Though I Walk Through the Valley (13/38)
Though I Walk through the Valley
Title:Though I Walk through the Valley (13/38)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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“And that should be the last one.” Greg dragged a grimy hand over his face, chasing miniscule sweat drops along his brow.
“You’ve already said that twice.”
The sound of packing tape filled the air as John reassembled the flatpack box.
“Yeah well, I underestimated the number of books I own, but seriously, last lot.”
Body protesting he bent down to picke up one of the neat piles of books on the floor and handed it over to John, who started stacking them in the box. He was right, the books only filled half the box. Packing tape was sealed over the top, the box pushed into its assigned stack, and finally, finally his flat was packed.
John let out a pain filled groan and the two of them moved back through the sitting room where Sherlock’s expensive leather shoes could just be seen dangling over the edge of the couch.
“Bored.” The detective had obviously heard them returning from pushing the box into the hallway pile.
Greg rolled his eyes and continued through to the kitchen. There wasn’t much left, but there was a six pack of beer ready and waiting for this moment.
“You could have helped.”
He could hear John gently chastising his recumbent flatmate. He could also imagine the disdainful look the immaculate, designer clad Sub was giving his sweaty, dusty, tracksuit wearing Dom.
“Boring.”
“Not necessarily. You could have... deduced more things about Greg.”
Greg wasn’t so thrilled with that idea. Luckily it appeared Sherlock shared his enthusiasm.
“I already know as much about Lestrade as I want to John, especially now he has impregnated my brother.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Greg handed John his beer, smiling gamely.
They clinked the necks of the bottles and drank.
“What about me?” Sherlock pouted.
“You didn’t help.” John pointed out.
“Yes, I did, I stayed out of your way.”
Only with Sherlock did that logic in any way work.
“Do you even drink beer?” Greg slouched with his feet as far outstretched as possible.
The furniture was still out, looking forlorn and empty. It would all be put in storage for him until it could be quietly sold off at a later date. There was no need for Greg’s
sad tired old furniture in Mycroft’s house.
“Don’t you have any wine?” Sherlock asked.
“Nope, first thing packed and I’m not finding it, so unless you want to get your pretty suit dirty, this,” he indicated the beer he held, “is your only choice.”
“I’m fine.” Sherlock wrinkled his nose.
Greg and John saluted beers and drank up.
“So you’re really doing this huh?” John collapsed on the floor in front of the couch and took a swig of his beer.
One of Sherlock’s arms came down to wrap around the sweaty shoulders in a half hug.
“Yep.” Greg tilted his beer in acknowledgement.
“You two don’t think you should try, I don’t know, dating first?”
Greg sent an annoyed look John’s way and received a totally guileless smile in return.
“He’s my best friend and he’s carrying my baby. Course I’m moving in with him. You would if it were you.”
“Yeah, probably.” John admitted. “Well, best of luck.”
“Thanks, but things’ll be fine.” Greg raised his beer to match John’s grudging salute anyway. It never hurt to have a little more luck.
“So what’s happening with all this stuff anyway?” John looked around at the piles of boxes in the sitting room. Most of the boxes were stacked in the hallway, but some were still in there with them.
“Movers are coming tomorrow. Everything in here goes into storage to be dealt with later, everything out there gets taken to Mycroft’s place. Cleaners come in first thing Monday and goes up for sale Tuesday.”
“That’s fast.” John looked a little stunned.
“Mycroft moves very fast.” Greg shrugged.
“When he can be bothered to get off his fat arse.” Sherlock sniped.
“Hey, we talked about this.” John playfully slapped his partner’s wrist. “No teasing your brother about his weight. He’s eating for two now.”
“He’s been eating for two since he was born.”
John shot Sherlock a mock glare.
“He’s not even here.” Sherlock huffed.
“No,” John returned his attention to his beer, “but you need the practice.”
The glare Sherlock directed at Greg was a definite ‘this is all your fault; you’re spoiling my one joy in life’ glare.
Greg sheepishly grinned back.
“So you’re really going to sell?” John nudged Sherlock until he broke contact with Greg’s eyes and stared sulkily back at the ceiling.
“Sort of. I’m selling, but it’s going to be bought by something that apparently means I still own it, but it can’t be traced back to me. He did explain, but I got lost three words in. Basically, it’s going where the rest of my bank account went.”
“So wait, you actually emptied your bank account?” John looked alarmed at the revelation.
“Of course. We’re not trying to fool the Yard, John.” Greg rolled his eyes in exasperation. “It’s Mycroft’s counterparts we’re trying to fool. It has to be as authentic as possible.”
“If you’re sure.” John was obviously preventing himself from saying anything more.
“Very sure, thank you.” Greg knew John had doubts, and he appreciated him holding them back as best he could, but it was still annoying. “So what are we ordering?”
“Not-”
“Yes, you are.”
“I ate-”
“Yesterday.”
Sherlock humphed. “Then I want Indian.”
John looked over at Greg for confirmation and Greg gave a non-committal shrug. He was okay with Indian.
“I don’t have a number though. Usually pick up on the way home.” He warned.
“Indian it is.” John wearily clambered to his feet. “Where’s your local Greg?”
“’Bout three blocks that way.” Greg waved in the general vicinity of the Golden Saffron, a very fancy name for a very tiny place.
“Oh I see. Not coming?”
“Nope.” Greg was very much enjoying being off his feet.
“Sherlock?”
“Usual.” Sherlock had steepled his fingers under his chin.
“Not coming then either?” John dragged his jacket on.
“Ug, moving. Moving’s boring.”
“Of course it is, lazy git.” John rolled his eyes. “What do you want Greg?”
“Lamb shashi korma. Wallet’s on the bench.”
John waved it away. “You get first few rounds at the pub next time.”
“Take the cash. Going to have to cut down on the pub for a bit. Austerity measures and all that.” Greg wasn’t looking forward to it, but it had to be done.
“You and the rest of Europe.”
John swept out the door with a parting wave. The silence lingered after the door snicked closed behind him.
“So everything between you two is okay, yeah?” Greg asked nervously.
Sherlock sighed and deliberately ignored the question.
“Sherlock, I’m serious.”
There was a pause.
“We’ll be fine.” Sherlock eventually intoned.
“Promise?” Greg asked in a subdued voice.
Sherlock turned his head to regard him with his usual piercing stare. “You’re worried.”
“Well, yeah, just a bit. You’ve done so much for Mycroft and I, and we almost screwed you over without even realising.” The guilt still simmered below the surface.
“We’ll be fine.” Sherlock turned his gaze back to the ceiling. “He promised.”
“Okay. If you need anything, let me know. It’s the least I can do.”
Sherlock didn’t reply so they sat there, Sherlock staring at something and Greg fiddling with his almost empty beer.
“I would appreciate it,” Sherlock suddenly broke the silence, “if you would not make an issue of, or otherwise allude to, the fact that Mycroft used dominance during our discussion.”
“You didn’t tell him?” Greg swallowed nervously.
“I didn’t deny it, as you heard, but at the time... he would have challenged Mycroft over it and I didn’t believe Mycroft’s pheromonal response to pregnancy was far enough advanced to prevent a physical response from John, which could have harmed the foetus.” Sherlock sounded nonchalant, a giveaway that he felt anything but.
Greg could understand that. He’d been terrified when John started yelling that he would attack Mycroft, made even worse by the fact Mycroft had refused to let Greg protect him, had in fact yelled back and been angry, frightened and hurt. Greg knew that as a Dom Mycroft wasn’t going to let Greg protect him the same way a submissive Omega would, and he was more than competent, but it didn’t stop the automatic fear and panic when an angry, very angry, dominant, very dominant, Alpha was very close to physically assaulting an Omega carrying your child.
Of course, apparently John wouldn’t have laid an aggressive finger on Mycroft as he could tell Mycroft was carrying and was affected enough for his protective instincts for Sherlock to have to compete with his protective instincts for Mycroft. For which Greg was eternally grateful, because police training had nothing on the army, let alone that John was younger, fitter and a Dom. There was no fury on Earth like an Alpha Dom who felt someone had wronged his Bonded Omega Sub. For a Bonded Omega even a mouse would be a lion, and John Watson was no mouse.
“He won’t do it again, he’ll be more wary now.” Sherlock was looking at Greg now, clearly worried by Greg’s silence.
It put Greg in a rather uncomfortable position where he felt he owed a duty to both John and Sherlock, and Mycroft.
“What if he does?” Greg’s mouth felt dry.
He hated the thought of Mycroft using his dynamic to overcome Sherlock’s will. Sherlock was an adult, he was Bound and Bonded, there should be absolutely no excuse for Mycroft to ever use Dominance on him, but he clearly had before. He easily could again.
“Then I’ll tell John.” There was no hesitation in Sherlock’s voice. Without a second thought he would throw his brother into it, even if it did mean something might well happen to Mycroft because of it.
“Okay.”
Greg winced at the hesitation in his voice. He couldn’t help it. He really didn’t want to see John v Mycroft, especially with the possibility Mycroft could be hurt.
It wasn’t John’s usual style. He was a soldier: he didn’t like hurting people or pain for pain’s sake, but he believed strongly in fighting for things. For him, Sherlock was a cause much more meaningful than Queen and country, and for Queen and country John had gone to Afghanistan and been willing to die.
For Sherlock, John had been willing to live.
Which meant that for Sherlock, he could do anything.
He could hurt Mycroft.
He could seriously hurt Mycroft.
Sherlock’s gaze turned icy with a tiny burning spark glowing deep in his eyes. “I will not hide this from him.”
A warning as well as a plea. Sherlock would protect Mycroft this one last time, if Greg protected him, but never again. He would never risk so much again, not even for Mycroft.
“Nor should you.” Greg’s voice was hoarse.
Sherlock shouldn’t have to.
Apparently it was going to be Greg’s responsibility to make sure he didn’t have to.
Sherlock gave a sharp nod and looked back at the ceiling.
“Surprised you came tonight.” Greg commented, anxious not to let an uncomfortable silence fall.
Sherlock shrugged. “Not that surprising.”
No, Greg supposed not. Sherlock hadn’t been as obvious as clinging to John, but he had lounged artfully over whatever perch had been available where Greg and John were working. They’d finish a room, move to the next, and within fifteen minutes Sherlock would appear and fling himself down with an exclamation of “Bored” and an exaggerated sigh. Routinely throughout the packing process John would run a finger along a cheekbone or down Sherlock’s neck, and despite protests of how John’s hands were filthy, Sherlock never leant away from the touch and always leant into.
Not that surprising. Surprising that John had gone for Indian on his own.
“Please,” Sherlock rolled his eyes, “it’s been two weeks. What, did you think we’d be holed up refusing to let anyone else see us, requiring constant contact and sentimental reassurances?”
“No.” Yes
“Two weeks.” Sherlock was dismissive.
Greg let it drop. Sherlock was unique as a Sub in almost every way except his gender. The myth of the downtrodden dependant Submissive trembling at home, waiting eagerly for their Dom to return after work so they could feel safe and worthwhile was just that, a myth, but Sherlock brought a whole new level of independence to the table. More often than not John sat at Baker Street and worried, not the other way around! Though, that might change now. Greg wondered exactly how much freedom Sherlock would eventually be shown to have lost as a direct result of Greg and Mycroft’s actions.
“I never asked, um, are you alright with all this?” Greg preferred to study his beer than look at Sherlock, almost empty or not.
“Alright with what?” Sherlock was being artificially dense. It was evident in his voice that he didn’t want to discuss the matter, but Greg felt someone ought to check, and God knows Mycroft wouldn’t think to.
“About me, and Mycroft, and the baby.” He was gripping his beer bottle much harder than truly necessary.
“Why wouldn’t I be alright with it?” Sherlock’s voice was very blank and he was very still. Unlike Mycroft, it didn’t automatically make him seem threatening.
“Well he’s your brother, and now we’re together, and Mycroft mentioned you were, that you wanted a child, and bloody hell, Sherlock, it must be hard. I just wanted to check you’re okay.”
“I’ll be fine.” Sherlock took a breath, then quietly almost under his breath. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. If you’re not, you know you-”
Sherlock gave a disgusted little huff and Greg stopped with a small smile. Right, too much mushy stuff.
“So while we’re talking about things we’re not telling John, what’re my chances of you not passing on my little breakdown the other night? As long as it doesn’t need to be of course.” He hastened to add.
Sherlock smirked. “Why Lestrade, anyone would think you were worried he might want to talk about it.”
Greg grinned. “I’ve already got to go to counselling for gambling addiction, I don’t need him forcing me into AA or appointing himself my sponsor.”
“I suppose I could refrain from mentioning it. As long as it doesn’t need to be of course.”
“Of course.”
“Of course?” John’s voice sounded from the corridor. “What’d I miss?”
“You’re on your own Lestrade.” Sherlock batted at the bags John carried in.
“Okay, okay, keep your socks on.” John laughed. “Sit up you git, you can’t eat lying down.”
“Can.” Sherlock replied, but sat up anyway and accepted his food.
“So what were you talking about while I was away?” John finished laying the selection out on the coffee table.
“Would you like another beer?” Greg jumped to his feet.
“Greg’s ill advised attempt at alcohol poisoning on truly awful scotch three weeks ago.” Sherlock blithely took a mouthful of Indian, ignoring Greg’s groan.
“Traitor.”
“Yes.”
“What did you do?” John sounded resigned.
“I told you he-”
John laid a hand on Sherlock’s arm and cut him off mid annoyed outburst.
“I was in a bad place, okay.” Greg said defensively.
“Mycroft.” John intoned knowingly.
Greg resented the implication, but couldn’t deny it, not completely. “And some issues at work.”
“Uh huh.”
“But mostly Mycroft.” Greg conceded. “But it’s all fixed now and after that hangover I’m never doing it again.”
“Okay.”
Greg was shocked. “Oh my God, really?”
“Really.” There was a faint amusement under John’s very neutral voice. “You’re an adult and God knows I can understand the occasional need for a night of oblivion.”
“Thanks.” Greg eyed John suspiciously.
“I owe you Greg, consider restraining myself repayment.” Now there was slight annoyance.
“Okay, well, cheers.”
Greg was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Questioning things too closely around Sherlock tended to end with you trying very hard not to hit him, not to vomit, or both. John certainly seemed to be willing to keep his word: he accepted the second beer without quibble or comment, and there weren’t any considering looks or measuring stares (at least no more than usual).
Made Greg feel guilty all over again. He kept underestimating John, and his friend kept proving him very wrong.
The evening wound to a close fairly quickly after the food was eaten. Greg and John had been packing since early that afternoon, Greg having taken a half day in order to pack, and filling and moving boxes was tiring. Sherlock was bored, bored, bored, and more and more clearly only still there and behaving for John. After one slightly too cutting comment too many, John dragged him off the couch and said their goodbyes.
Greg gathered up the takeaway rubbish and walked it out to the bins. Standing on the sidewalk, he let his eye wonder over his home. It was slowly sinking in, becoming all the more real that this was the last time he’d do this: last time he’d come out to these bins at ridiculous hours because he was still awake even if the rest of the world wasn’t; last time he’d see the tired old building in the weak cloud bared moonlight and even weaker street light; possibly the last time he’d see it. He had no reason to come back.
He’d never studied the building from this angle before, never stood there next to the bin and drunk in the sight of his flat. Why would he, who would?
It was tired, it was old, the most special thing about it was that as the ground flat Greg had the front door, the stairs for everyone else being around the side in a vain attempt to give some class and an appearance of singularity despite being three flats in three levels. It wasn’t in a particularly nice neighbourhood, how could it have been? They’d bought it young and needed something affordable close to both their jobs. The intent had always been to upgrade to a house a little further out, but still central, and they’d even actively discussed it and searched when Jacqueline had fallen pregnant, but then there had been the miscarriage and Greg’s promotion, which had slightly more money and a lot more hours attached, and nothing had ever come of it.
Jackie had got her house when she moved in with her lover. Greg had kept the flat, and now he was leaving it to move in with his lover, his pregnant lover.
Bigger and better things.
But he would miss it.
Eventually the fact he was woefully underdressed for midnight in mid-March drove Greg back inside. He stood in the doorway to the sitting room, hand hovering over the light switch.
Empty.
Everything gone, his life packed into boxes. He’d eaten his last meal on that couch he ever would, stared at the stains for the last time, laughed and drunk his last beer with his friends that he ever would in this room.
He flicked the light off and wondered around through to the kitchen. The cupboards all stood open and Greg moved along the bench, a trailing hand shutting each door. He didn’t deliberately prevent them slamming, but as each closed with a gentle thud the concept that one would produce such a hard sharp sound and disturb the increasingly heavy surrealism that had settled over the scene was appalling. He didn’t alter his movement, kept his tugs and pushes exactly the same, unable to change in the strange mood that had fallen over the flat, and felt the tension curling inside, increasing with every step and every cupboard door with the strange fear that this one would slam, even as his mind felt less and less involved with his actions.
His fingers trailed through several drops of water on the edge of the sink from where he and John had washed their hands, smearing them together. His fingers caught slightly on the end of the bench where the water lubrication ran dry.
The slight friction retarded the progress of his arm, but failed to break his trance-like state as his feet wondered past the table, completing his lap of the room and taking him out the door.
His fingers dragged unimpeded down the wall. He hadn’t kept his walls hugely cluttered, but normally, previously, his fingers would have snagged on a picture frame, a tall ornament, something. Now they skated unimpeded until they caught on the doorframe to the spare room and held, lazily pivoting his body through the room.
He’d never really used this room, never come into it. It had been meant to be their baby’s room, his or her nursery while they found their house and moved, neither of them realistically believing they would manage before the birth. It had been storage afterwards, neither of them wanting to turn it back into the guestroom it had been, remaining instead a permanent, ignored shrine to a child that never was, stacked high with boxes of things they no longer wanted to think about or see.
The boxes were gone now. Even in the moonlight Greg could make out the colour disparity in one corner where he had optimistically begun to repaint the room in preparation for delivery. He knew it was baby blue, but in the dark it was a stain on the cream wall, a blight that drew the eye, but gave nothing back.
Greg had packed this room himself before John had arrived. He had avoided looking at the wall, yet now he found his feet carrying him over to it. His hand involuntarily stroked the wall once, just once, and his feet then carried him away.
There was no reason to linger. He’d said goodbye years ago.
The corridor seemed to narrow at the end, the top of the walls disappearing out of view, not into fuzziness or mist, just out of consideration, his mind offline, letting his body go on autopilot as it wished, making a final circuit of the place he had called home.
The last room he entered had been his own. He didn’t circle this time as he had in all the others, merely systematically removed his clothes and pulled on his sleeping gear. The dirty laundry went into overnight bag still resting next to the bed. He went into the sleeping bag that was serving as his bedding for the night.
He lay there, staring up at the ceiling as his brain absently catalogued marks he’d never deigned to notice before though he’d been looking at that white expanse on sleepless nights for two decades. Familiarity, he supposed, had bred contempt.
It was different, lying there. He hadn’t closed the curtains and the lights of London spilled in, the occasional car tracking straight lines across the paint as he watched, not asleep, but mind not active, switched off, gone. It wasn’t like his usual semi-regularly occurring insomnia where his mind paced too fervently to settle into slumber. It wasn’t like Subspace either, his attention spun outwards to encompass all and absorb none rather than to focus in on his Dom to the exclusion of everything else. His body felt heavy, non-responsive, a total disconnect between the physical state and the conscious and unconscious minds.
It was strange how easily his subconscious had switched to the past tense, the more accessible portion murmured, almost buried among notes of missed cobwebs and dancing shadows. Had been his room, had been his home. Twenty years sundered so quickly and easily, with nothing more than a final tour and parting glance.
The question followed him the next day, haunting him as he drifted through work. It wasn’t only his mind that felt disconnected with his body, wondering down thought paths Greg could feel and see yet not follow, but his body that felt out of sync with the world. He could see his limbs moving, see the hand holding the pen that moved over his paperwork, but it didn’t register as his. When he went to open the door he saw the hand miss, the handle just that small distance offset from where his body was reaching for.
Everything was out of focus, blurry around the edges and disappearing into fog at the corners of his vision. He felt sluggish as if his body were wading through treacle while his mind flew somewhere up above where the air was thin enough to make him dizzy.
By the end of the day the world was spinning round and round, as if suddenly he was able to feel the turn of the Earth and its rotation around the Sun. He felt like he was flying to pieces, but his feet were firmly on the ground, walking him away from the office in a different direction to usual, his new normal route home.
His body jumped as a car honked and rushed past. He couldn’t read the plate, couldn’t pick the type, its body blurring and leaking into the air turning it into a coloured blob. He didn’t know what colour.
The world, he realised belatedly, was black and white.
Greyscale people brushed past him on the pavement, obviously jostling his body because his feet moved side to side in his compromised sight, not merely back and forth. Some part of his brain was still working properly because he stopped at lights, turned at corners, and was going somewhere, hopefully to Mycroft’s. Hopefully home.
He was rootless, groundless, his body fastened to the pavement by gravity’s will alone. He’d severed home, surrendered his base, and there was nothing filling that supporting hole. Was this usual? This couldn’t be usual.
A child ran across his path, grey top, black trousers, white shoes with grey splashes of mud. His hair was mid-range grey, like the mud on his shoes, so it must be brown, a young laughing brown haired child who disappeared the second he wasn’t immediately in front of Greg. Real or phantom? Greg couldn’t tell.
He reached the end of the park and turned down another grey street. People always described London as grey, grey sky, grey weather, grey streets, but his memories told him that there was in fact so much colour, so much colour now he really did see it all in black and white and grey. Or not. There didn’t seem to be as many colours in his mind’s eye. He could almost see the colour bleeding out as he tried to remember the blue of the sky or the red of the flowers in the neat window boxes.
He let the knocker fall against the door. There was no thud, no banging noise that reached his ears. The grey door opened without a squeak, squeal or scrape.
Mycroft stood on the other side of the door. His creamy skin glowed, faint tan freckles not usually visible, but now in stark relief, scattered along his pink tinged cheeks and neck. The ginger tinge in his hair shone, lifting the strands from dull brown to gleaming chestnut. His thin lips were flushed peach, no raspberry. His suit was tan, warm, and his tie a vivid light blue that hurt Greg’s eyes even as he drank it in. The deep caramel and stunning cerulean highlighted the verdant flecks in Mycroft’s clear hazel eyes, giving a cat like luminescence.
“Gregory.” Mycroft’s voice vibrated through Greg’s body, penetrating his senses as chords of pure crystalline sound, reverberating through the fog and piercing his mind.
Mycroft extended a hand, warm apricot and cream.
“Welcome home.”
Greg took Mycroft’s hand.
The red door shut with a click behind him.
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Previous - Next
Title:Though I Walk through the Valley (13/38)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
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“And that should be the last one.” Greg dragged a grimy hand over his face, chasing miniscule sweat drops along his brow.
“You’ve already said that twice.”
The sound of packing tape filled the air as John reassembled the flatpack box.
“Yeah well, I underestimated the number of books I own, but seriously, last lot.”
Body protesting he bent down to picke up one of the neat piles of books on the floor and handed it over to John, who started stacking them in the box. He was right, the books only filled half the box. Packing tape was sealed over the top, the box pushed into its assigned stack, and finally, finally his flat was packed.
John let out a pain filled groan and the two of them moved back through the sitting room where Sherlock’s expensive leather shoes could just be seen dangling over the edge of the couch.
“Bored.” The detective had obviously heard them returning from pushing the box into the hallway pile.
Greg rolled his eyes and continued through to the kitchen. There wasn’t much left, but there was a six pack of beer ready and waiting for this moment.
“You could have helped.”
He could hear John gently chastising his recumbent flatmate. He could also imagine the disdainful look the immaculate, designer clad Sub was giving his sweaty, dusty, tracksuit wearing Dom.
“Boring.”
“Not necessarily. You could have... deduced more things about Greg.”
Greg wasn’t so thrilled with that idea. Luckily it appeared Sherlock shared his enthusiasm.
“I already know as much about Lestrade as I want to John, especially now he has impregnated my brother.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Greg handed John his beer, smiling gamely.
They clinked the necks of the bottles and drank.
“What about me?” Sherlock pouted.
“You didn’t help.” John pointed out.
“Yes, I did, I stayed out of your way.”
Only with Sherlock did that logic in any way work.
“Do you even drink beer?” Greg slouched with his feet as far outstretched as possible.
The furniture was still out, looking forlorn and empty. It would all be put in storage for him until it could be quietly sold off at a later date. There was no need for Greg’s
sad tired old furniture in Mycroft’s house.
“Don’t you have any wine?” Sherlock asked.
“Nope, first thing packed and I’m not finding it, so unless you want to get your pretty suit dirty, this,” he indicated the beer he held, “is your only choice.”
“I’m fine.” Sherlock wrinkled his nose.
Greg and John saluted beers and drank up.
“So you’re really doing this huh?” John collapsed on the floor in front of the couch and took a swig of his beer.
One of Sherlock’s arms came down to wrap around the sweaty shoulders in a half hug.
“Yep.” Greg tilted his beer in acknowledgement.
“You two don’t think you should try, I don’t know, dating first?”
Greg sent an annoyed look John’s way and received a totally guileless smile in return.
“He’s my best friend and he’s carrying my baby. Course I’m moving in with him. You would if it were you.”
“Yeah, probably.” John admitted. “Well, best of luck.”
“Thanks, but things’ll be fine.” Greg raised his beer to match John’s grudging salute anyway. It never hurt to have a little more luck.
“So what’s happening with all this stuff anyway?” John looked around at the piles of boxes in the sitting room. Most of the boxes were stacked in the hallway, but some were still in there with them.
“Movers are coming tomorrow. Everything in here goes into storage to be dealt with later, everything out there gets taken to Mycroft’s place. Cleaners come in first thing Monday and goes up for sale Tuesday.”
“That’s fast.” John looked a little stunned.
“Mycroft moves very fast.” Greg shrugged.
“When he can be bothered to get off his fat arse.” Sherlock sniped.
“Hey, we talked about this.” John playfully slapped his partner’s wrist. “No teasing your brother about his weight. He’s eating for two now.”
“He’s been eating for two since he was born.”
John shot Sherlock a mock glare.
“He’s not even here.” Sherlock huffed.
“No,” John returned his attention to his beer, “but you need the practice.”
The glare Sherlock directed at Greg was a definite ‘this is all your fault; you’re spoiling my one joy in life’ glare.
Greg sheepishly grinned back.
“So you’re really going to sell?” John nudged Sherlock until he broke contact with Greg’s eyes and stared sulkily back at the ceiling.
“Sort of. I’m selling, but it’s going to be bought by something that apparently means I still own it, but it can’t be traced back to me. He did explain, but I got lost three words in. Basically, it’s going where the rest of my bank account went.”
“So wait, you actually emptied your bank account?” John looked alarmed at the revelation.
“Of course. We’re not trying to fool the Yard, John.” Greg rolled his eyes in exasperation. “It’s Mycroft’s counterparts we’re trying to fool. It has to be as authentic as possible.”
“If you’re sure.” John was obviously preventing himself from saying anything more.
“Very sure, thank you.” Greg knew John had doubts, and he appreciated him holding them back as best he could, but it was still annoying. “So what are we ordering?”
“Not-”
“Yes, you are.”
“I ate-”
“Yesterday.”
Sherlock humphed. “Then I want Indian.”
John looked over at Greg for confirmation and Greg gave a non-committal shrug. He was okay with Indian.
“I don’t have a number though. Usually pick up on the way home.” He warned.
“Indian it is.” John wearily clambered to his feet. “Where’s your local Greg?”
“’Bout three blocks that way.” Greg waved in the general vicinity of the Golden Saffron, a very fancy name for a very tiny place.
“Oh I see. Not coming?”
“Nope.” Greg was very much enjoying being off his feet.
“Sherlock?”
“Usual.” Sherlock had steepled his fingers under his chin.
“Not coming then either?” John dragged his jacket on.
“Ug, moving. Moving’s boring.”
“Of course it is, lazy git.” John rolled his eyes. “What do you want Greg?”
“Lamb shashi korma. Wallet’s on the bench.”
John waved it away. “You get first few rounds at the pub next time.”
“Take the cash. Going to have to cut down on the pub for a bit. Austerity measures and all that.” Greg wasn’t looking forward to it, but it had to be done.
“You and the rest of Europe.”
John swept out the door with a parting wave. The silence lingered after the door snicked closed behind him.
“So everything between you two is okay, yeah?” Greg asked nervously.
Sherlock sighed and deliberately ignored the question.
“Sherlock, I’m serious.”
There was a pause.
“We’ll be fine.” Sherlock eventually intoned.
“Promise?” Greg asked in a subdued voice.
Sherlock turned his head to regard him with his usual piercing stare. “You’re worried.”
“Well, yeah, just a bit. You’ve done so much for Mycroft and I, and we almost screwed you over without even realising.” The guilt still simmered below the surface.
“We’ll be fine.” Sherlock turned his gaze back to the ceiling. “He promised.”
“Okay. If you need anything, let me know. It’s the least I can do.”
Sherlock didn’t reply so they sat there, Sherlock staring at something and Greg fiddling with his almost empty beer.
“I would appreciate it,” Sherlock suddenly broke the silence, “if you would not make an issue of, or otherwise allude to, the fact that Mycroft used dominance during our discussion.”
“You didn’t tell him?” Greg swallowed nervously.
“I didn’t deny it, as you heard, but at the time... he would have challenged Mycroft over it and I didn’t believe Mycroft’s pheromonal response to pregnancy was far enough advanced to prevent a physical response from John, which could have harmed the foetus.” Sherlock sounded nonchalant, a giveaway that he felt anything but.
Greg could understand that. He’d been terrified when John started yelling that he would attack Mycroft, made even worse by the fact Mycroft had refused to let Greg protect him, had in fact yelled back and been angry, frightened and hurt. Greg knew that as a Dom Mycroft wasn’t going to let Greg protect him the same way a submissive Omega would, and he was more than competent, but it didn’t stop the automatic fear and panic when an angry, very angry, dominant, very dominant, Alpha was very close to physically assaulting an Omega carrying your child.
Of course, apparently John wouldn’t have laid an aggressive finger on Mycroft as he could tell Mycroft was carrying and was affected enough for his protective instincts for Sherlock to have to compete with his protective instincts for Mycroft. For which Greg was eternally grateful, because police training had nothing on the army, let alone that John was younger, fitter and a Dom. There was no fury on Earth like an Alpha Dom who felt someone had wronged his Bonded Omega Sub. For a Bonded Omega even a mouse would be a lion, and John Watson was no mouse.
“He won’t do it again, he’ll be more wary now.” Sherlock was looking at Greg now, clearly worried by Greg’s silence.
It put Greg in a rather uncomfortable position where he felt he owed a duty to both John and Sherlock, and Mycroft.
“What if he does?” Greg’s mouth felt dry.
He hated the thought of Mycroft using his dynamic to overcome Sherlock’s will. Sherlock was an adult, he was Bound and Bonded, there should be absolutely no excuse for Mycroft to ever use Dominance on him, but he clearly had before. He easily could again.
“Then I’ll tell John.” There was no hesitation in Sherlock’s voice. Without a second thought he would throw his brother into it, even if it did mean something might well happen to Mycroft because of it.
“Okay.”
Greg winced at the hesitation in his voice. He couldn’t help it. He really didn’t want to see John v Mycroft, especially with the possibility Mycroft could be hurt.
It wasn’t John’s usual style. He was a soldier: he didn’t like hurting people or pain for pain’s sake, but he believed strongly in fighting for things. For him, Sherlock was a cause much more meaningful than Queen and country, and for Queen and country John had gone to Afghanistan and been willing to die.
For Sherlock, John had been willing to live.
Which meant that for Sherlock, he could do anything.
He could hurt Mycroft.
He could seriously hurt Mycroft.
Sherlock’s gaze turned icy with a tiny burning spark glowing deep in his eyes. “I will not hide this from him.”
A warning as well as a plea. Sherlock would protect Mycroft this one last time, if Greg protected him, but never again. He would never risk so much again, not even for Mycroft.
“Nor should you.” Greg’s voice was hoarse.
Sherlock shouldn’t have to.
Apparently it was going to be Greg’s responsibility to make sure he didn’t have to.
Sherlock gave a sharp nod and looked back at the ceiling.
“Surprised you came tonight.” Greg commented, anxious not to let an uncomfortable silence fall.
Sherlock shrugged. “Not that surprising.”
No, Greg supposed not. Sherlock hadn’t been as obvious as clinging to John, but he had lounged artfully over whatever perch had been available where Greg and John were working. They’d finish a room, move to the next, and within fifteen minutes Sherlock would appear and fling himself down with an exclamation of “Bored” and an exaggerated sigh. Routinely throughout the packing process John would run a finger along a cheekbone or down Sherlock’s neck, and despite protests of how John’s hands were filthy, Sherlock never leant away from the touch and always leant into.
Not that surprising. Surprising that John had gone for Indian on his own.
“Please,” Sherlock rolled his eyes, “it’s been two weeks. What, did you think we’d be holed up refusing to let anyone else see us, requiring constant contact and sentimental reassurances?”
“No.” Yes
“Two weeks.” Sherlock was dismissive.
Greg let it drop. Sherlock was unique as a Sub in almost every way except his gender. The myth of the downtrodden dependant Submissive trembling at home, waiting eagerly for their Dom to return after work so they could feel safe and worthwhile was just that, a myth, but Sherlock brought a whole new level of independence to the table. More often than not John sat at Baker Street and worried, not the other way around! Though, that might change now. Greg wondered exactly how much freedom Sherlock would eventually be shown to have lost as a direct result of Greg and Mycroft’s actions.
“I never asked, um, are you alright with all this?” Greg preferred to study his beer than look at Sherlock, almost empty or not.
“Alright with what?” Sherlock was being artificially dense. It was evident in his voice that he didn’t want to discuss the matter, but Greg felt someone ought to check, and God knows Mycroft wouldn’t think to.
“About me, and Mycroft, and the baby.” He was gripping his beer bottle much harder than truly necessary.
“Why wouldn’t I be alright with it?” Sherlock’s voice was very blank and he was very still. Unlike Mycroft, it didn’t automatically make him seem threatening.
“Well he’s your brother, and now we’re together, and Mycroft mentioned you were, that you wanted a child, and bloody hell, Sherlock, it must be hard. I just wanted to check you’re okay.”
“I’ll be fine.” Sherlock took a breath, then quietly almost under his breath. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. If you’re not, you know you-”
Sherlock gave a disgusted little huff and Greg stopped with a small smile. Right, too much mushy stuff.
“So while we’re talking about things we’re not telling John, what’re my chances of you not passing on my little breakdown the other night? As long as it doesn’t need to be of course.” He hastened to add.
Sherlock smirked. “Why Lestrade, anyone would think you were worried he might want to talk about it.”
Greg grinned. “I’ve already got to go to counselling for gambling addiction, I don’t need him forcing me into AA or appointing himself my sponsor.”
“I suppose I could refrain from mentioning it. As long as it doesn’t need to be of course.”
“Of course.”
“Of course?” John’s voice sounded from the corridor. “What’d I miss?”
“You’re on your own Lestrade.” Sherlock batted at the bags John carried in.
“Okay, okay, keep your socks on.” John laughed. “Sit up you git, you can’t eat lying down.”
“Can.” Sherlock replied, but sat up anyway and accepted his food.
“So what were you talking about while I was away?” John finished laying the selection out on the coffee table.
“Would you like another beer?” Greg jumped to his feet.
“Greg’s ill advised attempt at alcohol poisoning on truly awful scotch three weeks ago.” Sherlock blithely took a mouthful of Indian, ignoring Greg’s groan.
“Traitor.”
“Yes.”
“What did you do?” John sounded resigned.
“I told you he-”
John laid a hand on Sherlock’s arm and cut him off mid annoyed outburst.
“I was in a bad place, okay.” Greg said defensively.
“Mycroft.” John intoned knowingly.
Greg resented the implication, but couldn’t deny it, not completely. “And some issues at work.”
“Uh huh.”
“But mostly Mycroft.” Greg conceded. “But it’s all fixed now and after that hangover I’m never doing it again.”
“Okay.”
Greg was shocked. “Oh my God, really?”
“Really.” There was a faint amusement under John’s very neutral voice. “You’re an adult and God knows I can understand the occasional need for a night of oblivion.”
“Thanks.” Greg eyed John suspiciously.
“I owe you Greg, consider restraining myself repayment.” Now there was slight annoyance.
“Okay, well, cheers.”
Greg was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Questioning things too closely around Sherlock tended to end with you trying very hard not to hit him, not to vomit, or both. John certainly seemed to be willing to keep his word: he accepted the second beer without quibble or comment, and there weren’t any considering looks or measuring stares (at least no more than usual).
Made Greg feel guilty all over again. He kept underestimating John, and his friend kept proving him very wrong.
The evening wound to a close fairly quickly after the food was eaten. Greg and John had been packing since early that afternoon, Greg having taken a half day in order to pack, and filling and moving boxes was tiring. Sherlock was bored, bored, bored, and more and more clearly only still there and behaving for John. After one slightly too cutting comment too many, John dragged him off the couch and said their goodbyes.
Greg gathered up the takeaway rubbish and walked it out to the bins. Standing on the sidewalk, he let his eye wonder over his home. It was slowly sinking in, becoming all the more real that this was the last time he’d do this: last time he’d come out to these bins at ridiculous hours because he was still awake even if the rest of the world wasn’t; last time he’d see the tired old building in the weak cloud bared moonlight and even weaker street light; possibly the last time he’d see it. He had no reason to come back.
He’d never studied the building from this angle before, never stood there next to the bin and drunk in the sight of his flat. Why would he, who would?
It was tired, it was old, the most special thing about it was that as the ground flat Greg had the front door, the stairs for everyone else being around the side in a vain attempt to give some class and an appearance of singularity despite being three flats in three levels. It wasn’t in a particularly nice neighbourhood, how could it have been? They’d bought it young and needed something affordable close to both their jobs. The intent had always been to upgrade to a house a little further out, but still central, and they’d even actively discussed it and searched when Jacqueline had fallen pregnant, but then there had been the miscarriage and Greg’s promotion, which had slightly more money and a lot more hours attached, and nothing had ever come of it.
Jackie had got her house when she moved in with her lover. Greg had kept the flat, and now he was leaving it to move in with his lover, his pregnant lover.
Bigger and better things.
But he would miss it.
Eventually the fact he was woefully underdressed for midnight in mid-March drove Greg back inside. He stood in the doorway to the sitting room, hand hovering over the light switch.
Empty.
Everything gone, his life packed into boxes. He’d eaten his last meal on that couch he ever would, stared at the stains for the last time, laughed and drunk his last beer with his friends that he ever would in this room.
He flicked the light off and wondered around through to the kitchen. The cupboards all stood open and Greg moved along the bench, a trailing hand shutting each door. He didn’t deliberately prevent them slamming, but as each closed with a gentle thud the concept that one would produce such a hard sharp sound and disturb the increasingly heavy surrealism that had settled over the scene was appalling. He didn’t alter his movement, kept his tugs and pushes exactly the same, unable to change in the strange mood that had fallen over the flat, and felt the tension curling inside, increasing with every step and every cupboard door with the strange fear that this one would slam, even as his mind felt less and less involved with his actions.
His fingers trailed through several drops of water on the edge of the sink from where he and John had washed their hands, smearing them together. His fingers caught slightly on the end of the bench where the water lubrication ran dry.
The slight friction retarded the progress of his arm, but failed to break his trance-like state as his feet wondered past the table, completing his lap of the room and taking him out the door.
His fingers dragged unimpeded down the wall. He hadn’t kept his walls hugely cluttered, but normally, previously, his fingers would have snagged on a picture frame, a tall ornament, something. Now they skated unimpeded until they caught on the doorframe to the spare room and held, lazily pivoting his body through the room.
He’d never really used this room, never come into it. It had been meant to be their baby’s room, his or her nursery while they found their house and moved, neither of them realistically believing they would manage before the birth. It had been storage afterwards, neither of them wanting to turn it back into the guestroom it had been, remaining instead a permanent, ignored shrine to a child that never was, stacked high with boxes of things they no longer wanted to think about or see.
The boxes were gone now. Even in the moonlight Greg could make out the colour disparity in one corner where he had optimistically begun to repaint the room in preparation for delivery. He knew it was baby blue, but in the dark it was a stain on the cream wall, a blight that drew the eye, but gave nothing back.
Greg had packed this room himself before John had arrived. He had avoided looking at the wall, yet now he found his feet carrying him over to it. His hand involuntarily stroked the wall once, just once, and his feet then carried him away.
There was no reason to linger. He’d said goodbye years ago.
The corridor seemed to narrow at the end, the top of the walls disappearing out of view, not into fuzziness or mist, just out of consideration, his mind offline, letting his body go on autopilot as it wished, making a final circuit of the place he had called home.
The last room he entered had been his own. He didn’t circle this time as he had in all the others, merely systematically removed his clothes and pulled on his sleeping gear. The dirty laundry went into overnight bag still resting next to the bed. He went into the sleeping bag that was serving as his bedding for the night.
He lay there, staring up at the ceiling as his brain absently catalogued marks he’d never deigned to notice before though he’d been looking at that white expanse on sleepless nights for two decades. Familiarity, he supposed, had bred contempt.
It was different, lying there. He hadn’t closed the curtains and the lights of London spilled in, the occasional car tracking straight lines across the paint as he watched, not asleep, but mind not active, switched off, gone. It wasn’t like his usual semi-regularly occurring insomnia where his mind paced too fervently to settle into slumber. It wasn’t like Subspace either, his attention spun outwards to encompass all and absorb none rather than to focus in on his Dom to the exclusion of everything else. His body felt heavy, non-responsive, a total disconnect between the physical state and the conscious and unconscious minds.
It was strange how easily his subconscious had switched to the past tense, the more accessible portion murmured, almost buried among notes of missed cobwebs and dancing shadows. Had been his room, had been his home. Twenty years sundered so quickly and easily, with nothing more than a final tour and parting glance.
The question followed him the next day, haunting him as he drifted through work. It wasn’t only his mind that felt disconnected with his body, wondering down thought paths Greg could feel and see yet not follow, but his body that felt out of sync with the world. He could see his limbs moving, see the hand holding the pen that moved over his paperwork, but it didn’t register as his. When he went to open the door he saw the hand miss, the handle just that small distance offset from where his body was reaching for.
Everything was out of focus, blurry around the edges and disappearing into fog at the corners of his vision. He felt sluggish as if his body were wading through treacle while his mind flew somewhere up above where the air was thin enough to make him dizzy.
By the end of the day the world was spinning round and round, as if suddenly he was able to feel the turn of the Earth and its rotation around the Sun. He felt like he was flying to pieces, but his feet were firmly on the ground, walking him away from the office in a different direction to usual, his new normal route home.
His body jumped as a car honked and rushed past. He couldn’t read the plate, couldn’t pick the type, its body blurring and leaking into the air turning it into a coloured blob. He didn’t know what colour.
The world, he realised belatedly, was black and white.
Greyscale people brushed past him on the pavement, obviously jostling his body because his feet moved side to side in his compromised sight, not merely back and forth. Some part of his brain was still working properly because he stopped at lights, turned at corners, and was going somewhere, hopefully to Mycroft’s. Hopefully home.
He was rootless, groundless, his body fastened to the pavement by gravity’s will alone. He’d severed home, surrendered his base, and there was nothing filling that supporting hole. Was this usual? This couldn’t be usual.
A child ran across his path, grey top, black trousers, white shoes with grey splashes of mud. His hair was mid-range grey, like the mud on his shoes, so it must be brown, a young laughing brown haired child who disappeared the second he wasn’t immediately in front of Greg. Real or phantom? Greg couldn’t tell.
He reached the end of the park and turned down another grey street. People always described London as grey, grey sky, grey weather, grey streets, but his memories told him that there was in fact so much colour, so much colour now he really did see it all in black and white and grey. Or not. There didn’t seem to be as many colours in his mind’s eye. He could almost see the colour bleeding out as he tried to remember the blue of the sky or the red of the flowers in the neat window boxes.
He let the knocker fall against the door. There was no thud, no banging noise that reached his ears. The grey door opened without a squeak, squeal or scrape.
Mycroft stood on the other side of the door. His creamy skin glowed, faint tan freckles not usually visible, but now in stark relief, scattered along his pink tinged cheeks and neck. The ginger tinge in his hair shone, lifting the strands from dull brown to gleaming chestnut. His thin lips were flushed peach, no raspberry. His suit was tan, warm, and his tie a vivid light blue that hurt Greg’s eyes even as he drank it in. The deep caramel and stunning cerulean highlighted the verdant flecks in Mycroft’s clear hazel eyes, giving a cat like luminescence.
“Gregory.” Mycroft’s voice vibrated through Greg’s body, penetrating his senses as chords of pure crystalline sound, reverberating through the fog and piercing his mind.
Mycroft extended a hand, warm apricot and cream.
“Welcome home.”
Greg took Mycroft’s hand.
The red door shut with a click behind him.
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