Though I Walk Through the Valley (28/38)
Though I Walk through the Valley
Title:Though I Walk through the Valley (28/38)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 much as I would like to claim this extra chapter was out of the generosity of my soul, it's actually because I will be travelling for work on Wednesday and so unable to update, but didn't want you to miss out. At least you get a chapter? It does start off a bit slow, sorry about that, but I like to think it picks up by the end.
Warnings: SEX!
If you've wondered here by mistake, you may wish to start at Part I of the series, Rarest of the Rare: Chapter 1.
Prologue - Chapter 10 - Chapter 20 - Chapter 21 - Chapter 22 - Chapter 23 - Chapter 24 - Chapter 25 - Chapter 26 - Chapter 27 - Chapter 28 - Chapter 29
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Dinner was not pizza, but there was beer (a six pack had mysteriously appeared in the fridge last weekend and Greg made a point of fetching one). Mycroft cooked, Greg laid the table, and the meal was …pleasant, full of short silences that were generally fillable. It was a thousand times better than Greg had been anticipating that time the night before.
That didn’t meant that it was good, and, ignoring the feeling he was shooting off his nose to spite his face, Greg pointedly walked past Mycroft to his own room without looking back when they both went upstairs to bed.
He doubted his resolve would last. Lying there in his cold empty bed, devoid of the reassuring warm scent that filled Mycroft’s room, he just prayed he could last long enough to force some sort of conversation. Being back in the house, he was finding it incredibly hard to maintain his righteous anger, biology working to smooth over the rift and reconcile him with his mate.
Not that he was really angry anymore, that had petered out yesterday and been well and truly smothered by Sherlock. It was more a churning mess of frustration, annoyance, and disappointment. Lots of disappointment. Given time he had no doubt it would work its way back up to anger, but right now, his heart just wasn’t in it.
It was hardly surprising there was a completely separate mess behind all this. Greg had expected some sort of on-going problem given the distinct lack of involvement of any other members of the Holmes family in the brothers’ lives, but he’d been expecting a family argument or general reserved distance because Holmeses didn’t do ‘that caring lark’, not a real life Family Feud.
Did it count as a feud if only one side was fighting? Sherlock had certainly implied rather heavily that Mycroft was conceding everything, never pushing back in an effort to make up for something that could never have been his fault.
Mummy, Greg decided, must be one hell of an Omega to overawe Mycroft to this day and continue to hold a position that should as far as anyone else knew be his without anyone causing a fuss.
Had someone caused a fuss? What would/did happen to them?
Work was a welcome distraction, but the closer to five it got the more Greg found himself fidgeting until one minute past when Sally shoved him out the door declaring he was useless to her if he couldn’t concentrate. He could hear the undercurrent of concern in her voice so didn’t fight, letting her assuage her worry over whether or not his behaviour indicated a relapse by taking care of him.
Overall Greg thought it might have been easier if Mycroft’s Sire had been an Abernathy. The knowledge that he wasn’t had completely taken the wind out of Greg’s sails, leaving him in a lull where he knew he needed to fight that fight, but felt too much relief and too little anger to do so. He tried half-heartedly over dinner that night (“So Sherlock mentioned a list. What else was on there to choose from?” “Sigerson.”), but that had ended prematurely when Greg grabbed Mycroft’s neck over the table and pulled him into a searing kiss borne of gratitude and adrenaline.
As a result, most of Tuesday was spent mentally grousing over the fact the easy way out was closed to them and that Greg was going to have to convince Mycroft to get over his childhood issues, which he would undoubtedly refuse to acknowledge, and confront Mummy, all in roughly five months, give or take a bit, a substantial portion of which they were going to be separated for.
He consoled himself that even if he didn’t manage successfully, Abernathy was better than Sigerson. Quite apart from it being in homage to Mycroft’s bastard of a Sire, there were no good nicknames for Sigerson. At least Greg could always raise Abernathy as Ben in an attempt to give him some small measure of normal. Except now it wasn’t about that, not anymore, thanks to Sherlock. Now it wasn’t just whether their kid would be able to find a mug with his name on it, it was about Greg and Mycroft and how the rest of their relationship was going to play out.
Before leaving the Yard, Greg convinced himself that unless they managed to sort things surreally fast, he was going to sleep alone that night on principle and would not be swayed by lust, no matter how good Mycroft smelt.
At dinner Mycroft told Greg he’d be flying out for a two week summit next Friday and would go straight from there into the secure housing he’s arranged as he’d be approximately 23 weeks and starting to look distinctly larger.
Greg tried to summon some guilt or self-directed anger, but lying twined around Mycroft as the Dom’s breathing smoothed into sleep, basking in the afterglow of a very successful session, it was too hard to manage anything other than sleepy contentment.
If Greg spent Wednesday stretching to luxuriate in the strain of well used and slightly sore muscles, or running fingers along raised welts hidden under his work shirt to feel the lingering sting, then it was no one’s business, but his own.
Thursday, he promised himself drowsily as he dropped a stray kiss on his somnolent love’s shoulder blade. He’d bring it up tomorrow. Thursday.
Thursday might as well have been vomited forth by the bowels of hell.
First there was a murder, breaking their almost week long run without a new major case. Missing persons reports were packed away again (body still unidentified), paperwork was put on hiatus, and the team dragged their butts out to the crime scene.
The wet crime scene.
Because apparently, the middle of the Thames was a great place to try and dispose of your cheating spouse.
And if you were trying to frame it was an accident, of course you would do it when the weather was expected to turn nasty in order to claim they accidentally slipped off the boat and fell into the water.
And of course, by the time Greg got there, the weather was really about to unleash hell.
In one ear he had Anderson yelling at him about submergence in the Thames and tainting of evidence; in the other he had Sally, who was, naturally, on the Health and Safety committee.
To try and find the corpse or not to try and find the corpse?
Adding to the din were the broken hearted wails of the almost-victim, who unluckily for his Dom had known a lot more about boats than she had, and adulterer or not, he most certainly had not wanted her dead. Just to pay more attention to him apparently, if the very loud sobs into the paramedic’s shoulder were to be believed.
Greg could see the paperwork mounting on his desk with every passing second as Health and Safety incident form after Health and Safety incident form piled themselves higher and higher. If he sent the divers and his team out there would be hell to pay.
If he didn’t management would have his bollocks for not retrieving their would-be-murderer’s corpse before it disappeared somewhere miles away, having merrily been washed downstream by the river’s polluted waters.
To make matters worse, the longer they stood there arguing about it, the more likely the three of them were to be pulled up on report, even if it was all being conducted in level, reasonable tones.
Well, two of them as bloody Anderson didn’t fall under Mulgrave and Packenham’s jurisdiction.
Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.
Greg sent them out on a time limit. Better to be damned and have a corpse than be damned without one.
The divers located the body just as the rains reached them. Having insisted on going out on the boat so no one could claim he wasn’t putting himself through the same as everyone else, Greg spent the ride back to the shore holding back one of the constable’s long hair as she vomited over the side, rain soaking his coat, then jacket, then shirt. Every time the boat lurched off another choppy, storm swept wave, Greg felt like joining her.
When they got back to the river bank, they discovered it was the wrong body.
That left Greg with two dead bodies, one located, one not, a stack of Health and Safety forms, a queasy stomach and wet pants for the second time in less than seven days. By the time he arrived home, late, he was in such a foul mood Mycroft wordlessly handed him one of his remaining four beers before Greg had even crossed the kitchen threshold.
Sometimes it was an utter relief to live with an omniscient aspiring-God. Greg didn’t have to explain anything, just took the beer and collapsed on his knees next to Mycroft’s chair, laying his head on the wool clad thigh, heedless of his rainwater soaked hair ruining the expensive trousers. After a moment’s hesitation, Mycroft’s fingers began stroking through the short strands.
Greg sighed in relief as Mycroft sent him down, taking away the stress, the anger, the guilt, the uncertainty, everything. He didn’t fully surface until Mycroft shook him awake the next morning with half an hour to get ready for work after Greg had slept through both their alarms.
Greg didn’t need John to tell him he and Mycroft were developing a pattern of avoidance, nor did he need it pointed out to him that they were repeating it again - vehemently ignoring the problems hanging over their heads in favour of acting as if everything would be okay if they just kept going.
They’d talk tonight, then. Last night it just couldn’t have happened, not with the mood Greg had ended up in. Any attempt to talk would have degenerated into a screaming fight and a trip back to 221B, just like last time, getting them nowhere.
When Greg got home, straight after dinner.
Greg’s resolve lasted until lunchtime when Sally dropped a pile of DVD’s on his desk that she’d fetched while changing after a nasty fall on the wharf that morning. Included in the stack were the new Star Trek and two stand-up DVD’s he’d been begging her to lend him for ages.
Tomorrow, Greg decided, eyeing the DVD stack greedily. They could talk tomorrow. After all, Mycroft was leaving in a week so this would be their last Friday night together for months and there was no reason to destroy it by shattering the tentative camaraderie they’d sort of achieved.
Sitting on the end of the couch, stuffing his face with Chinese food and watching Mycroft in the armchair next to him as Mycroft watched the TV, Greg couldn’t really manage to feel properly, shamefully guilty.
With two dead bodies (still only one in his possession), Greg was forced to drag his weary limbs out of bed, forgoing another pleasant Saturday lie-in. He did take the liberty of dropping a kiss on Mycroft’s jaw. The sleepy nuzzle he received in return before Mycroft sank back into unconsciousness almost made him climb back into bed.
“Tonight,” Greg whispered, pausing in the doorway to look back, a quiet promise to both of them.
The pathology report had come in on the (additional) dead body from the Thames, along with a fingerprint ID. There was a brief debate over the phone with Sally whether it was worse to contact the family on a Saturday and destroy their weekend or to wait until Monday leaving them in limbo. Given someone had cared enough to file a missing persons report as soon as the police were able to entertain the application, they settled on contacting them once Sally got to the station and they could set out.
The waiting gave him time to think.
Thinking was bad, because thinking forced him to run through all possible ends to the evening, including the vast number of possibilities where he and Mycroft didn’t make up after the almost inevitable screaming, leaving Greg forcefully excluded from the rest of Mycroft and their Son’s lives.
He pulled out the book he’d stashed in his lunch bag to read over his break since no one would be in on a Saturday to notice and dove back into the biology, forcing himself to recite various milestones from memory, week-by-week. Anything to not have to think about the fact that this book might be the closest to his baby he ever got.
“What are you reading?” Sally leant over his shoulder, peering at the text.
“Jesus!” Greg started in his seat, jumping high enough to almost hit Sally in the chin with his shoulder. “Bloody hell, you nearly gave me a heart attack."
“Anything you’d like to share, Sir?” Sally drawled in an amused tone.
Closing the book in frantic move, Greg yelled at himself for lying it down on the desk to read rather than holding it in his hands, for reading it when Sally was coming, for bringing it to Scotland Yard.
“What, no, it’s not for… No!” Greg stuttered out in a panic.
“Uh huh.” Sally eyed him knowingly, giving him a sly smile. “Of course it’s not, Sir.”
“Donovan!” Greg growled.
“Well, you did have that dinner just before Christmas…” She trailed off meaningfully.
“With Mycroft!” Greg bellowed, trying to slow his pounding heart.
“Oh yes, Sir.” Sally nodded sagely. “With Mycroft, of course.”
She winked at him, unable to repress the smirk spreading over her face.
“It’s research.” Greg huffed, knowing his face was traffic light red. This had been such a stupid idea.
“Oh yes, research, sir.” Sally agreed. It probably shouldn’t have been possible for her smirk to get any larger, but it did.
“Well did you know it is potentially fatal for an Omega to pass their heat with a Beta?” Greg shot back, mind scrambling for any possible excuse as to why he was reading a book on the Estrus cycle and pregnancy.
He mentally slapped himself just after. He should have gone simple, said it was in preparation for Sherlock’s next Heat and mini-Holmes of another description running around.
“No, it’s not.” Sally shook her head. “Omegas pass their Heat’s on their own all the time without an Alpha.”
“Not without an Alpha, with a Beta.” Greg corrected her. “Apparently there is a difference.”
“Really?” Sally asked dubiously.
“Apparently.” Greg stuffed the book in the bottom of his desk. “I was talking to John and he mentioned it. Saw it in Afghanistan. They had a huge number of incidents over there.”
“I think that might just be something Alphas like to put out there to try and keep Omegas for themselves, Lestrade. No disrespect or anything.” She tacked on the end hastily.
“If I’d got it from Anderson I’d probably agree.” Greg stood and collected his jacket. “Don’t think John Watson’s the kind of Alpha though.”
They walked down to the carpark in silence, past on duty uniforms and a couple of detectives from other teams on shift or pulled in anyway like they were to deal with paperwork or cases. Greg nodded at Dimmock as the younger DI blearily strolled past with a large cup of coffee. Given Greg knew the dark shadows under his eyes weren’t work related, it certainly begged the question what had been keeping him awake and added a number of implications to the slight limp.
Sally climbed in the driver’s seat and held out her hand for the keys. Greg handed them over without argument. Small gestures like being the one to drive helped most Doms feel like they were in charge of the situation, so Greg rarely argued without a good reason and wasn’t going to protest today. As the stronger Dom out of the two of them, Sally had never bothered to question this especially as Greg spent most of the car trips napping or fielding texts from Sherlock.
“This is because of the Carson case, isn’t it?” She asked as they pulled out of the lot.
“Peter had a lucky escape.” Greg replied quietly. “And none of us knew how lucky until afterward.”
“Kid’s fine, Sir.”
“This time,” Greg agreed, “but it’s something I should have known, innit? What if it had been a suicide? We’d never have worked it out.”
“That was what you meant by fatal?” Sally hunched forward and tried to peer around the car next to her.
“John likened it to torture. They had some insanely high proportion of victims kill themselves.” Greg nodded. “Though to be fair, most of those John was dealing with were gang rape victims as well.”
“And because of that case you’re reading baby books?” Sally asked sceptically.
“I should have known.” Greg repeated, then smiled at the grimace on her face. “Sorry to disappoint, Donovan, but no kids yet. You’ll have to wait a bit longer to be promoted.”
Sally snorted and to Greg’s relief shut her mouth and stopped talking. He wasn’t sure he could bullshit his way through much more of that discussion without it being obvious.
Their stiff’s family, an elderly Sire and a distraught Alpha partner, took the news as Greg had expected - with much crying, distress and demands for justice. They did leave at last with their questions answered, and a few possible avenues of enquiry. Unsurprisingly there hadn’t been anyone who jumped out as an obvious suspect. There usually wasn’t. Digging would be required.
Being a Saturday Greg packed them both off home at four. They’d put in a solid day’s work, even if they didn’t work through until five, and Greg had a talk he owed himself and a future to work out.
Melissa in a floor length wine coloured gown and tasteful, but obviously expensive even to the untrained eye, gems was not quite what Greg had anticipated when he got home, so unexpected in fact he was halfway up the stairs to change before he registered exactly what he’d passed.
A second glance didn’t alter matters - his partner’s PA was standing elegantly in the parlour, shimmering in backless silk that came so close dipping too low in the front as well, her modesty preserved by the artful drape of the flowing material. Even so, the deep V sat precariously, threatening to reveal a lot more, a tantalising promise Greg had no doubt was held at bay by an excellent fit and miles of dress tape. The dress fell smoothly over her hips and emphasised how narrow her waist really was, if you were able to tear your eyes away to look at the rest of her body that was.
Even more difficult was raising his eyes to her face, artfully careless curls arranged to draw attention to her slender neck, full lips and high cheekbones. Greg didn’t think her eyes had ever looked more stunningly blue.
“Guh,” he managed before his tongue finally started working. “Still Melissa?”
“Call me Anthea.” She replied, long perfectly manicured fingers flying over her ever present Blackberry. “Dr Watson finds it a more convenient method of referring to me, as I’m sure you will too.”
“Um, yeah, right, Anthea.” Greg stumbled across the words, mind otherwise occupied trying to keep his eyes above her collarbones.
It wasn’t easy, especially with the necklace nestled against her sternum, drawing Greg’s gaze along its ropy pearl and diamond strands to the large ruby gleaming in the sunset with an unnatural fire. The piece looked old, Tudor at a wild guess because Greg thought it looked like something that belonged in one of his history books around the neck of Queen Elizabeth I, though he couldn’t be sure. He was sure that the gems were real, that the necklace was a genuine antique not a replica, and that he really didn’t want to think about how much it was worth or that Anthea was wearing a matching bracelet and ring.
“Given that outfits probably a little, um, indecorous for wherever you’re going, I’m going to guess your job is distraction tonight.” Greg snapped his eyes back up to her face, cheeks flushing just the smallest amount.
“Indeed.” Anthea favoured him with a long slow blink. “Though the piece is clearly an antique necklace, it does unsettle a great number of our… enlightened colleagues.”
“Because the necklace is the only provocative item you’re wearing, of course.” Greg pointedly swept his eyes along her body, discovering as her weight shifted that the skirt was split to mid-thigh.
“Easy access.” She blinked innocently at his startled blush, and turned back to her phone with a smirk. “There is very little point in being armed if one cannot reach one’s weapon.”
Gregory François Lestrade knew very few things as a matter of solid and indisputable fact. One of those things was that Anthea did not need to be armed to be dangerous.
But those long legs in those stilettos sashaying around the room, tantalising glimpses of skin as the silk flowed and rolled around her… everyone in that room, young or old, Dom or Sub, would have their eyes glued on her, awaiting the next promised hint of leg, imagining running hands and tongues and teeth up the creamy unblemished skin. No one would be watching anyone else.
Unbidden the thought came to mind that in the past Mycroft had slid hands, teeth and tongue along that skin and much more of it than was on display; that he knew the taste, texture and scent of her body, just as he now knew Greg’s.
“Where are you off to that requires such a distraction?” Greg tried to keep his tone light.
Anthea’s eyes narrowed. “He hasn’t informed you.”
Greg shrugged, gut loosening as Anthea’s eyes flashed and lips pursed into a moue of distaste. No matter the past between them, this was not a woman who was expecting any such attention that night and who was looking very annoyed Greg hadn’t been kept in the loop.
Not that Greg thought Mycroft would do anything to cheat on him, the pregnancy guide he’d been reading had made it fairly clear that wasn’t really an option until after the birth even if he had been the type, and this was clearly for work, multi-million pound gems and all, but it was still nice, reassuring, to see the irritation on her face.
It would help keep the thoughts at bay once they’d left and all Greg’s niggling insecurities came out to play.
“Embassy ball.” Anthea told him, typing furiously on her keyboard.
She didn’t volunteer more and Greg, well aware of the limitations of classified information, didn’t ask. Instead he casually slumped into one of the chairs and waited for a break in her typing so he’d know for sure he wasn’t distracting her. She got there first.
“You’re surprisingly calm about him not telling you we had an engagement tonight.” Vivid blue eyes studied him over the top of her phone.
Greg shrugged. He wasn’t calm, not really, more like in the calm before the storm of delayed reaction, involving much anger, yelling and gnashing of teeth. He could feel it gathering, a sick feeling collecting every time the necklace caught and held his eye, but other than the knot in his chest tightening reflexively, he was gripped by none of it yet.
Mycroft’s footsteps drifted down the stairs, preceding the Omega like an understated heraldic chorus.
“The car has arrived, Abigail, unless there is anything else you require.” Mycroft’s voice trailed off as he stepped into the room and noticed Greg sprawled over the furniture.
After Anthea’s outfit Mycroft’s suit was a let-down of epic proportions. It was utterly unremarkable despite its flattering cut and obscene expense, but then Greg supposed that was the whole point of the venture. Even those who were aware of Mycroft’s role would be watching her, not him.
With the smallest of movements Mycroft drew himself up and met Greg’s eyes challengingly, mask of implacable defiance firmly in place. So that, Greg thought, was how it was going to be: a week of almost agreeable partnership and then Mycroft running scared and attempting to provoke a fight with Greg to remind him of his place. So much for any theories Mycroft had genuinely overlooked informing him. This was deliberate provocation.
Greg waved jauntily, refusing to rise to the bait and give Mycroft the satisfaction of reacting how he wanted him to. If he did, Greg had no doubt he would be reminded he had no claim and thus no legitimate cause for malcontent.
“Guess this answers whether or not you mind me going and watching the game tonight.” He smiled cheerfully. “And I’m sorry, but it must be said that you don’t hold a candle up to Anthea tonight.”
“Abigail.” Mycroft corrected smoothly.
“Anthea.” Greg repeated, flashing Mycroft a cheeky grin that was hiding only a slight razor edge of malice. “Apparently I rate my own special name.”
“Is that so?” Mycroft raised a cool brow and strolled out the door to collect his umbrella and coat from the stand. “I’m afraid we must be off, Gregory. Don’t wait up. We’ll be late.”
Assured Mycroft couldn’t see her and Greg could, Anthea rolled her eyes.
“I’ll have him home before two.” She promised.
“Take your time. Work’s important, and I wouldn’t want to get in the way of work.” Greg rose lazily from the chair, feeling icy daggers stabbing into his back as he stretched.
Not failing to notice the way Mycroft stiffened in his peripheral vision as Greg’s eyes unwittingly fixed on the ruby between Anthea’s breasts again despite his best efforts, he indulged in a more deliberate sweep of the eyes and a lascivious smile.
“Should I check there’s a room ready for you as well?” He asked, voice rumbling over the vowels in a very deliberate and suggestive manner.
“She has her own residence, Gregory, I assure you.” Mycroft snapped icily, spinning on his heel and storming for the front door.
At Anthea’s raised eyebrow Greg shrugged nonchalantly, feeling both spitefully happy he’d managed to get some of his own back and potently guilty at the thought of deliberately hurting his Omega in any way at all. She followed Mycroft with a disapproving look and what was possibly a muffled swear word, leaving Greg alone in the house.
The silence after the door shut was absolute. Greg hadn’t even made it to his bedroom before the sick oily nest of emotions started to break free and the thoughts began going round and round in his head, battering at his walls: pictures of Mycroft and her and that goddam necklace that made his throat ache with the absence of its weight. He wasn’t Mycroft’s Sub, and neither was she, but tonight people would look at her and wonder at the possibility of maybe.
No one would ever look at him and wonder if.
The knot in his chest constricted making it hard to breathe.
He wasn’t worried about anything happening, knew on some innate level that that just wouldn’t, that as long as Greg was living in this house, sleeping in Mycroft’s bed, there was no possibility of maybe, but that thrice damned necklace…
His hand was shaking wildly on the door knob, the silence echoing behind him.
He couldn’t stay here, listening to the silence and counting the seconds. He’d told Mycroft he’d intended to go to 221B to save face, so go to 221B he would.
This time he had his keys and wallet, so he let himself in and knocked on the upstairs door without having to disturb Mrs Hudson.
“I come bearing provisions.” Greg held up the six pack as John waved him through the door.
“Good, now hurry up, the game’s about to start.” John was already back in his armchair, eyes glued to the TV screen.
“There’s no match tonight.” Greg frowned, hand on the fridge door.
“Rugby, Greg. Football isn’t the only code in the world you know.” John was thrumming with excitement, energy barely contained by the chair.
“Just the best.” Greg teased.
“Door’s that way, heathen.” John pointed without looking. “Leave the beer.”
Greg chuckled and put five beers in the door of the relatively safe fridge. He didn’t look too closely at any of the containers, operating on the basis as always that it was safer not to know.
“So where’s Himself?” Greg asked, collapsing limblessly in Sherlock’s armchair and watching John almost vibrate out of his seat with tension as the teams took to the ground.
“Barts.” John rolled his own beer between his palms, eyes glued ferociously on the ball as the umpire prepared to start the game.
“So you could watch? Nice of him.”
John gave a light chuckle. “Not quite. Said he didn’t feel like being interrupted again when you barged through the door.”
“Hey!” Greg protested. “I’ll have you know I wasn’t going to come tonight.”
“And yet here you are. Oi, Ref!” John broke off to swear at the TV for a bit.
Greg joined in for the fun of it until the sponsor’s ad flashed across the screen and they scrambled into the kitchen for chips and new beers before coverage resumed. John didn’t relax again until play stopped for half time. It was like watching a puppet with its strings suddenly cut, the way his whole body lost tension in one sweeping move.
“So what did drive you to our humble abode tonight?” John asked over the sport’s commentator’s sensationalised recap of the game so far.
“Nothing,” Greg replied, a little too much emphasis on the first syllable to sound convincing. “My’s got an embassy thing tonight and I found myself at loose ends, that’s all.”
“Didn’t want to accompany him? Mingle with the stuffy gits who run the world?” John teased him lightly.
“Watch it you,” Greg threw his bottle cap at John’s head. “I live with one of those stuffy gits. Besides, I don’t think I could properly fill the front of Anthea’s dress.”
“Looked good?” John asked idly.
Greg smirked, knowing that John had held quite the fascination with Mycroft’s PA for some while until Sherlock had put his foot down, despite the fact they weren’t even together at the time. Sherlock always had been possessive.
“Gobsmacking.” Greg took a swig of beer. “I’m not interested at all and I still had terrible trouble looking anywhere else, even with Mycroft in the room. She’s… uh… well-endowed.”
John grunted, but play resumed before he could say anything. The game was close, occupying even Greg’s reluctant attention as the teams fought it out violently in the mud. John was so busy yelling encouragement and abuse in turn that at the end of the game his beer was still three quarters full.
“Takeaway?” John sculled his beer as the teams trouped off the field and stood with a stretch.
“Cheaper and nastier the better.” Greg called after him. “I’ve been eating too much gourmet takeaway. Gimmie something greasy and oily and guaranteed to clog my arteries before I’m fifty.”
John’s chuckle echoed back through the open doors, soon followed by his voice as he began ordering Chinese. He made it half way through the order before another match began on the TV, this one an international game on delayed broadcast, and Greg had to confiscate the phone and finish the order to avoid John accidently insulting the poor person on the other end with his rather colourful language. Luckily the nice lady on the other end was used to the sports crowd.
Just to annoy John, and since England was playing France, Greg decided to cheer for the foreigners. John threw the Union Jack pillow at him.
“Traitor.”
A couple of wadded up bits of paper followed.
“My Da was French.” Greg protested, smiling as he held up a hand to shield his face.
“Hmm…” John tossed the last ball in his palm while he considered. “Nope, not an excuse.”
Greg ducked the projectile and cheered extra loudly as France scored a try. Out of projectile weapons, John settled for words and started a slagging match of epic proportions until the doorbell rang and Mrs Hudson yoo-hooed up the stairs to say their takeaway had arrived. Breaking off halfway through why the English half-back’s parents had engaged in questionable acts with a dog, Greg gladly stole John’s wallet and scrambled down the stairs to pay, breathless with laughter. By the time he got back up it was half time again and John had moved the coffee table into a more convenient position for dinner.
“Would Sir care for an hors d’oeuvre?” John mimicked the tones of the highbrow disapproving wait staff with ease as he held out the paper bag with the oily spring rolls.
“Don’t,” Greg choked on his laughter as he pulled a spring roll out. “Please don’t.”
“Sure you don’t want to recreate what you’re missing out on?” John teased, cracking a pair of chopsticks. “I can try and find a tablecloth and some proper silverware if you’d like.”
“God no!” Greg shuddered. “The silver lining to not officially being Mycroft’s partner is that I don’t have to go to those things.”
“So what is bothering you then?” John nonchalantly took a bite off the end of his spring roll.
“Nothing.” Greg insisted. “Just hadn’t made other plans, that’s all.”
“So the talk went well then?” John looked at him hopefully.
“Sort of.” Greg squirmed a little. “I asked what other names were on the list and we agreed Abernathy Emrys was better than Sigerson Isaac.”
“Really?” John stared at him in disbelief. “They both sound awful to me.”
“Holmes Senior’s name was Siger.” Greg shovelled rice into his mouth.
“I can suddenly understand the appeal of Abernathy.” John picked out a piece of broccoli. “What else are the two of you considering?”
John took one look at Greg’s face, read the answer in the furtive eye shifting, and rolled his eyes. Luckily for Greg, play resumed and John let the subject drop with quite a bit of apparent relief.
“Why are you so interested in my relationship with My?” Greg asked as they were sipping beers watching the post-match interviews with the English team who looked self-satisfactorily smug despite only just winning.
“Because I’m your friend.” John took another swig.
“Bullshit. You wouldn’t give me the third degree every week if it were just that. Why?” Greg searched through the ruined remains of their takeaway for one last prawn cracker.
“Alpha instincts.” John lied brazenly. Greg didn’t even need to be looking at him to know he was lying.
“Yeah, sure. Try again.”
John didn’t say anything, crunching his way noisily through a fortune cookie.
“You can hardly expect me to tell you everything if you won’t even tell me why you care.” Greg pointed out.
The silence lingered until John sighed in defeat, surrendering in the face of Greg’s refusal to move on.
“Sherlock really wants it to work, thinks the two of you are made for each other.” John fished another cookie out from the wreckage, steadily not looking at Greg. “I don’t want him disappointed.”
“Sherlock?” Greg’s eyebrows rose as far up his forehead as they were able. “I get the third degree every week because you don’t want Sherlock to be disappointed if my relationship doesn’t work?”
“As a child he deleted the solar system, but for whatever sentimental reason of his own of all things kept happily ever after.” John’s eyes were a combination of liquid warmth and firm steel. “I don’t want him to lose that now.”
“So no pressure or anything, but don’t fuck it up? Thanks.” Greg avoided meeting those eyes any longer than he had to, pulse thrumming in his ears.
If it hadn’t been hard enough to navigate the emotional waters around his relationship before, apparently there was the additional weight of whatever childish innocence remained in Sherlock’s soul and fuck it if the brief glimpses of the hurting lonely child behind the haughty junkie’s eyes hadn’t been what had led Greg to taking care of him in the first place.
“It’s your life, Greg, your relationship. You’re not responsible for anything other than what you want.” John’s voice was soft. “But if I can do anything to help the two of you work things out so it does work, I’ll do it. That’s all.”
“Yeah, right. Thanks.” Greg worried at his lower lip.
“Really, Greg. Sherlock’s my responsibility, not yours. You just make sure you’re happy. Let me worry about him.”
Greg sighed, knowing that no matter what John said it would now always be in the back of his mind. It was nice to know Sherlock approved of him and Mycroft together, but he really could have done without that knowledge if it meant that he didn’t have to know that Sherlock believed in them so absolutely.
It was the sort of pressure Greg suspected single parents felt when their children fell in love with their partner, absolutely sure that this was the one that was going to stay and make their family whole. It was both reassuring and unpleasant. His relationship with Josephine hadn’t had this much pressure, and he had been hiding what he was from her.
“Greg.” John leant over. “I’m serious. Worry about you and Mycroft, not anyone else. You can’t do this for anyone other than you or it won’t work. Leave Sherlock to me.”
“I know, but… “ He trailed off, waiting for words that never arrived to describe how much he didn’t want to hurt Sherlock, about how the younger Sub had always felt like his responsibility in ways that he wasn’t and never would be, and how Greg didn’t want to disappoint him almost as much as he didn’t want to disappoint his son.
He hadn’t met his son yet; he wasn’t real as anything more than a concept and a slight swell Greg occasionally ran his hands over. Sherlock was there and alive and Greg had been taking care of him for so many years…
“I didn’t know. About tonight. My hadn’t told me.” It was easier to talk about that than the fact Sherlock was the surrogate child Greg had never wanted or asked for, yet, at a previous time in his life post-drugs and pre-John, had considered sleeping with.
When he didn’t want to strangle him.
Greg was resigned to the fact that his relationship with Sherlock Holmes was always going to be complicated and a little undefinable without sounding creepy in all the worst ways.
“Is that what’s got you all wound up?”
“Huh, no, not at all.” Greg shook his head. “That’s My. This week was too good. He seems to freak whenever he’s forced to acknowledge he cares, or that he’s been scared about something, or things are comfortable between us, god forbid.”
He tapped his beer bottle against his forehead absently. “Probably should have anticipated it, to be honest. That whole realisation that we both agreed their Sire was coming nowhere near our child in any name or form made it feel too much like we were working together for him I guess.”
“I hear you.” Greg looked up to see a sad smile on John’s face. “Self-sabotage every time to make sure you either come back or leave on his terms so he never has to admit to anything, as if that will stop it affecting him.”
“Sherlock?”
“Harry.”
“Ah.”
They both drained their already empty beer bottles to avoid looking at each other or saying anything.
“So, uh, what was bugging you then?” John tried very hard to find something else in the room to focus on.
Greg stood up and gathered the takeaway into a pile, then took it to the bin. He returned with two beers.
“She was wearing a necklace.” He huffed as he handed one to John. “It wasn’t a collar, really obviously not a collar, just a necklace.
“And I’m not,” He hurried to say as he sank into his chair before John could even open his mouth, “worried about him sleeping with her because I’m just not and don’t ask me to explain because I just know that he won’t, but…”
They sat there in silence as John let him gather his thoughts.
“I’m not angry he deliberately didn’t tell me, I’m not worried, I’m just…” He was much too sober for this, and took a large mouthful of beer. “She’s wearing a necklace.”
“You’re jealous.” John said simply.
“Yes, no,” Greg groaned. “I don’t want to be there with My, god that’d be awful. I’m not jealous, I just…She gets to wear that thing and for her it’s meaningless, but people get to look.”
John nodded and let Greg focus elsewhere in the room until his eyes fell on a stack of DVDs and he pulled out a mindless action thriller with plenty of explosions. They watched the over the top acting, the completely fake gun fights, and cheesy romantic dialogue as the Alpha hero seduced two women and an Omega in turn.
“Are you staying here tonight?” John asked as the Alpha rode a motorcycle off a lorry to get away with the memory stick safely tucked in his jacket pocket. “Sherlock finally cleared off the other bed.”
“Nah.” Greg’s voice was rough from the enforced silence. “Anthea promised to have him back by two. Seems like handing him a victory if I’m not there.”
John nodded and they finished the movie in silence. Sherlock arrived home just as the credits began to roll, so Greg grabbed his coat and ran out the door calling good bye over his shoulder to catch the cab before it sped off. It saved awkward small talk and standing there through the condescending look Sherlock would be giving him having found him in his flat again, just as predicted.
It felt slightly ham fisted, like he was over stressing his point, but after changing into his sleepwear and hesitating at the door, Greg got into Mycroft’s bed to sleep. In the annoying mental chess game Mycroft seemed to be playing whether Greg was involved or not, there was no reason to let Mycroft know he’d accidently checked Greg’s king while trying to eliminate his queen. At least in the process Greg had been able to get some of his own back. He hadn’t come close to the King or Queen, but surely the look on Mycroft’s face as he’d left meant he’d at least stolen a knight or bishop.
He’d passed it off as being fine, so he’d act that way, not cower in his room in a mood.
It was strange, lying there in Mycroft’s bed in Mycroft’s room without Mycroft. His scent lingered, despite the fact he was gone and the room had been aired that day, infused into the walls and carpet and furniture. It would fade eventually, sometime after Mycroft gave birth and stopped producing the pheromones, but until then there would be months of lingering vanilla-spice warmth waiting for them in this room.
He fell asleep with his nose buried in Mycroft’s pillow.
At first he couldn’t define what woke him up, a sound, a sense, a feeling. Greg sat bolt upright in bed, eyes scanning the dark room for any difference in the blackness. One hand slid towards the bedside light.
“Leave it.” Soft voice, but the command reverberated through him.
“You’re home.” Greg relaxed.
Mycroft strolled forward, removing his jacket and dropping it idly on the floor as he approached the bed. Even in the gloom his white shirt glowed subtly, a torso moving towards Greg with no legs or limbs.
“How did it go? Get what you needed?” He asked sleepily, reaching out a hand for Mycroft to take or leave as he chose.
“Naturally.”
There were the chinks of cufflinks hitting the dish on the dressing table Mycroft stored them in overnight. The pale shirt parted, buttons undone. The whisper of fabric suggested that Mycroft’s trousers were next.
“’s good to hear.” Greg murmured sleepily.
He stretched, feeling his pyjamas slide over the expensive sheets. It was the first night he’d been dressed in Mycroft’s bed. In sleep wear at least.
“’uppose it wouldn’t hve been too haard.” He slurred, yawn distorting half his words. “With her looking like that. Coulda assassinated the Queen and no one would have noticed with her lookin like that.”
“Indeed.”
The shirt moved closer and Greg could finally make out the faint expanse of Mycroft’s skin. One hand bushed Greg’s cheek and slowly ran around to cup the back of his head.
“You were certainly impressed.”
If Greg had been more awake he might have known to be on guard with that tone, that the polite level comment that had ‘Avoid! Treacherous Currents’ written in ornate capitals over the map. Here there be monsters.
“Course. She was stunning.” Greg replied sleepily.
He wasn’t expecting the hand behind his head to yank him upwards or the aggressive kiss that was more a mashing of lips and biting teeth. Pulled off balance, Greg had no choice but to windmill one arm around Mycroft’s shoulders, the other fully extended to provide some sort of balance point on the bed.
Slowly Greg’s mind stuttered into gear and he pushed back, forcing his tongue into Mycroft’s mouth and sucking bruises into his lips as Mycroft hissed and fought for ground. Their teeth clicked together and a coppery taste flooded Greg’s mouth as one or the other of them bit too hard on something, though for the life of him Greg couldn’t have said whether it was his blood or Mycroft’s being smeared ferociously around their mouths. Eventually, Greg tore his mouth away from Mycroft’s, ignoring the snarl that followed.
“You know she’s gorgeous. You knew that when you had her come here to pick you up.” Greg hissed into Mycroft’s ear. His fingers were digging into Mycroft’s shoulder leaving crescent moons where even his blunt nails had managed to dent the skin. Mycroft’s teeth latched onto his neck in retaliation. “You wanted me to see her, to know she looked amazing. Are you upset I looked?”
“Never again.” Mycroft snarled, free arm tangling in the cord for Greg’s pyjama bottoms to pull it loose.
Greg pushed up onto one knee, the other leg slipping off the side of the bed so he could half-stand half kneel. He kicked the bottoms off as he went, leaving them flapping uselessly around one knee. Mycroft returned the favour, dragging Greg’s sleep shirt over his head and moving to attack one of the newly exposed nipples. After that it took significant amounts of concentration and will power for Greg to manage to remove Mycroft’s pants instead of collapsing into a heap of jelly.
“Were. You. Jealous?” He bit each word into Mycroft’s skin, peppering the cream expanse with nips and more serious bruises. “Were you upset I was looking at her?”
Greg gasped as Mycroft bit down savagely on his collar bone, his fingers dragging down his lover’s back as Greg arched into the sting of pain. From the bite Mycroft bestowed a few centimetres above the previous one, he didn’t mind the welts.
“Y-eee-s.” Greg exhaled the word and then nudged Mycroft upwards for another kiss. It stung as Mycroft sucked on his bruised, swollen lip.
A cool wet hand slipped between their bodies and Mycroft stroked Greg’s cock, a punishingly slow and gentle stroke, completely offset to the scratches and the bruises the rest of his body was inflicting. It made Greg want to thrust his hips to increase the pace, harder, faster, match the claims Mycroft was sucking all over his body with a claim of his own on Mycroft.
“Take me.”
The hand withdrew and Mycroft straddled Greg’s hips, knees spread wide to accommodate Greg’s legs.
“Are you sure?” Greg’s mind was fuzzy, but he’d remember preparing Mycroft if it had been done.
“Now!” Mycroft snarled, pulling Greg up for a kiss as his body sank down.
There was resistance and it must have hurt, but between the lube slathered over Greg’s dick and the natural preparation from pregnancy, Greg slid smoothly, though slowly, in.
There would be bruises on his biceps from Mycroft’s grip as he struggled through the pain to take him.
“Is this what you want?” Greg moved to suck his own mark into Mycroft’s shoulder, far below the visible skin left by his suit shirts, as he withdrew and thrust again without giving Mycroft any time to adjust. “The burn of my cock, today, tomorrow, every time you move, every time you stand, every time you-”
His words were swallowed by Mycroft’s mouth, which descended again until Greg’s thrust brushed by his prostate and his lips left Greg’s with a gasp.
“Harder.” He panted into Greg’s ear, fingernails dragging lightly up Greg’s sides.
Greg’s thrust was rewarded by the nails retracing their path, this time hard enough to sting.
“God, yes!” Greg shifted more of his weight to his foot resting on the floor to give him better leverage to thrust. “Want to feel you, going to make you burn.”
Mycroft moaned and sucked on Greg’s ear.
“Is that what you want, love? Want to feel me? Want me to take you, know I’m here taking you, no one else?”
“Again!” Mycroft shuddered as Greg found the angle he’d been on earlier to stimulate Mycroft’s prostate with every thrust. His eyes fluttered closed with each drive and retreat, his neglected cock leaving a sticky trail as it dragged over Greg’s stomach.
Greg was getting close. He knew that, could feel it gathering and he wasn’t going to keep it back, not unless Mycroft ordered him too. Much more satisfying to flood his errant love with his seed, drive them both through ecstasy and hold him as they both came down.
“Is this what you want?” He growled, much abused muscles straining to pick up the pace.
Mycroft dropped his weight just as Greg thrust up, driving his prick even deeper.
“Yes.” He moaned. “Take me, Gregory.”
“Yes.” Greg pulled him close, holding their bodies tightly together as he moved, guiding Mycroft’s hips to help him find a rhythm that would push them further. “God, My, love you. Love you so much.”
Mycroft kissed and licked his way down Greg’s neck, stopping with a bitten off cry to pant in the crook of neck and shoulder as Greg hit his prostate straight on. His cock was trapped between them, every flex of Greg’s abdomen, every movement as he pistoned in and out of Mycroft’s body, dragging against the head, flooding him with sensation.
“Love you. All yours.”
“Say it.” Mycroft growled, emphasising his command with teeth. His voice was breathless, shaky. He was getting close.
“Yours, only yours. Forever.” Greg panted. He couldn’t go much longer, didn’t want to. So close.
“Yes.” Mycroft’s muscles contracted as his orgasm rippled through him, dragging and massaging against Greg’s buried cock until with a bitten off shout that might have been Mycroft’s name, Greg joined him in white oblivion.
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Previous - next
If you want to have a look at the dress I used as the base concept for Anthea's before my imagination got hold of it and the jewellry she's wearing, check out Entry two in the Encyclopaedia of Life - Behind Still Waters
Title:Though I Walk through the Valley (28/38)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 much as I would like to claim this extra chapter was out of the generosity of my soul, it's actually because I will be travelling for work on Wednesday and so unable to update, but didn't want you to miss out. At least you get a chapter? It does start off a bit slow, sorry about that, but I like to think it picks up by the end.
Warnings: SEX!
If you've wondered here by mistake, you may wish to start at Part I of the series, Rarest of the Rare: Chapter 1.
Prologue - Chapter 10 - Chapter 20 - Chapter 21 - Chapter 22 - Chapter 23 - Chapter 24 - Chapter 25 - Chapter 26 - Chapter 27 - Chapter 28 - Chapter 29
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Dinner was not pizza, but there was beer (a six pack had mysteriously appeared in the fridge last weekend and Greg made a point of fetching one). Mycroft cooked, Greg laid the table, and the meal was …pleasant, full of short silences that were generally fillable. It was a thousand times better than Greg had been anticipating that time the night before.
That didn’t meant that it was good, and, ignoring the feeling he was shooting off his nose to spite his face, Greg pointedly walked past Mycroft to his own room without looking back when they both went upstairs to bed.
He doubted his resolve would last. Lying there in his cold empty bed, devoid of the reassuring warm scent that filled Mycroft’s room, he just prayed he could last long enough to force some sort of conversation. Being back in the house, he was finding it incredibly hard to maintain his righteous anger, biology working to smooth over the rift and reconcile him with his mate.
Not that he was really angry anymore, that had petered out yesterday and been well and truly smothered by Sherlock. It was more a churning mess of frustration, annoyance, and disappointment. Lots of disappointment. Given time he had no doubt it would work its way back up to anger, but right now, his heart just wasn’t in it.
It was hardly surprising there was a completely separate mess behind all this. Greg had expected some sort of on-going problem given the distinct lack of involvement of any other members of the Holmes family in the brothers’ lives, but he’d been expecting a family argument or general reserved distance because Holmeses didn’t do ‘that caring lark’, not a real life Family Feud.
Did it count as a feud if only one side was fighting? Sherlock had certainly implied rather heavily that Mycroft was conceding everything, never pushing back in an effort to make up for something that could never have been his fault.
Mummy, Greg decided, must be one hell of an Omega to overawe Mycroft to this day and continue to hold a position that should as far as anyone else knew be his without anyone causing a fuss.
Had someone caused a fuss? What would/did happen to them?
Work was a welcome distraction, but the closer to five it got the more Greg found himself fidgeting until one minute past when Sally shoved him out the door declaring he was useless to her if he couldn’t concentrate. He could hear the undercurrent of concern in her voice so didn’t fight, letting her assuage her worry over whether or not his behaviour indicated a relapse by taking care of him.
Overall Greg thought it might have been easier if Mycroft’s Sire had been an Abernathy. The knowledge that he wasn’t had completely taken the wind out of Greg’s sails, leaving him in a lull where he knew he needed to fight that fight, but felt too much relief and too little anger to do so. He tried half-heartedly over dinner that night (“So Sherlock mentioned a list. What else was on there to choose from?” “Sigerson.”), but that had ended prematurely when Greg grabbed Mycroft’s neck over the table and pulled him into a searing kiss borne of gratitude and adrenaline.
As a result, most of Tuesday was spent mentally grousing over the fact the easy way out was closed to them and that Greg was going to have to convince Mycroft to get over his childhood issues, which he would undoubtedly refuse to acknowledge, and confront Mummy, all in roughly five months, give or take a bit, a substantial portion of which they were going to be separated for.
He consoled himself that even if he didn’t manage successfully, Abernathy was better than Sigerson. Quite apart from it being in homage to Mycroft’s bastard of a Sire, there were no good nicknames for Sigerson. At least Greg could always raise Abernathy as Ben in an attempt to give him some small measure of normal. Except now it wasn’t about that, not anymore, thanks to Sherlock. Now it wasn’t just whether their kid would be able to find a mug with his name on it, it was about Greg and Mycroft and how the rest of their relationship was going to play out.
Before leaving the Yard, Greg convinced himself that unless they managed to sort things surreally fast, he was going to sleep alone that night on principle and would not be swayed by lust, no matter how good Mycroft smelt.
At dinner Mycroft told Greg he’d be flying out for a two week summit next Friday and would go straight from there into the secure housing he’s arranged as he’d be approximately 23 weeks and starting to look distinctly larger.
Greg tried to summon some guilt or self-directed anger, but lying twined around Mycroft as the Dom’s breathing smoothed into sleep, basking in the afterglow of a very successful session, it was too hard to manage anything other than sleepy contentment.
If Greg spent Wednesday stretching to luxuriate in the strain of well used and slightly sore muscles, or running fingers along raised welts hidden under his work shirt to feel the lingering sting, then it was no one’s business, but his own.
Thursday, he promised himself drowsily as he dropped a stray kiss on his somnolent love’s shoulder blade. He’d bring it up tomorrow. Thursday.
Thursday might as well have been vomited forth by the bowels of hell.
First there was a murder, breaking their almost week long run without a new major case. Missing persons reports were packed away again (body still unidentified), paperwork was put on hiatus, and the team dragged their butts out to the crime scene.
The wet crime scene.
Because apparently, the middle of the Thames was a great place to try and dispose of your cheating spouse.
And if you were trying to frame it was an accident, of course you would do it when the weather was expected to turn nasty in order to claim they accidentally slipped off the boat and fell into the water.
And of course, by the time Greg got there, the weather was really about to unleash hell.
In one ear he had Anderson yelling at him about submergence in the Thames and tainting of evidence; in the other he had Sally, who was, naturally, on the Health and Safety committee.
To try and find the corpse or not to try and find the corpse?
Adding to the din were the broken hearted wails of the almost-victim, who unluckily for his Dom had known a lot more about boats than she had, and adulterer or not, he most certainly had not wanted her dead. Just to pay more attention to him apparently, if the very loud sobs into the paramedic’s shoulder were to be believed.
Greg could see the paperwork mounting on his desk with every passing second as Health and Safety incident form after Health and Safety incident form piled themselves higher and higher. If he sent the divers and his team out there would be hell to pay.
If he didn’t management would have his bollocks for not retrieving their would-be-murderer’s corpse before it disappeared somewhere miles away, having merrily been washed downstream by the river’s polluted waters.
To make matters worse, the longer they stood there arguing about it, the more likely the three of them were to be pulled up on report, even if it was all being conducted in level, reasonable tones.
Well, two of them as bloody Anderson didn’t fall under Mulgrave and Packenham’s jurisdiction.
Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.
Greg sent them out on a time limit. Better to be damned and have a corpse than be damned without one.
The divers located the body just as the rains reached them. Having insisted on going out on the boat so no one could claim he wasn’t putting himself through the same as everyone else, Greg spent the ride back to the shore holding back one of the constable’s long hair as she vomited over the side, rain soaking his coat, then jacket, then shirt. Every time the boat lurched off another choppy, storm swept wave, Greg felt like joining her.
When they got back to the river bank, they discovered it was the wrong body.
That left Greg with two dead bodies, one located, one not, a stack of Health and Safety forms, a queasy stomach and wet pants for the second time in less than seven days. By the time he arrived home, late, he was in such a foul mood Mycroft wordlessly handed him one of his remaining four beers before Greg had even crossed the kitchen threshold.
Sometimes it was an utter relief to live with an omniscient aspiring-God. Greg didn’t have to explain anything, just took the beer and collapsed on his knees next to Mycroft’s chair, laying his head on the wool clad thigh, heedless of his rainwater soaked hair ruining the expensive trousers. After a moment’s hesitation, Mycroft’s fingers began stroking through the short strands.
Greg sighed in relief as Mycroft sent him down, taking away the stress, the anger, the guilt, the uncertainty, everything. He didn’t fully surface until Mycroft shook him awake the next morning with half an hour to get ready for work after Greg had slept through both their alarms.
Greg didn’t need John to tell him he and Mycroft were developing a pattern of avoidance, nor did he need it pointed out to him that they were repeating it again - vehemently ignoring the problems hanging over their heads in favour of acting as if everything would be okay if they just kept going.
They’d talk tonight, then. Last night it just couldn’t have happened, not with the mood Greg had ended up in. Any attempt to talk would have degenerated into a screaming fight and a trip back to 221B, just like last time, getting them nowhere.
When Greg got home, straight after dinner.
Greg’s resolve lasted until lunchtime when Sally dropped a pile of DVD’s on his desk that she’d fetched while changing after a nasty fall on the wharf that morning. Included in the stack were the new Star Trek and two stand-up DVD’s he’d been begging her to lend him for ages.
Tomorrow, Greg decided, eyeing the DVD stack greedily. They could talk tomorrow. After all, Mycroft was leaving in a week so this would be their last Friday night together for months and there was no reason to destroy it by shattering the tentative camaraderie they’d sort of achieved.
Sitting on the end of the couch, stuffing his face with Chinese food and watching Mycroft in the armchair next to him as Mycroft watched the TV, Greg couldn’t really manage to feel properly, shamefully guilty.
With two dead bodies (still only one in his possession), Greg was forced to drag his weary limbs out of bed, forgoing another pleasant Saturday lie-in. He did take the liberty of dropping a kiss on Mycroft’s jaw. The sleepy nuzzle he received in return before Mycroft sank back into unconsciousness almost made him climb back into bed.
“Tonight,” Greg whispered, pausing in the doorway to look back, a quiet promise to both of them.
The pathology report had come in on the (additional) dead body from the Thames, along with a fingerprint ID. There was a brief debate over the phone with Sally whether it was worse to contact the family on a Saturday and destroy their weekend or to wait until Monday leaving them in limbo. Given someone had cared enough to file a missing persons report as soon as the police were able to entertain the application, they settled on contacting them once Sally got to the station and they could set out.
The waiting gave him time to think.
Thinking was bad, because thinking forced him to run through all possible ends to the evening, including the vast number of possibilities where he and Mycroft didn’t make up after the almost inevitable screaming, leaving Greg forcefully excluded from the rest of Mycroft and their Son’s lives.
He pulled out the book he’d stashed in his lunch bag to read over his break since no one would be in on a Saturday to notice and dove back into the biology, forcing himself to recite various milestones from memory, week-by-week. Anything to not have to think about the fact that this book might be the closest to his baby he ever got.
“What are you reading?” Sally leant over his shoulder, peering at the text.
“Jesus!” Greg started in his seat, jumping high enough to almost hit Sally in the chin with his shoulder. “Bloody hell, you nearly gave me a heart attack."
“Anything you’d like to share, Sir?” Sally drawled in an amused tone.
Closing the book in frantic move, Greg yelled at himself for lying it down on the desk to read rather than holding it in his hands, for reading it when Sally was coming, for bringing it to Scotland Yard.
“What, no, it’s not for… No!” Greg stuttered out in a panic.
“Uh huh.” Sally eyed him knowingly, giving him a sly smile. “Of course it’s not, Sir.”
“Donovan!” Greg growled.
“Well, you did have that dinner just before Christmas…” She trailed off meaningfully.
“With Mycroft!” Greg bellowed, trying to slow his pounding heart.
“Oh yes, Sir.” Sally nodded sagely. “With Mycroft, of course.”
She winked at him, unable to repress the smirk spreading over her face.
“It’s research.” Greg huffed, knowing his face was traffic light red. This had been such a stupid idea.
“Oh yes, research, sir.” Sally agreed. It probably shouldn’t have been possible for her smirk to get any larger, but it did.
“Well did you know it is potentially fatal for an Omega to pass their heat with a Beta?” Greg shot back, mind scrambling for any possible excuse as to why he was reading a book on the Estrus cycle and pregnancy.
He mentally slapped himself just after. He should have gone simple, said it was in preparation for Sherlock’s next Heat and mini-Holmes of another description running around.
“No, it’s not.” Sally shook her head. “Omegas pass their Heat’s on their own all the time without an Alpha.”
“Not without an Alpha, with a Beta.” Greg corrected her. “Apparently there is a difference.”
“Really?” Sally asked dubiously.
“Apparently.” Greg stuffed the book in the bottom of his desk. “I was talking to John and he mentioned it. Saw it in Afghanistan. They had a huge number of incidents over there.”
“I think that might just be something Alphas like to put out there to try and keep Omegas for themselves, Lestrade. No disrespect or anything.” She tacked on the end hastily.
“If I’d got it from Anderson I’d probably agree.” Greg stood and collected his jacket. “Don’t think John Watson’s the kind of Alpha though.”
They walked down to the carpark in silence, past on duty uniforms and a couple of detectives from other teams on shift or pulled in anyway like they were to deal with paperwork or cases. Greg nodded at Dimmock as the younger DI blearily strolled past with a large cup of coffee. Given Greg knew the dark shadows under his eyes weren’t work related, it certainly begged the question what had been keeping him awake and added a number of implications to the slight limp.
Sally climbed in the driver’s seat and held out her hand for the keys. Greg handed them over without argument. Small gestures like being the one to drive helped most Doms feel like they were in charge of the situation, so Greg rarely argued without a good reason and wasn’t going to protest today. As the stronger Dom out of the two of them, Sally had never bothered to question this especially as Greg spent most of the car trips napping or fielding texts from Sherlock.
“This is because of the Carson case, isn’t it?” She asked as they pulled out of the lot.
“Peter had a lucky escape.” Greg replied quietly. “And none of us knew how lucky until afterward.”
“Kid’s fine, Sir.”
“This time,” Greg agreed, “but it’s something I should have known, innit? What if it had been a suicide? We’d never have worked it out.”
“That was what you meant by fatal?” Sally hunched forward and tried to peer around the car next to her.
“John likened it to torture. They had some insanely high proportion of victims kill themselves.” Greg nodded. “Though to be fair, most of those John was dealing with were gang rape victims as well.”
“And because of that case you’re reading baby books?” Sally asked sceptically.
“I should have known.” Greg repeated, then smiled at the grimace on her face. “Sorry to disappoint, Donovan, but no kids yet. You’ll have to wait a bit longer to be promoted.”
Sally snorted and to Greg’s relief shut her mouth and stopped talking. He wasn’t sure he could bullshit his way through much more of that discussion without it being obvious.
Their stiff’s family, an elderly Sire and a distraught Alpha partner, took the news as Greg had expected - with much crying, distress and demands for justice. They did leave at last with their questions answered, and a few possible avenues of enquiry. Unsurprisingly there hadn’t been anyone who jumped out as an obvious suspect. There usually wasn’t. Digging would be required.
Being a Saturday Greg packed them both off home at four. They’d put in a solid day’s work, even if they didn’t work through until five, and Greg had a talk he owed himself and a future to work out.
Melissa in a floor length wine coloured gown and tasteful, but obviously expensive even to the untrained eye, gems was not quite what Greg had anticipated when he got home, so unexpected in fact he was halfway up the stairs to change before he registered exactly what he’d passed.
A second glance didn’t alter matters - his partner’s PA was standing elegantly in the parlour, shimmering in backless silk that came so close dipping too low in the front as well, her modesty preserved by the artful drape of the flowing material. Even so, the deep V sat precariously, threatening to reveal a lot more, a tantalising promise Greg had no doubt was held at bay by an excellent fit and miles of dress tape. The dress fell smoothly over her hips and emphasised how narrow her waist really was, if you were able to tear your eyes away to look at the rest of her body that was.
Even more difficult was raising his eyes to her face, artfully careless curls arranged to draw attention to her slender neck, full lips and high cheekbones. Greg didn’t think her eyes had ever looked more stunningly blue.
“Guh,” he managed before his tongue finally started working. “Still Melissa?”
“Call me Anthea.” She replied, long perfectly manicured fingers flying over her ever present Blackberry. “Dr Watson finds it a more convenient method of referring to me, as I’m sure you will too.”
“Um, yeah, right, Anthea.” Greg stumbled across the words, mind otherwise occupied trying to keep his eyes above her collarbones.
It wasn’t easy, especially with the necklace nestled against her sternum, drawing Greg’s gaze along its ropy pearl and diamond strands to the large ruby gleaming in the sunset with an unnatural fire. The piece looked old, Tudor at a wild guess because Greg thought it looked like something that belonged in one of his history books around the neck of Queen Elizabeth I, though he couldn’t be sure. He was sure that the gems were real, that the necklace was a genuine antique not a replica, and that he really didn’t want to think about how much it was worth or that Anthea was wearing a matching bracelet and ring.
“Given that outfits probably a little, um, indecorous for wherever you’re going, I’m going to guess your job is distraction tonight.” Greg snapped his eyes back up to her face, cheeks flushing just the smallest amount.
“Indeed.” Anthea favoured him with a long slow blink. “Though the piece is clearly an antique necklace, it does unsettle a great number of our… enlightened colleagues.”
“Because the necklace is the only provocative item you’re wearing, of course.” Greg pointedly swept his eyes along her body, discovering as her weight shifted that the skirt was split to mid-thigh.
“Easy access.” She blinked innocently at his startled blush, and turned back to her phone with a smirk. “There is very little point in being armed if one cannot reach one’s weapon.”
Gregory François Lestrade knew very few things as a matter of solid and indisputable fact. One of those things was that Anthea did not need to be armed to be dangerous.
But those long legs in those stilettos sashaying around the room, tantalising glimpses of skin as the silk flowed and rolled around her… everyone in that room, young or old, Dom or Sub, would have their eyes glued on her, awaiting the next promised hint of leg, imagining running hands and tongues and teeth up the creamy unblemished skin. No one would be watching anyone else.
Unbidden the thought came to mind that in the past Mycroft had slid hands, teeth and tongue along that skin and much more of it than was on display; that he knew the taste, texture and scent of her body, just as he now knew Greg’s.
“Where are you off to that requires such a distraction?” Greg tried to keep his tone light.
Anthea’s eyes narrowed. “He hasn’t informed you.”
Greg shrugged, gut loosening as Anthea’s eyes flashed and lips pursed into a moue of distaste. No matter the past between them, this was not a woman who was expecting any such attention that night and who was looking very annoyed Greg hadn’t been kept in the loop.
Not that Greg thought Mycroft would do anything to cheat on him, the pregnancy guide he’d been reading had made it fairly clear that wasn’t really an option until after the birth even if he had been the type, and this was clearly for work, multi-million pound gems and all, but it was still nice, reassuring, to see the irritation on her face.
It would help keep the thoughts at bay once they’d left and all Greg’s niggling insecurities came out to play.
“Embassy ball.” Anthea told him, typing furiously on her keyboard.
She didn’t volunteer more and Greg, well aware of the limitations of classified information, didn’t ask. Instead he casually slumped into one of the chairs and waited for a break in her typing so he’d know for sure he wasn’t distracting her. She got there first.
“You’re surprisingly calm about him not telling you we had an engagement tonight.” Vivid blue eyes studied him over the top of her phone.
Greg shrugged. He wasn’t calm, not really, more like in the calm before the storm of delayed reaction, involving much anger, yelling and gnashing of teeth. He could feel it gathering, a sick feeling collecting every time the necklace caught and held his eye, but other than the knot in his chest tightening reflexively, he was gripped by none of it yet.
Mycroft’s footsteps drifted down the stairs, preceding the Omega like an understated heraldic chorus.
“The car has arrived, Abigail, unless there is anything else you require.” Mycroft’s voice trailed off as he stepped into the room and noticed Greg sprawled over the furniture.
After Anthea’s outfit Mycroft’s suit was a let-down of epic proportions. It was utterly unremarkable despite its flattering cut and obscene expense, but then Greg supposed that was the whole point of the venture. Even those who were aware of Mycroft’s role would be watching her, not him.
With the smallest of movements Mycroft drew himself up and met Greg’s eyes challengingly, mask of implacable defiance firmly in place. So that, Greg thought, was how it was going to be: a week of almost agreeable partnership and then Mycroft running scared and attempting to provoke a fight with Greg to remind him of his place. So much for any theories Mycroft had genuinely overlooked informing him. This was deliberate provocation.
Greg waved jauntily, refusing to rise to the bait and give Mycroft the satisfaction of reacting how he wanted him to. If he did, Greg had no doubt he would be reminded he had no claim and thus no legitimate cause for malcontent.
“Guess this answers whether or not you mind me going and watching the game tonight.” He smiled cheerfully. “And I’m sorry, but it must be said that you don’t hold a candle up to Anthea tonight.”
“Abigail.” Mycroft corrected smoothly.
“Anthea.” Greg repeated, flashing Mycroft a cheeky grin that was hiding only a slight razor edge of malice. “Apparently I rate my own special name.”
“Is that so?” Mycroft raised a cool brow and strolled out the door to collect his umbrella and coat from the stand. “I’m afraid we must be off, Gregory. Don’t wait up. We’ll be late.”
Assured Mycroft couldn’t see her and Greg could, Anthea rolled her eyes.
“I’ll have him home before two.” She promised.
“Take your time. Work’s important, and I wouldn’t want to get in the way of work.” Greg rose lazily from the chair, feeling icy daggers stabbing into his back as he stretched.
Not failing to notice the way Mycroft stiffened in his peripheral vision as Greg’s eyes unwittingly fixed on the ruby between Anthea’s breasts again despite his best efforts, he indulged in a more deliberate sweep of the eyes and a lascivious smile.
“Should I check there’s a room ready for you as well?” He asked, voice rumbling over the vowels in a very deliberate and suggestive manner.
“She has her own residence, Gregory, I assure you.” Mycroft snapped icily, spinning on his heel and storming for the front door.
At Anthea’s raised eyebrow Greg shrugged nonchalantly, feeling both spitefully happy he’d managed to get some of his own back and potently guilty at the thought of deliberately hurting his Omega in any way at all. She followed Mycroft with a disapproving look and what was possibly a muffled swear word, leaving Greg alone in the house.
The silence after the door shut was absolute. Greg hadn’t even made it to his bedroom before the sick oily nest of emotions started to break free and the thoughts began going round and round in his head, battering at his walls: pictures of Mycroft and her and that goddam necklace that made his throat ache with the absence of its weight. He wasn’t Mycroft’s Sub, and neither was she, but tonight people would look at her and wonder at the possibility of maybe.
No one would ever look at him and wonder if.
The knot in his chest constricted making it hard to breathe.
He wasn’t worried about anything happening, knew on some innate level that that just wouldn’t, that as long as Greg was living in this house, sleeping in Mycroft’s bed, there was no possibility of maybe, but that thrice damned necklace…
His hand was shaking wildly on the door knob, the silence echoing behind him.
He couldn’t stay here, listening to the silence and counting the seconds. He’d told Mycroft he’d intended to go to 221B to save face, so go to 221B he would.
This time he had his keys and wallet, so he let himself in and knocked on the upstairs door without having to disturb Mrs Hudson.
“I come bearing provisions.” Greg held up the six pack as John waved him through the door.
“Good, now hurry up, the game’s about to start.” John was already back in his armchair, eyes glued to the TV screen.
“There’s no match tonight.” Greg frowned, hand on the fridge door.
“Rugby, Greg. Football isn’t the only code in the world you know.” John was thrumming with excitement, energy barely contained by the chair.
“Just the best.” Greg teased.
“Door’s that way, heathen.” John pointed without looking. “Leave the beer.”
Greg chuckled and put five beers in the door of the relatively safe fridge. He didn’t look too closely at any of the containers, operating on the basis as always that it was safer not to know.
“So where’s Himself?” Greg asked, collapsing limblessly in Sherlock’s armchair and watching John almost vibrate out of his seat with tension as the teams took to the ground.
“Barts.” John rolled his own beer between his palms, eyes glued ferociously on the ball as the umpire prepared to start the game.
“So you could watch? Nice of him.”
John gave a light chuckle. “Not quite. Said he didn’t feel like being interrupted again when you barged through the door.”
“Hey!” Greg protested. “I’ll have you know I wasn’t going to come tonight.”
“And yet here you are. Oi, Ref!” John broke off to swear at the TV for a bit.
Greg joined in for the fun of it until the sponsor’s ad flashed across the screen and they scrambled into the kitchen for chips and new beers before coverage resumed. John didn’t relax again until play stopped for half time. It was like watching a puppet with its strings suddenly cut, the way his whole body lost tension in one sweeping move.
“So what did drive you to our humble abode tonight?” John asked over the sport’s commentator’s sensationalised recap of the game so far.
“Nothing,” Greg replied, a little too much emphasis on the first syllable to sound convincing. “My’s got an embassy thing tonight and I found myself at loose ends, that’s all.”
“Didn’t want to accompany him? Mingle with the stuffy gits who run the world?” John teased him lightly.
“Watch it you,” Greg threw his bottle cap at John’s head. “I live with one of those stuffy gits. Besides, I don’t think I could properly fill the front of Anthea’s dress.”
“Looked good?” John asked idly.
Greg smirked, knowing that John had held quite the fascination with Mycroft’s PA for some while until Sherlock had put his foot down, despite the fact they weren’t even together at the time. Sherlock always had been possessive.
“Gobsmacking.” Greg took a swig of beer. “I’m not interested at all and I still had terrible trouble looking anywhere else, even with Mycroft in the room. She’s… uh… well-endowed.”
John grunted, but play resumed before he could say anything. The game was close, occupying even Greg’s reluctant attention as the teams fought it out violently in the mud. John was so busy yelling encouragement and abuse in turn that at the end of the game his beer was still three quarters full.
“Takeaway?” John sculled his beer as the teams trouped off the field and stood with a stretch.
“Cheaper and nastier the better.” Greg called after him. “I’ve been eating too much gourmet takeaway. Gimmie something greasy and oily and guaranteed to clog my arteries before I’m fifty.”
John’s chuckle echoed back through the open doors, soon followed by his voice as he began ordering Chinese. He made it half way through the order before another match began on the TV, this one an international game on delayed broadcast, and Greg had to confiscate the phone and finish the order to avoid John accidently insulting the poor person on the other end with his rather colourful language. Luckily the nice lady on the other end was used to the sports crowd.
Just to annoy John, and since England was playing France, Greg decided to cheer for the foreigners. John threw the Union Jack pillow at him.
“Traitor.”
A couple of wadded up bits of paper followed.
“My Da was French.” Greg protested, smiling as he held up a hand to shield his face.
“Hmm…” John tossed the last ball in his palm while he considered. “Nope, not an excuse.”
Greg ducked the projectile and cheered extra loudly as France scored a try. Out of projectile weapons, John settled for words and started a slagging match of epic proportions until the doorbell rang and Mrs Hudson yoo-hooed up the stairs to say their takeaway had arrived. Breaking off halfway through why the English half-back’s parents had engaged in questionable acts with a dog, Greg gladly stole John’s wallet and scrambled down the stairs to pay, breathless with laughter. By the time he got back up it was half time again and John had moved the coffee table into a more convenient position for dinner.
“Would Sir care for an hors d’oeuvre?” John mimicked the tones of the highbrow disapproving wait staff with ease as he held out the paper bag with the oily spring rolls.
“Don’t,” Greg choked on his laughter as he pulled a spring roll out. “Please don’t.”
“Sure you don’t want to recreate what you’re missing out on?” John teased, cracking a pair of chopsticks. “I can try and find a tablecloth and some proper silverware if you’d like.”
“God no!” Greg shuddered. “The silver lining to not officially being Mycroft’s partner is that I don’t have to go to those things.”
“So what is bothering you then?” John nonchalantly took a bite off the end of his spring roll.
“Nothing.” Greg insisted. “Just hadn’t made other plans, that’s all.”
“So the talk went well then?” John looked at him hopefully.
“Sort of.” Greg squirmed a little. “I asked what other names were on the list and we agreed Abernathy Emrys was better than Sigerson Isaac.”
“Really?” John stared at him in disbelief. “They both sound awful to me.”
“Holmes Senior’s name was Siger.” Greg shovelled rice into his mouth.
“I can suddenly understand the appeal of Abernathy.” John picked out a piece of broccoli. “What else are the two of you considering?”
John took one look at Greg’s face, read the answer in the furtive eye shifting, and rolled his eyes. Luckily for Greg, play resumed and John let the subject drop with quite a bit of apparent relief.
“Why are you so interested in my relationship with My?” Greg asked as they were sipping beers watching the post-match interviews with the English team who looked self-satisfactorily smug despite only just winning.
“Because I’m your friend.” John took another swig.
“Bullshit. You wouldn’t give me the third degree every week if it were just that. Why?” Greg searched through the ruined remains of their takeaway for one last prawn cracker.
“Alpha instincts.” John lied brazenly. Greg didn’t even need to be looking at him to know he was lying.
“Yeah, sure. Try again.”
John didn’t say anything, crunching his way noisily through a fortune cookie.
“You can hardly expect me to tell you everything if you won’t even tell me why you care.” Greg pointed out.
The silence lingered until John sighed in defeat, surrendering in the face of Greg’s refusal to move on.
“Sherlock really wants it to work, thinks the two of you are made for each other.” John fished another cookie out from the wreckage, steadily not looking at Greg. “I don’t want him disappointed.”
“Sherlock?” Greg’s eyebrows rose as far up his forehead as they were able. “I get the third degree every week because you don’t want Sherlock to be disappointed if my relationship doesn’t work?”
“As a child he deleted the solar system, but for whatever sentimental reason of his own of all things kept happily ever after.” John’s eyes were a combination of liquid warmth and firm steel. “I don’t want him to lose that now.”
“So no pressure or anything, but don’t fuck it up? Thanks.” Greg avoided meeting those eyes any longer than he had to, pulse thrumming in his ears.
If it hadn’t been hard enough to navigate the emotional waters around his relationship before, apparently there was the additional weight of whatever childish innocence remained in Sherlock’s soul and fuck it if the brief glimpses of the hurting lonely child behind the haughty junkie’s eyes hadn’t been what had led Greg to taking care of him in the first place.
“It’s your life, Greg, your relationship. You’re not responsible for anything other than what you want.” John’s voice was soft. “But if I can do anything to help the two of you work things out so it does work, I’ll do it. That’s all.”
“Yeah, right. Thanks.” Greg worried at his lower lip.
“Really, Greg. Sherlock’s my responsibility, not yours. You just make sure you’re happy. Let me worry about him.”
Greg sighed, knowing that no matter what John said it would now always be in the back of his mind. It was nice to know Sherlock approved of him and Mycroft together, but he really could have done without that knowledge if it meant that he didn’t have to know that Sherlock believed in them so absolutely.
It was the sort of pressure Greg suspected single parents felt when their children fell in love with their partner, absolutely sure that this was the one that was going to stay and make their family whole. It was both reassuring and unpleasant. His relationship with Josephine hadn’t had this much pressure, and he had been hiding what he was from her.
“Greg.” John leant over. “I’m serious. Worry about you and Mycroft, not anyone else. You can’t do this for anyone other than you or it won’t work. Leave Sherlock to me.”
“I know, but… “ He trailed off, waiting for words that never arrived to describe how much he didn’t want to hurt Sherlock, about how the younger Sub had always felt like his responsibility in ways that he wasn’t and never would be, and how Greg didn’t want to disappoint him almost as much as he didn’t want to disappoint his son.
He hadn’t met his son yet; he wasn’t real as anything more than a concept and a slight swell Greg occasionally ran his hands over. Sherlock was there and alive and Greg had been taking care of him for so many years…
“I didn’t know. About tonight. My hadn’t told me.” It was easier to talk about that than the fact Sherlock was the surrogate child Greg had never wanted or asked for, yet, at a previous time in his life post-drugs and pre-John, had considered sleeping with.
When he didn’t want to strangle him.
Greg was resigned to the fact that his relationship with Sherlock Holmes was always going to be complicated and a little undefinable without sounding creepy in all the worst ways.
“Is that what’s got you all wound up?”
“Huh, no, not at all.” Greg shook his head. “That’s My. This week was too good. He seems to freak whenever he’s forced to acknowledge he cares, or that he’s been scared about something, or things are comfortable between us, god forbid.”
He tapped his beer bottle against his forehead absently. “Probably should have anticipated it, to be honest. That whole realisation that we both agreed their Sire was coming nowhere near our child in any name or form made it feel too much like we were working together for him I guess.”
“I hear you.” Greg looked up to see a sad smile on John’s face. “Self-sabotage every time to make sure you either come back or leave on his terms so he never has to admit to anything, as if that will stop it affecting him.”
“Sherlock?”
“Harry.”
“Ah.”
They both drained their already empty beer bottles to avoid looking at each other or saying anything.
“So, uh, what was bugging you then?” John tried very hard to find something else in the room to focus on.
Greg stood up and gathered the takeaway into a pile, then took it to the bin. He returned with two beers.
“She was wearing a necklace.” He huffed as he handed one to John. “It wasn’t a collar, really obviously not a collar, just a necklace.
“And I’m not,” He hurried to say as he sank into his chair before John could even open his mouth, “worried about him sleeping with her because I’m just not and don’t ask me to explain because I just know that he won’t, but…”
They sat there in silence as John let him gather his thoughts.
“I’m not angry he deliberately didn’t tell me, I’m not worried, I’m just…” He was much too sober for this, and took a large mouthful of beer. “She’s wearing a necklace.”
“You’re jealous.” John said simply.
“Yes, no,” Greg groaned. “I don’t want to be there with My, god that’d be awful. I’m not jealous, I just…She gets to wear that thing and for her it’s meaningless, but people get to look.”
John nodded and let Greg focus elsewhere in the room until his eyes fell on a stack of DVDs and he pulled out a mindless action thriller with plenty of explosions. They watched the over the top acting, the completely fake gun fights, and cheesy romantic dialogue as the Alpha hero seduced two women and an Omega in turn.
“Are you staying here tonight?” John asked as the Alpha rode a motorcycle off a lorry to get away with the memory stick safely tucked in his jacket pocket. “Sherlock finally cleared off the other bed.”
“Nah.” Greg’s voice was rough from the enforced silence. “Anthea promised to have him back by two. Seems like handing him a victory if I’m not there.”
John nodded and they finished the movie in silence. Sherlock arrived home just as the credits began to roll, so Greg grabbed his coat and ran out the door calling good bye over his shoulder to catch the cab before it sped off. It saved awkward small talk and standing there through the condescending look Sherlock would be giving him having found him in his flat again, just as predicted.
It felt slightly ham fisted, like he was over stressing his point, but after changing into his sleepwear and hesitating at the door, Greg got into Mycroft’s bed to sleep. In the annoying mental chess game Mycroft seemed to be playing whether Greg was involved or not, there was no reason to let Mycroft know he’d accidently checked Greg’s king while trying to eliminate his queen. At least in the process Greg had been able to get some of his own back. He hadn’t come close to the King or Queen, but surely the look on Mycroft’s face as he’d left meant he’d at least stolen a knight or bishop.
He’d passed it off as being fine, so he’d act that way, not cower in his room in a mood.
It was strange, lying there in Mycroft’s bed in Mycroft’s room without Mycroft. His scent lingered, despite the fact he was gone and the room had been aired that day, infused into the walls and carpet and furniture. It would fade eventually, sometime after Mycroft gave birth and stopped producing the pheromones, but until then there would be months of lingering vanilla-spice warmth waiting for them in this room.
He fell asleep with his nose buried in Mycroft’s pillow.
At first he couldn’t define what woke him up, a sound, a sense, a feeling. Greg sat bolt upright in bed, eyes scanning the dark room for any difference in the blackness. One hand slid towards the bedside light.
“Leave it.” Soft voice, but the command reverberated through him.
“You’re home.” Greg relaxed.
Mycroft strolled forward, removing his jacket and dropping it idly on the floor as he approached the bed. Even in the gloom his white shirt glowed subtly, a torso moving towards Greg with no legs or limbs.
“How did it go? Get what you needed?” He asked sleepily, reaching out a hand for Mycroft to take or leave as he chose.
“Naturally.”
There were the chinks of cufflinks hitting the dish on the dressing table Mycroft stored them in overnight. The pale shirt parted, buttons undone. The whisper of fabric suggested that Mycroft’s trousers were next.
“’s good to hear.” Greg murmured sleepily.
He stretched, feeling his pyjamas slide over the expensive sheets. It was the first night he’d been dressed in Mycroft’s bed. In sleep wear at least.
“’uppose it wouldn’t hve been too haard.” He slurred, yawn distorting half his words. “With her looking like that. Coulda assassinated the Queen and no one would have noticed with her lookin like that.”
“Indeed.”
The shirt moved closer and Greg could finally make out the faint expanse of Mycroft’s skin. One hand bushed Greg’s cheek and slowly ran around to cup the back of his head.
“You were certainly impressed.”
If Greg had been more awake he might have known to be on guard with that tone, that the polite level comment that had ‘Avoid! Treacherous Currents’ written in ornate capitals over the map. Here there be monsters.
“Course. She was stunning.” Greg replied sleepily.
He wasn’t expecting the hand behind his head to yank him upwards or the aggressive kiss that was more a mashing of lips and biting teeth. Pulled off balance, Greg had no choice but to windmill one arm around Mycroft’s shoulders, the other fully extended to provide some sort of balance point on the bed.
Slowly Greg’s mind stuttered into gear and he pushed back, forcing his tongue into Mycroft’s mouth and sucking bruises into his lips as Mycroft hissed and fought for ground. Their teeth clicked together and a coppery taste flooded Greg’s mouth as one or the other of them bit too hard on something, though for the life of him Greg couldn’t have said whether it was his blood or Mycroft’s being smeared ferociously around their mouths. Eventually, Greg tore his mouth away from Mycroft’s, ignoring the snarl that followed.
“You know she’s gorgeous. You knew that when you had her come here to pick you up.” Greg hissed into Mycroft’s ear. His fingers were digging into Mycroft’s shoulder leaving crescent moons where even his blunt nails had managed to dent the skin. Mycroft’s teeth latched onto his neck in retaliation. “You wanted me to see her, to know she looked amazing. Are you upset I looked?”
“Never again.” Mycroft snarled, free arm tangling in the cord for Greg’s pyjama bottoms to pull it loose.
Greg pushed up onto one knee, the other leg slipping off the side of the bed so he could half-stand half kneel. He kicked the bottoms off as he went, leaving them flapping uselessly around one knee. Mycroft returned the favour, dragging Greg’s sleep shirt over his head and moving to attack one of the newly exposed nipples. After that it took significant amounts of concentration and will power for Greg to manage to remove Mycroft’s pants instead of collapsing into a heap of jelly.
“Were. You. Jealous?” He bit each word into Mycroft’s skin, peppering the cream expanse with nips and more serious bruises. “Were you upset I was looking at her?”
Greg gasped as Mycroft bit down savagely on his collar bone, his fingers dragging down his lover’s back as Greg arched into the sting of pain. From the bite Mycroft bestowed a few centimetres above the previous one, he didn’t mind the welts.
“Y-eee-s.” Greg exhaled the word and then nudged Mycroft upwards for another kiss. It stung as Mycroft sucked on his bruised, swollen lip.
A cool wet hand slipped between their bodies and Mycroft stroked Greg’s cock, a punishingly slow and gentle stroke, completely offset to the scratches and the bruises the rest of his body was inflicting. It made Greg want to thrust his hips to increase the pace, harder, faster, match the claims Mycroft was sucking all over his body with a claim of his own on Mycroft.
“Take me.”
The hand withdrew and Mycroft straddled Greg’s hips, knees spread wide to accommodate Greg’s legs.
“Are you sure?” Greg’s mind was fuzzy, but he’d remember preparing Mycroft if it had been done.
“Now!” Mycroft snarled, pulling Greg up for a kiss as his body sank down.
There was resistance and it must have hurt, but between the lube slathered over Greg’s dick and the natural preparation from pregnancy, Greg slid smoothly, though slowly, in.
There would be bruises on his biceps from Mycroft’s grip as he struggled through the pain to take him.
“Is this what you want?” Greg moved to suck his own mark into Mycroft’s shoulder, far below the visible skin left by his suit shirts, as he withdrew and thrust again without giving Mycroft any time to adjust. “The burn of my cock, today, tomorrow, every time you move, every time you stand, every time you-”
His words were swallowed by Mycroft’s mouth, which descended again until Greg’s thrust brushed by his prostate and his lips left Greg’s with a gasp.
“Harder.” He panted into Greg’s ear, fingernails dragging lightly up Greg’s sides.
Greg’s thrust was rewarded by the nails retracing their path, this time hard enough to sting.
“God, yes!” Greg shifted more of his weight to his foot resting on the floor to give him better leverage to thrust. “Want to feel you, going to make you burn.”
Mycroft moaned and sucked on Greg’s ear.
“Is that what you want, love? Want to feel me? Want me to take you, know I’m here taking you, no one else?”
“Again!” Mycroft shuddered as Greg found the angle he’d been on earlier to stimulate Mycroft’s prostate with every thrust. His eyes fluttered closed with each drive and retreat, his neglected cock leaving a sticky trail as it dragged over Greg’s stomach.
Greg was getting close. He knew that, could feel it gathering and he wasn’t going to keep it back, not unless Mycroft ordered him too. Much more satisfying to flood his errant love with his seed, drive them both through ecstasy and hold him as they both came down.
“Is this what you want?” He growled, much abused muscles straining to pick up the pace.
Mycroft dropped his weight just as Greg thrust up, driving his prick even deeper.
“Yes.” He moaned. “Take me, Gregory.”
“Yes.” Greg pulled him close, holding their bodies tightly together as he moved, guiding Mycroft’s hips to help him find a rhythm that would push them further. “God, My, love you. Love you so much.”
Mycroft kissed and licked his way down Greg’s neck, stopping with a bitten off cry to pant in the crook of neck and shoulder as Greg hit his prostate straight on. His cock was trapped between them, every flex of Greg’s abdomen, every movement as he pistoned in and out of Mycroft’s body, dragging against the head, flooding him with sensation.
“Love you. All yours.”
“Say it.” Mycroft growled, emphasising his command with teeth. His voice was breathless, shaky. He was getting close.
“Yours, only yours. Forever.” Greg panted. He couldn’t go much longer, didn’t want to. So close.
“Yes.” Mycroft’s muscles contracted as his orgasm rippled through him, dragging and massaging against Greg’s buried cock until with a bitten off shout that might have been Mycroft’s name, Greg joined him in white oblivion.
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If you want to have a look at the dress I used as the base concept for Anthea's before my imagination got hold of it and the jewellry she's wearing, check out Entry two in the Encyclopaedia of Life - Behind Still Waters