death for him.”
John let the air out of his lungs in a long sigh and slumped against the back of the couch. Yes, he could imagine how dangerous this secret was. Thinking his Alpha was calmed, Sherlock relaxed too.
“Who then?” John murmured as Sherlock’s thumb stroked his face.
Someone had Dommed the command into Sherlock. John didn’t believe a onetime thing by Mycroft in the A&E was all that was bound up in this.
The thumb stopped and John straightened again dangerously. There was fear written all over Sherlock’s face, a different kind of fear to earlier. This wasn’t the fear of an adult being forced between a rock and a hard place, threatened with losing everything. This was the fear of a child and a child’s nightmare.
“Who?” John repeated again, aware his voice had settled into a dangerous primal rumble and not caring in the slightest.
“Our Sire.” Mycroft answered instead, resettling himself in the chair. Greg propped himself on the arm. “He was… less than impressed with the revelations brought by my arriving at puberty.”
How often, John wondered as he brushed the curls clouding Sherlock’s face back, was that taken out on them? How often was the command driven into them, both of them, until keeping Mycroft’s secret formed part of the Holmes brothers’ cores? Sherlock would have been what 4, 5 when Mycroft hit puberty?
It would have severely damaged Sherlock to tell John. After a literal lifetime of being ordered not to, John wondered whether he even could have.
He leant his forehead against Sherlock’s.
Not Sherlock’s fault. None of this Sherlock’s fault. Not even Mycroft’s fault. He was as damaged by all this as his brother, though John doubted he’d ever acknowledge it to himself, let alone anyone else.
He would find and kill the Alpha who had done this to them.
“He’s already dead.”
He was growling again. He supposed that was a fairly obvious clue to his intentions.
“Really?”
“For ten years.” Mycroft confirmed dispassionately. “I identified the body myself.”
John shifted his gaze to look at Greg in the eye and saw the Alpha staring back. If Holmes Snr hadn’t already been dead he would have been soon, and between them John was sure they wouldn’t have had any problems disposing of the body.
He tried to let his anger go. He couldn’t take it out on the person who deserved it and here and now it would only hurt people he was meant to protect.
Focus elsewhere, change the subject.
“So how far along are you?”
Everyone in the room started and stared at him, Mycroft in particular looking confused and almost scared.
“Really?” John fumed. “Really? I’m a doctor, and I’ve been living with Sherlock Holmes for almost two years!”
“Well, yeah, but...” Greg stuttered looking all too wide eyed for John’s tastes.
He could live with the Holmeses underestimating him as they were both arrogant gits. (He loved Sherlock very much, but he was still an arrogant git.) He would not take being condescended to by Greg Lestrade.
“You and Mycroft have been friends for years and suddenly you’re risking your career and reputation to move in together? Not without some sort of trigger. Now what sort of trigger might convince a fake Dom and a closeted Omega to move in together after fighting for the last few months? Conclusion, Mycroft’s suppression meds screwed up recently and tada, baby.” John scratched his head and took a deep breath of air. He could almost smell it without his nose buried in Sherlock’s hair. “Besides, you’re making me itch.” He complained.
The reaction to that was instantaneous. Mycroft’s mask fell away completely and he looked terrified while Greg leapt to his feet planting himself squarely between John and Mycroft.
John blinked in surprise and decided it was best not to move a muscle. Terrified was not a safe look on Mycroft Holmes.
It was Greg who broke the standoff with a huffing laugh and collapsed back on the chair arm. “Guess you do have a family Alpha after all, My.” There was a certain wicked glee in his voice as he turned to face his partner. “He’s Bonded to your brother, which means he’s related to you.”
“Indeed.” Mycroft gave an exasperated sigh. “You really can scent it?”
“Sort of, it’s not really a scent yet.” John breathed in again. “It’s more a... it’s hard to explain... an awareness?”
“Lucky you.” Greg grumbled looking sulkily at the wall. John noticed his foot was hooked around Mycroft’s leg keeping them in contact.
“So how far along are you actually?” He prompted again, rearranging Sherlock so he was sitting on the couch, laid out with his head in John’s lap instead of sending his leg to sleep. He surreptitiously tried to work out the pins and needles to absolutely no avail.
“Two months and approximately twenty three days.” Greg answered. “What?” He glowered at all the looks he was getting. “It was a rather significant event you know.”
Mycroft rolled his eyes and received a not so elegant elbow to his shoulder. The appearance that Greg hadn’t rolled over like a puppy to every one of his Omega’s whims was ruined by the consolatory brush of lips to Mycroft’s knuckles.
“Probably a good thing you mentioned this now then.” John let Sherlock snag his fingers and didn’t resist as Sherlock burrowed his way up John’s shirt until he was able to touch skin. “A couple more weeks and it’ll start to really drive me bonkers as well.”
“And on that revelation have we covered everything to your satisfaction, Gregory?” Mycroft pointedly examined his pocket watch.
It was Greg’s turn to roll his eyes followed by an icy raised eyebrow from Mycroft.
“Yes?”
“In that case our dinner reservation is waiting.”
“Dinner? We’re having dinner together?” It was painful how pathetically hopefully Greg sounded. He certainly perked up a lot.
“Yes.” Mycroft stood. “John, Sherlock, hope to see you both soon.” With an insincere smile he swept out the door as fast as was possible while retaining a dignified pace and the illusion he wasn’t fleeing the scene.
“I’d better just...” Greg fluttered his hands after the retreating figure.
“Coat, Gregory.” Mycroft called from the steps.
“Coat, coat, ah right. Well, see you soon mates.” Greg waved quickly, collected the great coats, and bolted out the door.
John stayed where he was, letting his brain filter and process everything. “Well, that was interesting.”
Sherlock didn’t respond, just lay still in John’s lap stroking his skin.
“Sherlock,” John bit his lip, “has Mycroft ever had a relationship before? A proper one?”
Sherlock shook his head.
“Huh.”
Sherlock twisted and peered up at John with one bleary eye. “You don’t think it’s a good thing.” He sounded confused.
“I think it could be a good thing, but it’s more likely to be an explosive disaster.”
The hand under his clothing resumed its stroking, but it seemed rather wistful.
“They’re perfect for each other. Against all odds they’re friends and have complimentary genders and dynamics.” Definitely wistful.
John felt a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. He’d long suspected Sherlock, despite his obliviousness to actually recognising or carrying it off, was a closet romantic. Probably came from only retaining a few of the classics and all of those that he kept celebrating old fashioned courtly romance. John wondered whether Sherlock had deleted Disney and resolved to find out.
“It’s not a fairytale, love; it’s life. There are no happily ever after’s in life.”
“There can be.” The fingers tightened on John’s skin. He was clearly not talking solely about Mycroft and Greg’s relationship.
“There can be, but they take work, lots of work.” John warned him, knowing things wouldn’t be easy, no matter how much the respective parties loved each other.
“You don’t think Mycroft and Lestrade will put in the effort?” Sherlock scowled and John let himself enjoy the novelty of Sherlock defending his brother as Sherlock quite obviously ran from the implied discussion of their own relationship, desperate to believe everything would be alright.
“I think,” John said gently, “that a Sub who not only doesn’t know how to be a Sub, but is used to acting as a Dom, and an inexperienced Dom who has his own issues is a very dangerous combination, even without the added stress of a baby.”
“Mycroft’s not that inexperienced.”
“I’m sure he’s got lots of experience at directing sessions, but there’s a big difference between casual play and the compromises required in a relationship.” John sighed. “It’s going to be harder since your upbringing appears to have been very traditional.”
And abusive, but John didn’t want to think about that right then.
Sherlock gave a snort and waved a dismissive hand.
“I’m serious.” John didn’t try and resist the impulse to catch the flying appendage and graze a small kiss across the knuckles. “You might have rejected it all, but I’m betting Mycroft internalised everything, and Greg is never going to be a traditional Sub. His Alpha nature will prevent it.”
“Mycroft enjoys a challenge. He’d be bored stiff if Lestrade were an ordinary Sub.”
“I know that, you know that, anyone who has ever met Mycroft knows that, but I don’t think Mycroft does, not really.”
Sherlock buried his face in back in John’s clothing and didn’t reply so they sat there in silence for a few minutes.
“What about us?” He eventually asked in a small voice.
“I understand why you didn’t say anything.” John kept his answers neutral. He knew they had to have this conversation, but he didn’t want to.
“So are we okay?”
John could hear the hope in his voice.
“No, Sherlock, we’re not okay.” There was an unidentifiable muffled sound into John’s thigh. “I know why, but it feels like something’s been ripped, something important deep down... I can’t explain.” He realised he was rubbing his chest as if it were a physical wound.
“I know.” The fingers under John’s shirt retreated as Sherlock curled up into a ball, like he didn’t dare touch anymore.
“You feel it too?”
“Yes.” Sherlock sounded resigned, utterly hopeless.
“Hey, hey.” John rolled Sherlock over so he could see his face. As expected Sherlock’s eyes were bright with tears, but then John could feel them burning in his own eyes again as well. “It’s ripped, not severed. We can, will, fix it. I love you and I refuse to ever let you go.”
“I love you too.” Sherlock whispered back. “I was so scared you would - in the office I thought... and then they came and I knew and I was terrified-”
“I’m here, I’m here.” John gathered Sherlock up and pulled him into a sitting position to better hold him.
It frightened him, seeing Sherlock, his calm, arrogant, icy emotionless Sherlock in this overwrought state. Sherlock was never this open with what he felt and was a superlative actor, able to convince almost anyone of anything, but here he was broadcasting everything for John to see. John had never seen him like this, and hoped never to again.
“This,” he brushed his finger along the thin black band, “is never coming off. You are mine, do you understand me, and I am possessive and jealous and never surrender what is mine. If I am alive you are mine, even if you want to leave.”
“If you’re alive,” Sherlock responded “there’s no reason I would ever want to leave.”
Minutes ticked by as John gently held Sherlock until he reluctantly let his arms drop.
“Do you need to go? Is that time sensitive?” He waved in the general direction of the kitchen experiment laden table.
“I’ll redo it tomorrow.” Sherlock mumbled, not moving.
There was no one left to see, but John hid his smile in Sherlock’s neck anyway. “If you’re sure.”
“Very.”
With a bit of nudging John retrieved his legs from under Sherlock and coaxed him down on the couch. Sherlock was bent at hip and knee into what had to be an uncomfortable position, but he refused to move his head from under John’s chin so John let him be. Instead he snagged the afghan off the back of the couch.
“Mine.” He whispered.
Sherlock sighed contentedly and nuzzled John’s neck.
“We’ll be fine.” John vowed. “I promise.”
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Previous - Next
Title:Though I Walk through the Valley (12/38)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: As so many of you were looking forward to or dreading... John finds out!
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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John shuffled past his lover, forcing himself gamely between the kitchen chair and the bench on his way back to the sitting room with his fresh cup of tea. Exactly what Sherlock was doing that involved so much stuff that the kitchen table had had to be moved he wasn't sure. He wasn't even sure what was equipment and what were samples, or even whether they were connected to why Sherlock was peering through the microscope now. It was entirely possible he'd moved the table for the light and it was all just junk.
He let his fingers trail along the back of Sherlock's chair as he passed by, but made no contact with his Sub. Sherlock was concentrating and would not appreciate being distracted by touch at a critical point in his venture. Whenever Sherlock was disturbed, it was always a critical point in his venture.
John settled into his armchair with a sigh. There were no cases, Sherlock wasn't bored enough to be destructive, his blog was up to date, and he couldn't clean the flat until Sherlock's latest mess making enterprise was concluded. It was one of those days and times he could just relax.
Except he couldn't.
Unlike Sherlock, John actually understood what Mycroft meant when he claimed to worry constantly. It was all part of being an Alpha Dom, the driving imperative to protect what was yours, and the more Dominant the Alpha the more that was considered 'mine'. If John and Sherlock hadn't Bonded there would likely have been some clashes between him and Mycroft resulting from competing claims on the Omega, but the short time between relationship and Bonding had circumvented that as even a more Dominant Alpha had to cede to a Bond claim, and before their relationship had commenced John had refrained through great strength of will from laying a competing claim on his flatmate.
You didn't claim fellow Alphas. As Sherlock's elder brother, Mycroft's territorial claim over the Detective could, at a stretch, be justified, though such a thing would usually have petered out with puberty. Mycroft being Mycroft (and Sherlock being Sherlock) John hadn't even thought to question why Mycroft actively considered Sherlock his despite their ages. Discovering that Sherlock was an Omega had turned the protectiveness from unusual to expected and even approved of.
John sighed and sipped his tea. You didn't claim fellow Alphas, but that didn't make it any easier to reign in his protective and possessive instincts when it came to people he cared about, and Greg was definitely a person he cared about. Plus, for some reason it was harder to restrain himself regarding Greg. Not impossible, just difficult. Different.
He tried, he definitely tried. He hadn't raced straight over when Molly had first shared the latest gossip filtered down from the Yard about DI Lestrade's gambling problems. Greg was an Alpha and a Dom in his own right and would not appreciate being smothered by his younger friend. He'd learnt that lesson the hard way with Harry, who may not have been an Alpha, but was a reasonably dominant Dom and had resented John's childish attempts to protect her their whole childhood. It had not improved with age. Maybe John could have managed to scale back his protectiveness; maybe John could give Harry a bit more space, if Harry would just pull her life together!
He knew she hated it, but he worried.
The news that Greg was so badly off that he was being forced to sell his flat had been too much, but as expected Greg had not appreciated John's interference and so John had backed off. Greg obviously was getting things in hand, but the whole situation settled like an unscratchable itch between John's shoulder blades.
He wouldn't hover; he wouldn't make such an obvious mistake with Greg having already made it with Harry.
But he wanted to.
But he wouldn't.
But he wanted to.
There was a knock on the door downstairs and he could hear Mrs Hudson fussing her way to answer it.
He took another sip of tea and craned his head back to look at Sherlock, instinctive smile touching his lips. He'd never thought he'd have a Bonded Omega, but here he was Bonded to probably the most unusual Omega in London, no, the world.
"You're looking at me." Sherlock's deep baritone rumbled across the gap between them as his fingers nimbly switched slides under the microscope.
"Yes, sorry, is it distracting?" John was never sure what was distracting for Sherlock. It seemed to change capriciously at rather frequent intervals.
Sherlock turned his head and sent a warm smile John's way. "No, it's fine."
John let his smile grow. He loved these times, when they weren't running around frantically, but neither of them (Sherlock) was suffering from an overload of nervous energy. In these short windows, after one satisfactory case, but before the next, Baker Street seemed quiet, content, like the whole world could disappear and they'd never notice.
His heart gave an insistent throb and John bit his lip. Moments like these, pauses in life, let him feel exactly how much he loved Sherlock, and it frightened him sometimes how intense his emotions were when they rose up from the depths of his heart, kept safe away from interference in John's everyday life lest he drive Sherlock away by being too overbearing. Right then he felt the strongest urge to go over, run his fingers through Sherlock's hair and take him to bed until John scent covered his skin, the need to hold him and remind him with tongue and teeth that he was John's, John's, John's.
He turned his head back to the main room. Those intense bursts of feeling always left him morose, an aching emptiness in his chest because they always triggered thoughts of Sherlock lounging dramatically on the couch cradling his slightly swollen stomach demanding tea or prancing around the flat, belly rotund, carrying their child.
He wanted their child. He knew it wasn't just up to him and that a baby wouldn't fit with their lifestyle, but that didn't stop him imagining what their son would look like. Dark hair, dominant genetic trait, but maybe lightened to brown like Harry's was naturally if not all the way up to John's dirty blonde. Curls, he hoped their child got Sherlock's gorgeous curls, and his cheekbones...and his eyes and his height and his mind and hell, just a miniature Sherlock.
Their miniature Sherlock.
Their miniature Sherlock with John's EQ and some manners.
It wouldn't happen. Really it shouldn't, given that an ADD genius and an adrenaline junkie were probably the two least qualified people in the world to raise a child, but John couldn't stop hoping. It had been almost nine months since Sherlock's last Heat so there would hopefully be one soon and maybe this time -
There was a knock. Apparently the visitors were for them and John had missed the footsteps on the stairs.
"Coming." He put his tea aside and went and opened the door. It wasn't people he expected. "Greg, Mycroft, come in."
This, John thought as he ushered them through to the sitting area and offered tea, was unusual. Even though he knew Greg and Mycroft were good friends, actually seeing them together was rare. Most of their socialising was done one on one, and it probably didn't help that Sherlock and Mycroft only really socialised with each other under duress. If Mycroft wanted something he kidnapped John or barged into Baker Street to annoy Sherlock into submission. He didn't just drop in for afternoon tea without a reason.
Which begged the question, what was the reason he was here now and how did Greg come into it?
There were two obvious options, each as likely as the other: 1. Greg's gambling; 2. International terrorist plot ending in an interesting murder. John hoped for one, though Sherlock's preference would probably be option two. Option one involved too much potential for emotion and 'that caring lark', which still made his younger love uncomfortable. John supposed there was also the additional discomfort for Sherlock as his own addiction memories were still relatively fresh and this probably hit too close to the bone. Certainly Sherlock had been reluctant to confront Greg about the issue and had not been quite himself when they'd gone to the Yard.
"Sorry, he'll probably be a few minutes." John said as he handed out the tea mugs. "Experiment, you know."
"Ah, actually John we're here to talk to you." Greg appeared flustered and wrapped his hands around his mug, looking away from John.
"Oh, right, okay." John lowered himself onto the couch, Mycroft having purloined his chair as usual.
This was different.
Greg didn't say anything, but fumbled with his mug seemingly unable to decide whether to hold it or set it down. In contrast Mycroft was almost aggressively still and dressed in a suit that even by his usual standards was very posh. The self-striped glossy black three-piece made him look very severe, and he'd even changed his habitual umbrella for a matching dark handled version. He looked as if he were about to attend a state funeral.
There was something else different too, something John couldn't quite describe, maybe a scent, but it made him glad he was between the door and Mycroft in case someone stormed through.
Greg looked over at Mycroft and when Mycroft failed to do or say anything, rallied to go 'it' alone, whatever it was.
"Well, you see, well, we, well, I felt that we needed to... well, it's just not... we're... um, Christ, look the thing is... well..."
John didn't bother to conceal his confusion (Mycroft would see it even if he did). He belatedly realised the noise in the kitchen had stopped,
Sherlock's interest must be piqued too, so he slid sideways to the edge of the couch from where he could just see him through the kitchen door thanks to the absurd angle the table was now on. Sherlock was frozen, still bent over his microscope.
Very interested then.
"Oh damn and blast, John, I'm not a Dom." Greg finally spat his sentence out, looking both nervous and defiant, and it was more than enough to grab John's wondering attention.
"What?"
"I'm not a Dom." Greg repeated.
"You're an Alpha."
"Yes."
"But not a Dom."
"Correct."
"You're an Alpha Submissive."
"Yes."
"Right, okay, pull the other one." John took a sip and blew a bit more on his tea. “So why are you here?”
“I mean it, John.” Greg’s brown eyes bore pleadingly into John’s soul. “I’m a Sub, not a Dom.”
John raised his eyebrow sceptically. It was unbelievable. Alphas were Dominants that was just the way it was. The genes were linked, it was supposed to be impossible to separate them even in a lab, and if what Greg was saying was true then he was living refutation of all John's medical training.
Of course, there was no way it was true. Greg seemed to believe it, but he was obviously confused, right?
Sighing at the pleading expression Greg was sending him, John cast his mind back trying to find any proof in his memories that all this was an elaborate misconception, or any possible signs of Greg developing some form of mental psychosis. Greg was definitely an Alpha. While it was possible to get these things wrong, Sherlock being case in point, Greg scanned very much as an Alpha and John knew his ex-wife had had a miscarriage early in their relationship, which was irrefutable proof confirming what John already instinctively knew.
Admittedly when he tried to find examples of Greg's dominance he couldn't. Greg had never Dommed anyone that John had seen, something John had attributed to the DI being pedantic about the rules and a bit new age-y in the management of his team. True though, he bent (broke) other rules yet still never used dominance to control his people at the Yard, even when there were situations like the last time Sherlock had visited that really did require it. It had been John who had broken off the fight, not Greg despite the damage to the office.
It would rather conveniently explain why John was having so much trouble stopping himself acting like an overprotective mother bear. Similarly to how Harry triggered his instincts despite being a Dom because they were related, Greg might trigger them because he wasn't one, despite being an Alpha.
But, no... really? Greg was certainly convinced and there wasn't anything John could come up with to refute it except the utter impossibility and -
"Alright then, if that’s true, how has no one figured it out?" He challenged, presenting the smallest hurdle to watch Greg stumble from the start.
Greg gave him a weary smile. "Because everyone assumes an Alpha is a Dom and vice versa, even Holmeses who should know better. Besides, I've had a lot of practice acting."
"Yeah, but..." John could think of so many ways that Greg's secret could be uncovered.
"A lot of people confuse Alpha and Dominant traits, they see one and believe it’s the other. Being an Alpha offsets most of the really obvious Submissive tells." Greg shrugged. "Or maybe I got lucky."
"Right." John honestly couldn't say much more. It was utterly insane, and worse, Greg seemed to believe it.
Greg relaxed back into his chair, finally comfortable John wasn't going to call him a liar and challenge him over it. John wasn't sure what he was going to do. He'd always known Greg wasn't a strong Dom, outright pathetic for an Alpha really, but to actually be a Sub... To believe himself to be one…
It was a lot to accept, but it was equally clear Mycroft did believe Greg and that was a fairly weighty bit of evidence in its own right.
"Okay, I’ll play ball. Who knows?" John asked.
"Only the people in this room."
"Huh, and... not that we don't appreciate it, but why are you telling us? Is this because I didn't think the two of you moving in was a good idea? I’m sorry if I was a bit much, but really Greg, you do need to think this through properly." John looked between the two of them suspiciously.
There was rustling as Greg, who almost seemed the only one of the two of them involved in the conversation as Mycroft was neither reacting nor adding anything, shifted looking very discomfited.
"Well, partially."
"Partially?" John leant forward to rest his elbows on his knees.
"Yeah, um, well, you see... we," he gestured to indicate himself and Mycroft, "well, there really weren't many options and I feel ruddy awful about it, but in this case it really couldn't go on cause - look, you don't need to worry about me, the gambling thing. I, uh, don't actually have a gambling addiction it was just convenient-"
Instead of getting more confused like he felt he should be, things suddenly fell into place in John's head. "How long?"
Greg startled at the interruption and looked very confused despite not having any real reason to.
"How long have you two been together?" John clarified.
There was disbelief tinged with grudging approval faintly visible on Mycroft's face. The older Holmes always did expect John to need things spelled out (though by Mycroft's standards, he did).
"That's what this is about, right?" John continued. "You need an excuse to justify moving in together and this is it. You don't want people realising you're in a relationship."
“Well, um... yes. That’s exactly right.” Greg looked a little uncomfortable, having lost control of the conversation.
“Then-” John stopped as a thought suddenly crossed his mind. "Sherlock."
The clatter of Sherlock's latest scientific escapade resumed more loudly than it had been before.
"Sherlock." John called again, putting enough force behind the word to let his Sub know that he was serious despite the fact he wasn't giving an order.
Slowly and reluctantly Sherlock set down the pipette and unglued his eyes from the microscope. He moved carefully to secure the lids of the various chemicals he was using, an obvious delaying tactic, but one that was always allowed as he tended to use some very nasty compounds, before finally pushing back his chair and walking to John's side. His head was thrown back defiantly and he met John's gaze and held it, but his hands were trembling and John saw him swallow convulsively as he sank to his knees next to John.
He had known then.
"John," Greg started, but stopped when John held up a warning finger.
"You knew." He didn't frame it as a question.
"Yes."
No attempt to hide it, no pause, no dissembling, just an answer.
An answer that confirmed Greg wasn’t around the bend, because there was no way he could spend that many years around both Holmes brothers without one of them noticing he was insane.
John wondered if he was going insane just at the idea of it.
"And you knew Greg didn't have a gambling problem?"
Sherlock raised his chin just a fraction higher. "I didn't lie."
"No," John conceded, "you didn't lie" There was the slightest relaxing of Sherlock's shoulders. "But you deliberately set out to deceive, and never mentioned it or contradicted my conclusions despite the numerous conversations we've had on the topic in the last week and how worried you knew I was."
“Yes." It was becoming visibly harder for Sherlock to maintain his defiance, John could see his fingers convulsing on the floor, but his stubborn Sub refused to back down.
Greg went to speak, but John could see the restraining finger Mycroft crooked warningly out of the corner of his eye, gaze still locked on Sherlock's.
"And if Greg hadn't come today, you would have continued to keep this from me."
"Yes." Sherlock's fingers moved to grip his thighs, but he maintained eye contact, back ramrod straight. He clearly understood the significance of the conversation, how much more was being said than the words implied.
"And if I had asked, demanded an answer from you, instead of letting the issue go, would you have told me?"
Please answer yes. Every bone in John’s body prayed that Sherlock would say yes.
"No." Sherlock's voice was trembling with his body.
"You would have lied to me."
"Yes." Sherlock's voice cracked mid-word. His left hand was wound tight around his bracelet now, and his shoulders had begun to bow.
John took a deep breath and tried to force back his instincts enough to make sense of the storm unfurling inside him. Everything was simultaneously screaming at him to take Sherlock into his arms and protect him and chase away the pain, but also screaming with the pain of his Omega's rejection, the hurt, and anger, so, so much anger.
His instincts were driving emotions that were unforgiving, a hard baseline of anger and pain. How dare Sherlock do this? This was outright betrayal of them and their Bond on every level. A total betrayal of everything they’d ever worked towards, as friends or lovers. A knife in the gut would have hurt less than this metaphorical knife in the back. His instincts howled rampaging through his muscles until he shook from it all.
John pushed off the couch and walked over to the wall, needing space, needing to put floor between him and his Sub (deceiver, backstabber, betrayer, traitor) before he did something unforgivable.
How could Sherlock do this? To him, to them? (Calm, calm, breathe) Sherlock knew how hard it had been for John when they'd started, how reluctant John had been to give in to his feelings for Sherlock because he didn't think he could control his instincts well enough not to demand the control over everything, destroying all the unique aspects of Sherlock he loved, to keep him contained in a fluffy safe haven with John as his gaoler. He'd managed, but he'd managed only because Sherlock promised, he’d promised - no more lies, no more leaving John out, no more hiding, and despite past experience, despite knowing he'd be let down again because he'd been let down before, he'd forced himself to shelve his issues and trust Sherlock so he could adapt, because he loved him, he loved him, and he had since the start and he needed him, and how dare Sherlock, how dare he do this to them!
How dare he kneel there, the rage thundered, and look John in the eye and admit he would lie to John and deceive him, break his trust over something so simple and meaningless as his brother and their friend's relationship.
John pressed his arm across his mouth to restrain the sounds his throat was trying to release, not knowing if they were angry snarls or broken wails. He felt like something deep inside him was tearing, something deeper and more precious than his heart, and it hurt!
Calm, calm, breathe. Channel the anger, channel the hurt, don't let it rule him. This was not like before, it hurt more, but he had training now, he could and would control himself and not do something he'd regret. He'd been in a war now, he could handle this. This wasn’t last time.
Slowly John turned away from the wall, not a full 180° so he could see Sherlock, but far enough around he could see Greg and Mycroft. Greg was partway out of his chair, body leaning towards Sherlock. He looked absolutely desperate to comfort him. Mycroft's whole hand was wrapped around Greg's wrist, keeping him in place. The other Alpha was perfectly composed, merely waiting for the scene to resolve.
John ignored the muffled whimpers he could hear. He had two choices and he couldn't let Sherlock's state influence him into a poor choice that would hurt them more in the long run. He could turn around, go over to Sherlock and try and find some way to get through this despite the tearing in what had to be their Bond, and he had to do it now, or he could walk out the door, give himself some real space and privacy, 5-10 minutes to think, and accept that no matter how much he loved Sherlock he couldn't be around him if he couldn't trust him.
John knew he could walk out. Sherlock, and Greg apparently, if he were to be believed, couldn't stop him and Mycroft would let him go without comment. He also knew that Sherlock would not be here when he got back even if he was only gone for ten minutes, and no matter how hard he searched, Mycroft would ensure he never found Sherlock ever again.
He had to choose to fight or flight, right now, this very second, full to the brim of pain, anger, and old hurt.
He was a soldier, he’d gone to war.
He would always fight.
He stepped away from the wall and let himself face his errant Sub (betrayer, deceiver, Judas). Sherlock was knelt precisely where John had left him, not an inch out of place. His whole body was shaking so hard he looked like he was having a seizure and he'd collapsed in on himself, shoulders hunched over and head bowed. His hands were round his neck, fingers clutched tight at his collar even though fitting them all in and around the leather circle was causing it to half choke him, reducing the sobs and whimpers to barely anything.
Oh, Sherlock. His poor, poor love.
The sight set up a renewed clamour under John's skin, arousing his need to protect and reassure, and his disgust, and hurt, and loathing.
He moved slowly to stand in front of Sherlock. John wanted to kneel and cradle him in his arms until they were both covered in each other's scent.
He wanted to kick him and whip him until he bled, bright crimson stains splashed across the garish wallpaper. He wanted to hurt him, take his pound of flesh to pay for the excruciating rage inside him.
He did neither. He ruled his instincts, not the other way around and his rational mind knew there was one very important thing he hadn't asked that could well change everything, could potentially save, or send John to the door.
"Why?" He didn't need to raise his voice for it to carry.
"I'm sorry." Sherlock's voice was strained. "I'm sorry."
"Why didn't you tell me, Sherlock?"
"Because I didn't expect - it was just a relationship!" Sherlock's voice was hoarse from where his collar was restricting his collar. "I - you've never cared who was sleeping with whom when I've s-said before and he clearly d-didn't want it made p-public and it was Mycroft and you've said b-before that's not g-good and then suddenly it w-was more and there were other things ah-and I knew they d-didn't want to say but I didn't have time to work out what I s-should and I'm sorry."
John collapsed down onto the couch and buried his face in his hands. His stupid genius, his brilliant idiotic genius. Trying so hard to do the right thing and screwing up so completely.
"And after?" His own voice was choked up with emotion. All this suffering for both of them because for once Sherlock had tried to be good. “After we heard the rumours, after we talked to Greg? Why didn’t you say anything then?”
Sherlock didn't answer, if possible wrapping more of his long fingers around the leather, forcing himself to breathe in short huffs. John leant forward and gently tugged the hands away before Sherlock caused himself to pass out.
Sherlock froze, and let out a keening wail as he curled down, wrapping his arms under his legs. He started rocking side to side and moaning what John managed to decipher after a few moments as "please, please, no, please." The bewilderment only lasted a few seconds longer before John realised why Sherlock's distress had escalated.
"Oh, Sherlock, no, no, no, love, no. Come here." John tugged on Sherlock's shirt collar. "Come here." Sherlock stayed where he was curled on the floor. "Come here."
Slowly Sherlock's body unfurled and John helped him up on the couch next to him. There were no tears, Sherlock looked too panicked and upset to cry, and his lip was chewed ragged. John ran a finger gently across the reddened flesh.
"I'm not taking it off, Sherlock, you just needed to stop before you passed out."
John could see the change flow over Sherlock with the reassurance, his body slightly sagging with relief, though losing none of its tension. He held out a hand, expecting Sherlock's to be given in return.
It hurt, he realised, it really hurt how desperately six foot and one half inch of consulting detective tried to fit himself into John's lap like a child, face buried in John's neck, body scrunched as small as possible to press every last one of those inches within the space of John's frame. The pain was different to the pain earlier, tugged at a different heart string because this hurt was hurt for Sherlock not because of him.
John buried his nose in Sherlock's hair and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's body. Even with John's efforts at feeding him up the detective was still too thin and he could completely encircle him with ease.
"I love you." He whispered into the inky curls. "I love you and I will never take that collar off you. You are mine and I will fight for you, for us, for as long as I'm alive."
There was a strangled sob into his neck and hot wetness as the adrenaline grip over Sherlock's body finally gave enough to allow him to cry.
"I love you." John whispered again. He could feel his own eyes burning as his body responded. Decision made, he needed the reassurance of Sherlock in his arms as much as Sherlock needed to be in them.
Sherlock's fisted grip on his shirt tightened in response.
"We'll leave you two alone." Mycroft stood and collected his umbrella.
"Thank you." John lifted his head enough to meet Greg's eyes without taking his nose out of Sherlock's hair.
If Greg had waited...If Sherlock had actually lied…John wasn’t sure he could have fought his instinctive reaction down enough to face the truth: that no matter what he never wanted to let Sherlock go.
Greg tried to smile reassuringly, but was preoccupied casting confused looks in Mycroft's direction, Mycroft who was now strolling past John towards the door and creating the strangest urge in John to turn his head and pay attention to him. It wasn’t enough to offset his immediate need for Sherlock and his scent, but it was distracting.
“Mycroft?” Greg hadn’t moved from his chair. He still sounded bewildered. “Mycroft, I thought we said-”
“They clearly need some time, Gregory.” Mycroft unhooked his great coat from where he’d stored it behind the door when John got tea.
John appreciated it, the sentiment, but the embarrassment he could slowly feel creeping in now the emotional drive was gone was faint enough still, as long as he was able to hold Sherlock. From the silent sobs still wracking Sherlock’s body he wasn’t going to be in any condition to talk for a bit. John didn’t want to press, but Sherlock still owed him an answer and if the wound wasn’t lanced and all possible infection burned off now it could and would fester and become much, much worse. However that was for later, not this second, not if Greg still needed something.
Greg looked annoyed, even a little angry and had most definitely not moved from his seat in Sherlock’s armchair.
“No, Mycroft.” His voice was firm. “We said everything.”
He sent a pointed glance John’s, or rather John suspected Sherlock’s, way. Behind him he could hear the reluctant sounds of Mycroft hanging his coat back up.
Mycroft’s walk back to his chair was measured, dignified and very formal, like a man going to his execution. He brushed close to John on the way, and John found himself instinctively taking a deep lungful of air, even though all he could smell was Sherlock and his fussy, salon-branded shampoo.
Greg kept looking at Mycroft once he resumed his seat, though it quickly became clear Mycroft wasn’t saying anything and he let out an exasperated sigh.
“You see, John, the thing is,” he’d scooted forward to the edge of the seat and was leaning forward earnestly, right knee obscured by one of Sherlock’s soft silky curls, “I’m not actually gay, you know, in any sense of the word.”
Well that was enlightening. Word games, more word games. John’s brain was really not functioning and he just wanted whatever it was explained so he could concentrate on his Sub, but Greg was giving him a pleading please-work-it-out look and Sherlock’s crying had stuttered slightly and he now pressed even closer into John, almost as though he was hiding from Greg’s words.
With a sigh John let his head shift so he was once again buried with his eyes closed in Sherlock’s curls.
So Greg wasn’t gay. Right, and why did John care, especially right at this second? Surely Greg’s sexuality crisis could wait? No, that was being horrible when Greg had just saved him so much.
The term gay was usually used now to refer to those who fancied people of the same dynamic as themselves. Greg had just revealed he believed he was a Sub. Was he trying to reassure John that he’d never been interested in Sherlock? Not only was that pointless as it had never occurred to John, but if that was what Greg had meant there wouldn’t have been any reason to caveat his sentence with ‘in any sense’.
John sighed again, breath ruffling the curls against his skin. So that could only mean that Greg didn’t fancy his own gender. Well, that was hardly a revelation, most Alphas didn’t after -
John stopped, thoughts coming to a screeching halt.
Greg was an Alpha.
He wasn’t gay.
He was in a relationship with Mycroft.
But he wasn’t gay.
Sherlock’s stillness in his arms, sobs forced down again out of fear, suddenly made a lot more sense.
It was possible Mycroft was a Beta. After all, Greg had posed as a Dom for years purely off the strength of being an Alpha and Sherlock had faked enough Dominance to be taken as an Alpha Dom despite being neither. Mycroft was Dominant, very Dominant. John had come across other Doms stronger than himself in the army, but he thought Mycroft might be another step up again. It was hard to tell without all parties there to compare, but it seemed that way, so it would be stupidly easy for Mycroft to fake being an Alpha based off nothing more than that.
If he were a Beta, he would be the most Dominant Beta John had ever met by miles.
“Sherlock,” John murmured into the hair, “are you and Mycroft full siblings?”
He kept his voice low for him and Sherlock alone because it seemed the thing to do more than because he didn’t want Greg and Mycroft to hear. He nuzzled his Sub, waiting with a thudding heart for the answer. Somehow it seemed so important, so very important, that Sherlock be the one to answer this not anyone else.
It wasn’t uncommon for families not to differentiate between siblings and half-siblings given how often Alpha parents involuntarily strayed. Even at the height of their arguments when they were hurting each other in every way possible with every low blow they had ever found effective, John and Harry never put any weight to the fact they only had their Sire in common, and John’s Mum was Mrs Caroline Watson, not whoever had given birth to him. Given the social and political prominence of the Holmes family, John could easily believe that small genetic difference would be hidden from the world.There was the slightest nod against his neck and Sherlock started trembling again, hands still buried in John’s shirt.
John held him close.
Full siblings.
“This is your answer, isn’t it? Why you didn’t come forward this week.” John gently rocked him. “You were protecting him.”
Full siblings.
God.
He bared his teeth in what might possibly have been mistaken for a smile, but was a feral challenge, and raised his face from Sherlock’s hair to meet Mycroft’s eyes. Suddenly Mycroft’s sepulchral presence in the room when he wasn’t adding anything to the conversation made a lot more sense.
I see you.
“Omega.”
Mycroft’s jaw tilted up, not quite enough to accept the challenge in John’s territory, but certainly in warning. “Omega Dominant.”
John’s mind kept flying ahead, pulling together scraps of information he hadn’t realised he’d noticed and slotting them together into place. Was this what it felt like to be Sherlock? It was mind blowing.
“You wouldn’t let him say.” John’s voice was flat.
He could feel the anger building again, but this time it was focused outwards not at a piece of his soul, and he felt himself growing calm in automatic response. He had always functioned well under external pressure, emotional or otherwise.
“All this,” John stroked a hand down Sherlock’s back, “you caused all this because you wouldn’t let him tell me.”
Mycroft said and did nothing.
“What did you do?” John hissed. “Did you threaten him? Dom him?”
Mycroft shifted slightly in his chair.
“How dare you, how DARE you!” John vaguely noticed Greg moving to put himself between Mycroft and John, but Mycroft stopped him. Greg didn’t sit, merely hovered halfway between the chairs, visibly unable to keep going or convince himself to go back.
It was a needless gesture. John wouldn’t move Sherlock to stand and even if he did he felt no desire to actually attack Mycroft despite his anger.
“You would have just left. Would you even be here if Greg hadn’t made you come?”
“No.”
“So you’d let him suffer!” John knew his fingers were pressing into Sherlock so hard he’d probably leave bruises, but he needed to feel him under his skin, needed the tactile grounding in his Sub. “You don’t care about him at all!”
Something snapped in Mycroft and he was on his feet before John finished his sentence.
“Do you think I wanted this!” Mycroft roared, gesturing to his body. “You don’t think I wouldn’t prefer to be an Alpha so both our lives could have been easier! I’m taking a substantial risk informing you and I am accepting it solely for his sake, so do not ever again so much as insinuate I do not care for my brother!”
They stayed there, Mycroft standing aggressively, chest heaving, John holding Sherlock with teeth bared and silent snarl, until Sherlock broke the tension.
“It’s not his fault.”
John instantly broke contact in preference of fussing over his Sub. Sherlock slowly lifted his face out of the crook of John’s neck and wiped tear tracks away with his silk shirt. He still looked awful, miles too pale with red rimmed bloodshot eyes and the minutest of tremors still in his hand.
John bit back a growl, knowing it would be taken the wrong way by Sherlock. He would make someone pay for this, for putting them in this position and hurting his Omega so much.
“He’s not the one - Mycroft has only used force over this problem once and I was off my head on cocaine and about to mouth off everything in the A&E. He was right to.” Sherlock’s beautiful baritone was worn from crying.
The growl slipped past John’s control.
“No, really John.” Sherlock looked frantic; obviously scared John was going to challenge Mycroft over this.
John hadn’t decided.
“John, he’s a politician, a diplomat, he is the Government. Do you have any idea what would happen to him if this was uncovered.” Sherlock moved to straddle John and bracketed his face with hands. “It really is life or death for him.”
John let the air out of his lungs in a long sigh and slumped against the back of the couch. Yes, he could imagine how dangerous this secret was. Thinking his Alpha was calmed, Sherlock relaxed too.
“Who then?” John murmured as Sherlock’s thumb stroked his face.
Someone had Dommed the command into Sherlock. John didn’t believe a onetime thing by Mycroft in the A&E was all that was bound up in this.
The thumb stopped and John straightened again dangerously. There was fear written all over Sherlock’s face, a different kind of fear to earlier. This wasn’t the fear of an adult being forced between a rock and a hard place, threatened with losing everything. This was the fear of a child and a child’s nightmare.
“Who?” John repeated again, aware his voice had settled into a dangerous primal rumble and not caring in the slightest.
“Our Sire.” Mycroft answered instead, resettling himself in the chair. Greg propped himself on the arm. “He was… less than impressed with the revelations brought by my arriving at puberty.”
How often, John wondered as he brushed the curls clouding Sherlock’s face back, was that taken out on them? How often was the command driven into them, both of them, until keeping Mycroft’s secret formed part of the Holmes brothers’ cores? Sherlock would have been what 4, 5 when Mycroft hit puberty?
It would have severely damaged Sherlock to tell John. After a literal lifetime of being ordered not to, John wondered whether he even could have.
He leant his forehead against Sherlock’s.
Not Sherlock’s fault. None of this Sherlock’s fault. Not even Mycroft’s fault. He was as damaged by all this as his brother, though John doubted he’d ever acknowledge it to himself, let alone anyone else.
He would find and kill the Alpha who had done this to them.
“He’s already dead.”
He was growling again. He supposed that was a fairly obvious clue to his intentions.
“Really?”
“For ten years.” Mycroft confirmed dispassionately. “I identified the body myself.”
John shifted his gaze to look at Greg in the eye and saw the Alpha staring back. If Holmes Snr hadn’t already been dead he would have been soon, and between them John was sure they wouldn’t have had any problems disposing of the body.
He tried to let his anger go. He couldn’t take it out on the person who deserved it and here and now it would only hurt people he was meant to protect.
Focus elsewhere, change the subject.
“So how far along are you?”
Everyone in the room started and stared at him, Mycroft in particular looking confused and almost scared.
“Really?” John fumed. “Really? I’m a doctor, and I’ve been living with Sherlock Holmes for almost two years!”
“Well, yeah, but...” Greg stuttered looking all too wide eyed for John’s tastes.
He could live with the Holmeses underestimating him as they were both arrogant gits. (He loved Sherlock very much, but he was still an arrogant git.) He would not take being condescended to by Greg Lestrade.
“You and Mycroft have been friends for years and suddenly you’re risking your career and reputation to move in together? Not without some sort of trigger. Now what sort of trigger might convince a fake Dom and a closeted Omega to move in together after fighting for the last few months? Conclusion, Mycroft’s suppression meds screwed up recently and tada, baby.” John scratched his head and took a deep breath of air. He could almost smell it without his nose buried in Sherlock’s hair. “Besides, you’re making me itch.” He complained.
The reaction to that was instantaneous. Mycroft’s mask fell away completely and he looked terrified while Greg leapt to his feet planting himself squarely between John and Mycroft.
John blinked in surprise and decided it was best not to move a muscle. Terrified was not a safe look on Mycroft Holmes.
It was Greg who broke the standoff with a huffing laugh and collapsed back on the chair arm. “Guess you do have a family Alpha after all, My.” There was a certain wicked glee in his voice as he turned to face his partner. “He’s Bonded to your brother, which means he’s related to you.”
“Indeed.” Mycroft gave an exasperated sigh. “You really can scent it?”
“Sort of, it’s not really a scent yet.” John breathed in again. “It’s more a... it’s hard to explain... an awareness?”
“Lucky you.” Greg grumbled looking sulkily at the wall. John noticed his foot was hooked around Mycroft’s leg keeping them in contact.
“So how far along are you actually?” He prompted again, rearranging Sherlock so he was sitting on the couch, laid out with his head in John’s lap instead of sending his leg to sleep. He surreptitiously tried to work out the pins and needles to absolutely no avail.
“Two months and approximately twenty three days.” Greg answered. “What?” He glowered at all the looks he was getting. “It was a rather significant event you know.”
Mycroft rolled his eyes and received a not so elegant elbow to his shoulder. The appearance that Greg hadn’t rolled over like a puppy to every one of his Omega’s whims was ruined by the consolatory brush of lips to Mycroft’s knuckles.
“Probably a good thing you mentioned this now then.” John let Sherlock snag his fingers and didn’t resist as Sherlock burrowed his way up John’s shirt until he was able to touch skin. “A couple more weeks and it’ll start to really drive me bonkers as well.”
“And on that revelation have we covered everything to your satisfaction, Gregory?” Mycroft pointedly examined his pocket watch.
It was Greg’s turn to roll his eyes followed by an icy raised eyebrow from Mycroft.
“Yes?”
“In that case our dinner reservation is waiting.”
“Dinner? We’re having dinner together?” It was painful how pathetically hopefully Greg sounded. He certainly perked up a lot.
“Yes.” Mycroft stood. “John, Sherlock, hope to see you both soon.” With an insincere smile he swept out the door as fast as was possible while retaining a dignified pace and the illusion he wasn’t fleeing the scene.
“I’d better just...” Greg fluttered his hands after the retreating figure.
“Coat, Gregory.” Mycroft called from the steps.
“Coat, coat, ah right. Well, see you soon mates.” Greg waved quickly, collected the great coats, and bolted out the door.
John stayed where he was, letting his brain filter and process everything. “Well, that was interesting.”
Sherlock didn’t respond, just lay still in John’s lap stroking his skin.
“Sherlock,” John bit his lip, “has Mycroft ever had a relationship before? A proper one?”
Sherlock shook his head.
“Huh.”
Sherlock twisted and peered up at John with one bleary eye. “You don’t think it’s a good thing.” He sounded confused.
“I think it could be a good thing, but it’s more likely to be an explosive disaster.”
The hand under his clothing resumed its stroking, but it seemed rather wistful.
“They’re perfect for each other. Against all odds they’re friends and have complimentary genders and dynamics.” Definitely wistful.
John felt a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. He’d long suspected Sherlock, despite his obliviousness to actually recognising or carrying it off, was a closet romantic. Probably came from only retaining a few of the classics and all of those that he kept celebrating old fashioned courtly romance. John wondered whether Sherlock had deleted Disney and resolved to find out.
“It’s not a fairytale, love; it’s life. There are no happily ever after’s in life.”
“There can be.” The fingers tightened on John’s skin. He was clearly not talking solely about Mycroft and Greg’s relationship.
“There can be, but they take work, lots of work.” John warned him, knowing things wouldn’t be easy, no matter how much the respective parties loved each other.
“You don’t think Mycroft and Lestrade will put in the effort?” Sherlock scowled and John let himself enjoy the novelty of Sherlock defending his brother as Sherlock quite obviously ran from the implied discussion of their own relationship, desperate to believe everything would be alright.
“I think,” John said gently, “that a Sub who not only doesn’t know how to be a Sub, but is used to acting as a Dom, and an inexperienced Dom who has his own issues is a very dangerous combination, even without the added stress of a baby.”
“Mycroft’s not that inexperienced.”
“I’m sure he’s got lots of experience at directing sessions, but there’s a big difference between casual play and the compromises required in a relationship.” John sighed. “It’s going to be harder since your upbringing appears to have been very traditional.”
And abusive, but John didn’t want to think about that right then.
Sherlock gave a snort and waved a dismissive hand.
“I’m serious.” John didn’t try and resist the impulse to catch the flying appendage and graze a small kiss across the knuckles. “You might have rejected it all, but I’m betting Mycroft internalised everything, and Greg is never going to be a traditional Sub. His Alpha nature will prevent it.”
“Mycroft enjoys a challenge. He’d be bored stiff if Lestrade were an ordinary Sub.”
“I know that, you know that, anyone who has ever met Mycroft knows that, but I don’t think Mycroft does, not really.”
Sherlock buried his face in back in John’s clothing and didn’t reply so they sat there in silence for a few minutes.
“What about us?” He eventually asked in a small voice.
“I understand why you didn’t say anything.” John kept his answers neutral. He knew they had to have this conversation, but he didn’t want to.
“So are we okay?”
John could hear the hope in his voice.
“No, Sherlock, we’re not okay.” There was an unidentifiable muffled sound into John’s thigh. “I know why, but it feels like something’s been ripped, something important deep down... I can’t explain.” He realised he was rubbing his chest as if it were a physical wound.
“I know.” The fingers under John’s shirt retreated as Sherlock curled up into a ball, like he didn’t dare touch anymore.
“You feel it too?”
“Yes.” Sherlock sounded resigned, utterly hopeless.
“Hey, hey.” John rolled Sherlock over so he could see his face. As expected Sherlock’s eyes were bright with tears, but then John could feel them burning in his own eyes again as well. “It’s ripped, not severed. We can, will, fix it. I love you and I refuse to ever let you go.”
“I love you too.” Sherlock whispered back. “I was so scared you would - in the office I thought... and then they came and I knew and I was terrified-”
“I’m here, I’m here.” John gathered Sherlock up and pulled him into a sitting position to better hold him.
It frightened him, seeing Sherlock, his calm, arrogant, icy emotionless Sherlock in this overwrought state. Sherlock was never this open with what he felt and was a superlative actor, able to convince almost anyone of anything, but here he was broadcasting everything for John to see. John had never seen him like this, and hoped never to again.
“This,” he brushed his finger along the thin black band, “is never coming off. You are mine, do you understand me, and I am possessive and jealous and never surrender what is mine. If I am alive you are mine, even if you want to leave.”
“If you’re alive,” Sherlock responded “there’s no reason I would ever want to leave.”
Minutes ticked by as John gently held Sherlock until he reluctantly let his arms drop.
“Do you need to go? Is that time sensitive?” He waved in the general direction of the kitchen experiment laden table.
“I’ll redo it tomorrow.” Sherlock mumbled, not moving.
There was no one left to see, but John hid his smile in Sherlock’s neck anyway. “If you’re sure.”
“Very.”
With a bit of nudging John retrieved his legs from under Sherlock and coaxed him down on the couch. Sherlock was bent at hip and knee into what had to be an uncomfortable position, but he refused to move his head from under John’s chin so John let him be. Instead he snagged the afghan off the back of the couch.
“Mine.” He whispered.
Sherlock sighed contentedly and nuzzled John’s neck.
“We’ll be fine.” John vowed. “I promise.”
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