Though I Walk Through the Valley (37/38)
Though I Walk through the Valley
Title:Though I Walk through the Valley (37/38)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: So sorry about the delay. I spent yesterday with a fever and a sore throat, napping in my bed. Second last chapter!
Warnings: None in particular for this chapter
If you've wondered here by mistake, you may wish to start at Part I of the series, Rarest of the Rare: Chapter 1.
Prologue - Chapter 10 - Chapter 20 - Chapter 30 - Chapter 31 - Chapter 32 - Chapter 33 - Chapter 34 - Chapter 35 - Chapter 36 - Chapter 37 - Chapter 38
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Arthur Dent had famously never got the hang of Thursdays. Greg felt at that moment like every day was Thursday, even though his calendar assured him it was Friday.
Talking to John had certainly not solved his problems. All it had done was make him feel guilty about the truth, feel like crap for compromising his principles to apologise without any response, and cause Sherlock to stop speaking to him. Greg was worse at home, not better, sneaking into Mycroft’s room to sleep every night. It was the only place he could rest, where his spring tight body would ease just slightly to let him let go.
Delving into the books had shown it was entirely natural, his Alpha body clock counting down to the birth and getting increasingly antsy that his pregnant, vulnerable Omega was not there, but that didn’t help him deal with the need to saturate himself in Mycroft’s scent and make sure he was safe. The knowledge that Mycroft could ensure he was safer than Greg could ever manage didn’t help and after a really bad night on Tuesday Greg had found himself cradling the stuffed rabbit from the nursery buried deep under Mycroft’s covers, crooning to it and himself as he tried to fill the hollow ache. He’d been disgusted with himself Wednesday morning, but had left the stuffed animal in the bed and slept with it since.
Sally had gone out with Sherlock again after lunch, following some lead the two of them had ferreted out, but wouldn’t tell him. She hadn’t told him that was what she was doing, but the guilty, slightly ashamed air as she reported her afternoon movements was enough for Greg to put two and two together. She’d been embarrassed since she worked out he’d worked out what she was doing, and nice change from anger that it was, Greg would have preferred things to be back to normal so he could just go with her.
Dimmock must have been in on it too because he’d taken one look at Greg after a rather unsubtle update from Sally and had fled the office, stealing Whitely’s crime scene for a more effective escape.
The fact that no protest had been raised was characteristic of the half-reverent, half-pariah like state Greg seemed to have inspired in the office. Apparently his survival this time had rendered him mystical, legendary, in some way miraculous, to be revered in hushed voices.
It reminded Greg very quickly that in all the stories the hero or God or Chosen One was simultaneously held high as a figurehead and shunned as a human. Conversations stopped when he walked past, his requests were filled immediately, in total silence, and he didn’t even bother going to the informal pub nights after everyone had practically run out of the break room when he walked in.
Gregson was almost a breath of fresh air, the refreshing breeze of scathing comparative normality as he didn’t pussy foot around Greg, calling him names and trying to sneak his own forensic tests up the priority ladder with the lab. Greg took this in the spirit it was intended, threw names back, had the lab techs double cross Gregson, and last week had stolen Gregson’s apple from the fridge and eaten it brazenly in front of him while Gregson glowered during a budget meeting.
Reminding himself that as long as the killer was caught it didn’t matter who liaised with Sherlock and ran around London after the crazy idiot almost being killed was not easy as he slogged through the mess of paperwork, filling in yet more copies of PCF42. He stabbed his pen a little harder than necessary into the dot between his initial and last name. It didn’t really make him feel better.
He wasn’t quite sure whether his phone ringing was good or bad. It could be Sally calling to say they’d arrested the perp, whoever he or she was, or John to say Sherlock had accidently got himself arrested by Sally after mouthing off one too many times, or one of his rarely seen mates from outside the force. Hell, if he was going all out it could be one of his brothers or sister, though hell hadn’t frozen over yet so that wasn’t likely. He didn’t bother to check.
“Detective Inspector Lestrade.” Greg tried not to sound too bored. As neither the paperwork nor the call inspired much enthusiasm, he didn’t really succeed.
“Detective Inspector, might I suggest you collect your things and are waiting outside the Yard in exactly ten minutes. It would be advisable you do not plan on returning.” Anthea’s crisp professional tones flowed coolly over the phone. She had disengaged before Greg could open his mouth to reply.
Sitting bolt upright in his office chair had attracted some curious glances from those close enough to see. Grabbing his belongings and piling them into his pockets as fast as humanly possibly didn’t improve matters and a fairly large group was attempting not to stare as he raced out the door.
Unfortunately, Mulgrave was standing near the exit, making his way slowly through the pen, checking on various officers as he went. For Greg that meant no easy escape out the main door, and from where Mulgrave was currently paused between two blocks of desks the other route to the lifts was similarly open to potential observation. There would be no sneaking out and no easy explanations Greg could give.
“Lestrade,”
Greg’s bones jumped a foot in the air. Luckily his muscles froze so the rest of his body didn’t follow, though his heart felt like it did. Spinning revealed Gregson surveying him with a look of almost grumpy concern.
“You alright, Lestrade?” Gregson’s arm was outstretched, hand on Greg’s shoulder. He hadn’t even noticed.
“Yeah, fine, I’ve just,” Greg’s head swung involuntarily toward Mulgrave, “I’ve just got somewhere I need to be.”
Gregson’s eyes scanned over Greg’s jittery body, none of the usual swagger masking the seriousness of his gaze.
“This is all part of whatever’s been going on with you.” He concluded. “Oh don’t give me that, Lestrade. You don’t know shite about gambling - never have, never will. You’re certainly no addict.”
“Gregson…” Greg didn’t know what to say, heart keeping furious beat with the clock as he was fiercely aware of every second passing.
“Do you really need to go, now, no questions asked?”
Something in Greg’s crazy wild eyed panic answered for him as Gregson just nodded.
“Wait here. Try not to stick out like a sore thumb exiting the lobby.”
Gregson strode over to Mulgrave, an absolute picture of Alpha arrogance that always annoyed their chief, though usually he was too professional to act on it and Gregson was too professional to push. Whatever it was Gregson said however, soon had Mulgrave spitting chips as he goaded the Beta into a fight. During the resulting spectacle of Gregson being ordered into Mulgrave’s office, Greg slipped quietly out the back.
He just made it, the black car pulling smoothly into the kerb as he dropped all subtlety and sprinted the last few meters. He’d barely managed to close the door before the car pulled smoothly away.
Anthea’s polished exterior with not a hair out of place looked miles away from how Greg felt. If he’d stopped to think about it, he also would have suspected it was a mile away from how he looked.
“Is he okay? Has something happened to the baby?”
One hand was perched on the headrest, and to say he was sitting would have been a gross injustice to the existence of the word kneeling.
“No,” Anthea replied without looking up from her ever present Blackberry.
Assuming no was the answer to the second and not the first question, Greg slowly sank down into his seat and pulled his seatbelt on.
As in all of Mycroft’s soundproofed government cars, the silence inside was deafening, especially as Anthea’s smooth typing didn’t make a single tapping noise to break through the heavy air. The car’s passage down the road was soundless as not even the engine dared rise about its simple, gliding vibration.
“So uh, is this the point where I disappear never to be seen again, or do they find my body in an alley or floating down the Thames at some point?” Greg tried to sound light hearted about the concept, mainly to hide how fast his heart was racing and the sweat beading on his jittery hands.
“You will be able to return to work on Monday.” Anthea rolled her eyes.
“Great, just what I wanted to hear.” Greg dug his fingers into his thigh.
He hadn’t been worried Mycroft was going to have him disposed of, not until he’d jokingly asked the question and discovered it was really more semi-serious as his heart rate had skyrocketed. Truth be told, after months of silence it was all too easy to imagine Mycroft the British Government cleaning up loose ends.
He and John had previously had a slightly inebriated discussion about The British Government and why he, not Moriarty, was still classified by Sherlock as the most dangerous person in Britain. Eventually they had concluded that the reason was that if pressed Mycroft could do anything to anyone just like Moriarty could, but that if Mycroft did it no one would even blink and it would all be government sanctioned.
Legitimate.
The only person who might possibly have been safe from the British Government was Sherlock, though all that seemed to mean was Mycroft wouldn’t let him be killed. Blackmail, manipulation and measures short of death neither of them had been able to rule out, though they’d both agreed the fate of the country would probably have to be at stake before the British Government would go that far, given the effort usually put into keeping Sherlock safe from those things.
As Sherlock’s Bonded, John was relatively untouchable. Greg usually considered himself fairly safe as well, confident Mycroft-his-friend would stop the British Government sacrificing him for the greater good until the stakes were well past when Greg, if given the option, would have thrown himself into the furore to try and save others. Mycroft seemed to be aware of this despite their never having spoken of it, and had, it appeared, kept Greg deaf and blind to a number of situations in the past where he might otherwise have tried to ‘get himself needlessly killed’ (do his job). When it came to other people’s lives Greg’s self-valuation was much lower than Mycroft’s and Mycroft seemed determined to protect him from ‘himself’ and his ‘idiotic heroism complex’.
Of course, he’d never had to contemplate what the British Government might do to him if he were a perceived threat while Mycroft was too pissed off to bend. Currently on the outs with Sherlock and with Sally happy to provide cases, Greg’s cards were rendered fairly close to useless.
It bothered him he was so unnerved he was thinking in pre-restaurant welcome-to-my-abandoned-warehouse power play themes. It was very disturbing.
“Would you please relax or fret less obviously.” Anthea’s voice conveyed her irritation in her usual polite, dismissive manner.
“Can you tell me I don’t have a reason?” Greg asked hopefully.
“I can lie, yes.” Anthea’s eyes flicked over her screen.
Greg winced.
“Right, thanks. That’s really going to help.” He turned his head to watch London stream past. “Can I ask you where you’re taking me?”
“You can ask.” Anthea replied neutrally.
“Will you answer?”
“No.”
“…Right…”
Not even Mycroft’s superb government driver/bodyguard could teleport them through London traffic. A particularly nasty intersection took half an hour of silence to clear and Greg positively itched for his police radio to check the accident report.
“How’s he been?” He asked softly as they moved again.
“Intolerable.” Her mind was clearly elsewhere.
“Was it bad?” He eventually asked, trying to assess the damage.
“Before or After?”
“Before.”
He chickened out. Anthea’s glacial eyebrow twitch showed she was aware of it too.
“Irritated. Impatient for the baby to be born. I do not believe he has been away from the office so long since he joined the Civil Service and even with remote access he has not been taking his enforced leave… well.”
In a less oppressive and nerve-wracked environment, Greg might have snickered at the genetic inability of the Holmeses to take a holiday. Instead he merely asked “Withdrawal symptoms?” in a stress-flattened tone.
“That is one way of putting it.” She muttered, fingers flying over the screen.
“Slightly…” Greg hesitated not sure whether completing his sentence would sign his not-yet-valid death warrant should Mycroft ever find out.
“Hormonal?” Anthea had no such worries. “Mycroft Holmes is above mere physiological influences and is in total control of everything.”
Definitely hormonal, Greg winced, and it appeared Anthea had been fielding the worst of it. For the first time he wondered whether he might in fact have been better off safe in London with Mycroft… elsewhere … terrorising the world.
“And, um, After?” He asked, aware he probably didn’t want to know the answer.
“I spent three weeks attempting to apologise to various politicians and dignitaries to prevent WWIII, or at least the breakup of the European Union and a repeat of the Hundred Years War.” Anthea’s voice went straight to his marrow and made Greg’s bones ache with cold. “How do you think?”
“Attempting?” Greg tried to sidestep the subject, slightly worried he’d managed to create an international incident.
“The Russians are holding out for increased concessions. He’ll have to deal with that himself later.”
Anthea must have been exhausted. It was the only explanation for the fact she’d let that slip, unless she was trying to give Greg some idea of the scale of the repercussions from his actions and Mycroft’s power. She certainly was frowning and blinking rapidly at her phone as she tried to focus on the screen.
“And, um, now? If I’m not being carted off to my death, does that mean I’m forgiven?”
“The standing orders for anyone who sees you are to take any measures necessary to remove you permanently from the premises.” Anthea recited calmly.
“Oh,” Greg bit his lip, trying to keep the rest in.
He’d been hoping his presence maybe meant forgiveness was around the corner, or at least up for discussion. Hope seemed to be becoming an increasingly expensive commodity.
“So why am I here exactly?”
“Because I have the authority to ignore any and all orders I feel are contrary to his on-going health and safety, and based on his recent behaviour and medical advice I feel it is in his best interests for you to be present for the duration of his labour.”
“Labour?” Greg yelped, snapping to attention. “As in, Mycroft’s actually in labour?”
“For several hours now, yes.”
“Isn’t it too early? For the baby, he’s not ready yet.” Greg babbled in a state of shock filled panic.
It was too early. The baby wasn’t due yet, would he survive? Would he have brain damage? How premature would he be? What month was it? Greg scrambled to work out the date he’d been writing on the forms only two hours ago, but couldn’t remember it, let alone work out how long it had been since conception.
“The baby is at 39 weeks and so can be considered to term. He is not expected to suffer adversely from a 48 hour earlier than anticipated delivery.” There was a faintly exasperate note in her voice that sounded like Anthea was rolling her eyes.
“But…” Greg trailed off.
Anthea seemed to take pity on him.
“It’s September.” She reminded quietly.
Greg leant back, trying to work out whether they were really at that point of time already.
9th of September… apparently they were.
His baby boy’s birthday.
It had snuck up on him completely unawares. He’d been so focused on trying to resolve things with Mycroft and at work he’d never, in all the time he’d been living and fighting and loving with Mycroft, thought to ask what his due date was, let alone whether he could be there for the birth. It was some nebulous date out ahead of them, coming up so things needed to be done, but not something that would actually arrive!
He couldn’t sit still, nerves fluttering in his stomach and prickling along his skin making him antsy, He couldn’t settle, muscles jumping and twitching wither he wanted them to or not.
Anthea frowned even as she took the almost unprecedented step of taking one hand off her phone to rub at her forehead. Greg tried to tone down his fidgeting as she was clearly under a lot of strain.
“So what exactly do you do that you can just ignore Mycroft’s instructions?” Greg’s traitorous mouth asked.
Greg’s mind winced. Trying to avoid asking about Mycroft, the baby, Mycroft, the fact Mycroft was in labour, or Mycroft hadn’t meant he’d wanted to ask that.
Anthea’s mouth curled into a disappointed grimace, as though Greg had failed some test with that question. It was her only response.
More cars flashed past as their diver smoothly manoeuvred around the busy motorway traffic. Other than out of London, Greg still didn’t know where they were going.
“Why me?” He asked, voice cracking in his desperation to keep the silence at bay. “Shouldn’t you be getting his doctor or someone?”
“Dr Koen has been in residence for some weeks now.” Anthea replied. “Mycroft has all appropriate medical care he requires.”
She seemed frostily annoyed Greg would dare to think she hadn’t taken care of Mycroft’s health first.
“So, how do I fit into continuing health and safety then? I don’t think bringing stress and anger into the situation is quite what you’re meant to do.” Greg tried not to sound like he was begging for answers. He tried to stop his knee jiggling. He sort of managed the knee.
With an impatient sigh Anthea dropped her phone into her lap and turned to look at him. Close up the dark smudges under her eyes were bleeding through the worn concealer that had been reduced to a chalky cover on her skin. Her eyes seemed slightly swollen and bloodshot, surrounded by furrows that if she wasn’t careful were going to become permanently etched into her skin.
Greg instantly felt guilty about making her life more difficult, even if more difficult was only by pestering her with questions during an unrequested car ride.
“Do not expect him to admit it, but he has spent the months of your separation missing you. You’ve probably not noticed your tracksuit and one of your t-shirts are missing - he stole them from the laundry and wore them until they didn’t fit. When the scent faded, his mood descended rapidly into irritability, though he denied it of course. I had the movers fetch a scarf of yours - his general demeanour improved.
“After your fight he has refused to go near it, and his health has deteriorated rapidly to the point Dr Koen was called in to monitor his situation. Despite bringing forward the projected due date, the baby has still come early, though not early enough to cause damage to the child. A biological defence mechanism as his Alpha is not present. Dr Koen and I both believe that the potential for complications during the birth will be reduced if you’re present and there will be less stress for the baby.
“Besides which, both of you want to be together for this, but he is too pig headed and you are too scared to make it happen.” Anthea raised an eyebrow and turned back to her phone with clear ‘may I continue with my work now?’ derision.
Greg swallowed and turned back to the window.
“We have some distance to drive. I suggest you use the time to think.” Anthea switched the screen off and leant back with her eyes closed.
She looked like she was sleeping, but Greg had seen Sherlock and Mycroft do the same when thinking through complex problems and recognised the alert stillness, eyes flicking rapidly behind her eyelids.
Think. Time to Think. Greg had had nothing but time to think for the last few months.
Though, he supposed if he was honest, he hadn’t really thought, not like John had suggested, not like he presumed Anthea meant. He’d sort of skated around the thinking, accepting the surface solution because John was right and he didn’t believe Mycroft wouldn’t just hand their son over to Mummy. Not because Mycroft didn’t care, not because Greg doubted for a second that Mycroft would love their baby the first time he held him, but because Greg thought he would.
If Mycroft’s fleeing from his own house over the strength of his reaction to Greg proved anything, it proved that a Mycroft Holmes who felt was more dangerous than one who didn’t because a Mycroft who felt was afraid, and Mycroft Holmes was a dangerous person to scare. If Mycroft loved their son, and he would, he would either get rid of him, passing him off to Mummy to avoid being forced to feel, or he would lash out in some way, like he had when Greg had scared him with work.
Caring was not an advantage.
Trust, but in whom take care.
What did that mean though?
Greg supposed the reality was that he had been taking the easy path, the route of least resistance, precisely because it didn’t require thinking. Mostly because thinking meant he had to acknowledge things he didn’t want to. Thinking meant he had to face things, do things instead of sitting tight and complaining when they were thrown at him.
Because he couldn’t let Mycroft win this one, if that was even the right way to look at it. He let My run rampant over him and their relationship and he knew it, in some ways accepted it as his due for being pathetic enough to fall in love with a Holmes who didn’t love him and then walk into this farce of an agreement with his eyes and arms wide open, but he couldn’t let Mycroft do the same to their child. He could not let Mycroft dictate his, Greg’s, relationship with his son.
He’d put it off too long, he knew that. Gazing out the window as it started to rain, Greg knew he’d procrastinated and procrastinated and let Mycroft draw him away from the issue neither of them wanted to deal with time and time again, and now Mycroft was in labour (labour!) and they’d run out of time and never talked. Never talked about how they were and what they were and how they were going to raise a baby.
They’d both made demands, Greg’s counter to every protective iota of Mycroft’s, and they’d never tackled it long enough to see if there was a compromise, a way forward.
There was, there always was a way forward, but the largest obstacle was and always had been Mycroft and whether he would be willing to try, and Greg didn’t know. He’d been too angry, too scared, too desperate to hold on every time to push Mycroft over the edge, to jump off the cliff with him and see if together they really did fly or fall.
It made him sick to his stomach, dread curdling in his gut and thudding in his heart. He could feel the adrenaline, a sick burning sensation next to the genuine wholesome kick from the knowledge that right then, at that moment, his son was being born.
He hadn’t said ‘or what’ in his impassioned email to Mycroft because he had shied away from even the possibility it was real. Something inside had clung arrogantly to the belief that of course Mycroft would choose him, and now that was eaten away by the acidic sludge roiling in his belly.
Or what? What if?
He couldn’t leave, his baby would need him and there was no way to take him. Even if Greg forced a paternity test he’d be in no position to raise him; shepherded off to a secret government research facility to be poked and prodded, to work out why exactly he’d gone ‘wrong’. Mycroft! Mycroft would be in with him, or rather in a similar facility, possibly not the same one. They would probably take their son too, raising him in a controlled environment with test after test to find out whether he was ‘normal’, and if so why, and if not, why not?
Greg shuddered. They’d probably let him out into some low security facility fairly quickly; there was a limit after all to what they could do to him. He might even be allowed his son back if he wasn’t deemed any kind of corrupting influence, but he’d never work, never live under anything but government surveillance for the rest of his life, isolated in some village in the far north purpose built to house the members of the research facility.
Mycroft, Mycroft would never even get that. A Dominant Omega - Greg could imagine the tests: send him into Heat to be bred by Greg to see if the second baby was like the first; send him into Heat to be bred by some random Alpha to see what happened when two Doms went through Estrus together and what the baby was like. They’d probably drug him into oblivion as he was too strong for them to handle otherwise. Sadly, Mycroft would probably be safer in there if his secret was exposed then out in the world, might even have time to pop out a couple more babies for research before one of his enemies or slighted and bitter political allies managed to successfully ‘take care of’ him.
Any kind of idea of forcing things through officially was definitely out, even if Greg was willing to ignore the potential global fallout. Even at his most vengeful Greg couldn’t do that to Mycroft, let alone his son.
And he wouldn’t leave his son alone.
So what would he do? What did he need?
Commitment, Greg decided. He needed a commitment from Mycroft that he would try to work on things. It was too much go ask for things to work outright, but Greg needed to know that Mycroft wasn’t going to back out and decide it, they, were too hard and he was just going to handball it all over to the Family and run. Some sort of sign, something.
Something to show this wasn’t Act III of the Mummy Show.
Maybe he was being unfair to his not-really-mother-in-law, maybe it was all Daddy Holmes, but Greg certainly couldn’t see any evidence that the Omega had tried to stop his Alpha, or even just show his sons that their Sire was wrong. No, until proven otherwise Mummy was as guilty as anyone in Greg’s mind and would not get a third chance to screw up a Holmes for life.
He was asking a lot of Mycroft in one go. It was impossible to imagine that after thirty years Mycroft would finally decide to stand up to his Bearer and that he would take down his walls in one go.
Greg hoped. He prayed.
He doubted.
But what could he do? He didn’t have anywhere to go even if he was willing to leave. His flat was rented out to a young couple, which did at least mean he probably had more disposable income than he’d had since before he was married, but nowhere to live.
He could stay at Baker St for a bit. John wouldn’t turn him out and Sherlock would deal, but that didn’t solve his problems and wouldn’t mean he could take his son with him.
He could maybe get a smaller place; use the rent from the other one to offset the mortgage.
Would Sherlock help with Mycroft? He’d seemed pretty keen to get them sorted out before Greg had put his foot in it. Maybe, worst come to worst, Sherlock could take in the baby instead of Mummy. Then Greg could… work it out at the time, but it was a possibility! Maybe if he begged John enough, John would convince Sherlock to at least listen to Greg long enough to float the idea past him.
The Holmeses would never let their heir go willingly. They’d fight Greg every step of the way. He’d have to prove he had rights to the child. If Sherlock helped him… would Sherlock even manage to have any say? He was only an Omega after all.
Greg groaned and held his head in his hands as he went round and round in his head.
He needed Mycroft to show him this would work, had to be given that notice because otherwise he didn’t know what would happen.
If not, if not he’d go to 221B and throw himself on Sherlock’s mercy. Move out of the house until he and Mycroft reached an agreement.
Mycroft was in labour.
An involuntary grin split Greg’s face, hidden by his hand even as his heart sped up and stress induced laughter threatened to break free.
His son was being born. His son. It didn’t seem possible that that slight swell would actually be a baby, kicking and screaming and alive and real. It didn’t seem possible that this theory, this mad idea was coming to actual physical expression, right now.
“Will we be there in time?”
Speech was almost father to the thought. No sooner had it occurred than the words were sliding in tense syllables off Greg’s tongue.
“Unless an unforeseen emergency arises requiring immediate attention, yes.” Anthea had one hand curled around her phone. “I will be notified if that becomes necessary. The birthing process can take over a day, especially for first children.”
“And Mycroft didn’t opt for an emergency c-section when he realised he’d gone into labour?” Greg had trouble believing that.
“He was well into labour before he realised they were actual contractions distracting him from his work, not merely Braxton Hicks contractions. Dr Koen believes its more stress than advisable for the baby unless it becomes medically necessary to perform the operation now.”
“I imagine that went down well.”
“The house is still standing.”
Greg’s lips twitched into a small smile and he turned back to the window to continue to battle his mixed feelings and let Anthea work.
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Previous - Next
Almost the end....
Title:Though I Walk through the Valley (37/38)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: So sorry about the delay. I spent yesterday with a fever and a sore throat, napping in my bed. Second last chapter!
Warnings: None in particular for this chapter
If you've wondered here by mistake, you may wish to start at Part I of the series, Rarest of the Rare: Chapter 1.
Prologue - Chapter 10 - Chapter 20 - Chapter 30 - Chapter 31 - Chapter 32 - Chapter 33 - Chapter 34 - Chapter 35 - Chapter 36 - Chapter 37 - Chapter 38
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Arthur Dent had famously never got the hang of Thursdays. Greg felt at that moment like every day was Thursday, even though his calendar assured him it was Friday.
Talking to John had certainly not solved his problems. All it had done was make him feel guilty about the truth, feel like crap for compromising his principles to apologise without any response, and cause Sherlock to stop speaking to him. Greg was worse at home, not better, sneaking into Mycroft’s room to sleep every night. It was the only place he could rest, where his spring tight body would ease just slightly to let him let go.
Delving into the books had shown it was entirely natural, his Alpha body clock counting down to the birth and getting increasingly antsy that his pregnant, vulnerable Omega was not there, but that didn’t help him deal with the need to saturate himself in Mycroft’s scent and make sure he was safe. The knowledge that Mycroft could ensure he was safer than Greg could ever manage didn’t help and after a really bad night on Tuesday Greg had found himself cradling the stuffed rabbit from the nursery buried deep under Mycroft’s covers, crooning to it and himself as he tried to fill the hollow ache. He’d been disgusted with himself Wednesday morning, but had left the stuffed animal in the bed and slept with it since.
Sally had gone out with Sherlock again after lunch, following some lead the two of them had ferreted out, but wouldn’t tell him. She hadn’t told him that was what she was doing, but the guilty, slightly ashamed air as she reported her afternoon movements was enough for Greg to put two and two together. She’d been embarrassed since she worked out he’d worked out what she was doing, and nice change from anger that it was, Greg would have preferred things to be back to normal so he could just go with her.
Dimmock must have been in on it too because he’d taken one look at Greg after a rather unsubtle update from Sally and had fled the office, stealing Whitely’s crime scene for a more effective escape.
The fact that no protest had been raised was characteristic of the half-reverent, half-pariah like state Greg seemed to have inspired in the office. Apparently his survival this time had rendered him mystical, legendary, in some way miraculous, to be revered in hushed voices.
It reminded Greg very quickly that in all the stories the hero or God or Chosen One was simultaneously held high as a figurehead and shunned as a human. Conversations stopped when he walked past, his requests were filled immediately, in total silence, and he didn’t even bother going to the informal pub nights after everyone had practically run out of the break room when he walked in.
Gregson was almost a breath of fresh air, the refreshing breeze of scathing comparative normality as he didn’t pussy foot around Greg, calling him names and trying to sneak his own forensic tests up the priority ladder with the lab. Greg took this in the spirit it was intended, threw names back, had the lab techs double cross Gregson, and last week had stolen Gregson’s apple from the fridge and eaten it brazenly in front of him while Gregson glowered during a budget meeting.
Reminding himself that as long as the killer was caught it didn’t matter who liaised with Sherlock and ran around London after the crazy idiot almost being killed was not easy as he slogged through the mess of paperwork, filling in yet more copies of PCF42. He stabbed his pen a little harder than necessary into the dot between his initial and last name. It didn’t really make him feel better.
He wasn’t quite sure whether his phone ringing was good or bad. It could be Sally calling to say they’d arrested the perp, whoever he or she was, or John to say Sherlock had accidently got himself arrested by Sally after mouthing off one too many times, or one of his rarely seen mates from outside the force. Hell, if he was going all out it could be one of his brothers or sister, though hell hadn’t frozen over yet so that wasn’t likely. He didn’t bother to check.
“Detective Inspector Lestrade.” Greg tried not to sound too bored. As neither the paperwork nor the call inspired much enthusiasm, he didn’t really succeed.
“Detective Inspector, might I suggest you collect your things and are waiting outside the Yard in exactly ten minutes. It would be advisable you do not plan on returning.” Anthea’s crisp professional tones flowed coolly over the phone. She had disengaged before Greg could open his mouth to reply.
Sitting bolt upright in his office chair had attracted some curious glances from those close enough to see. Grabbing his belongings and piling them into his pockets as fast as humanly possibly didn’t improve matters and a fairly large group was attempting not to stare as he raced out the door.
Unfortunately, Mulgrave was standing near the exit, making his way slowly through the pen, checking on various officers as he went. For Greg that meant no easy escape out the main door, and from where Mulgrave was currently paused between two blocks of desks the other route to the lifts was similarly open to potential observation. There would be no sneaking out and no easy explanations Greg could give.
“Lestrade,”
Greg’s bones jumped a foot in the air. Luckily his muscles froze so the rest of his body didn’t follow, though his heart felt like it did. Spinning revealed Gregson surveying him with a look of almost grumpy concern.
“You alright, Lestrade?” Gregson’s arm was outstretched, hand on Greg’s shoulder. He hadn’t even noticed.
“Yeah, fine, I’ve just,” Greg’s head swung involuntarily toward Mulgrave, “I’ve just got somewhere I need to be.”
Gregson’s eyes scanned over Greg’s jittery body, none of the usual swagger masking the seriousness of his gaze.
“This is all part of whatever’s been going on with you.” He concluded. “Oh don’t give me that, Lestrade. You don’t know shite about gambling - never have, never will. You’re certainly no addict.”
“Gregson…” Greg didn’t know what to say, heart keeping furious beat with the clock as he was fiercely aware of every second passing.
“Do you really need to go, now, no questions asked?”
Something in Greg’s crazy wild eyed panic answered for him as Gregson just nodded.
“Wait here. Try not to stick out like a sore thumb exiting the lobby.”
Gregson strode over to Mulgrave, an absolute picture of Alpha arrogance that always annoyed their chief, though usually he was too professional to act on it and Gregson was too professional to push. Whatever it was Gregson said however, soon had Mulgrave spitting chips as he goaded the Beta into a fight. During the resulting spectacle of Gregson being ordered into Mulgrave’s office, Greg slipped quietly out the back.
He just made it, the black car pulling smoothly into the kerb as he dropped all subtlety and sprinted the last few meters. He’d barely managed to close the door before the car pulled smoothly away.
Anthea’s polished exterior with not a hair out of place looked miles away from how Greg felt. If he’d stopped to think about it, he also would have suspected it was a mile away from how he looked.
“Is he okay? Has something happened to the baby?”
One hand was perched on the headrest, and to say he was sitting would have been a gross injustice to the existence of the word kneeling.
“No,” Anthea replied without looking up from her ever present Blackberry.
Assuming no was the answer to the second and not the first question, Greg slowly sank down into his seat and pulled his seatbelt on.
As in all of Mycroft’s soundproofed government cars, the silence inside was deafening, especially as Anthea’s smooth typing didn’t make a single tapping noise to break through the heavy air. The car’s passage down the road was soundless as not even the engine dared rise about its simple, gliding vibration.
“So uh, is this the point where I disappear never to be seen again, or do they find my body in an alley or floating down the Thames at some point?” Greg tried to sound light hearted about the concept, mainly to hide how fast his heart was racing and the sweat beading on his jittery hands.
“You will be able to return to work on Monday.” Anthea rolled her eyes.
“Great, just what I wanted to hear.” Greg dug his fingers into his thigh.
He hadn’t been worried Mycroft was going to have him disposed of, not until he’d jokingly asked the question and discovered it was really more semi-serious as his heart rate had skyrocketed. Truth be told, after months of silence it was all too easy to imagine Mycroft the British Government cleaning up loose ends.
He and John had previously had a slightly inebriated discussion about The British Government and why he, not Moriarty, was still classified by Sherlock as the most dangerous person in Britain. Eventually they had concluded that the reason was that if pressed Mycroft could do anything to anyone just like Moriarty could, but that if Mycroft did it no one would even blink and it would all be government sanctioned.
Legitimate.
The only person who might possibly have been safe from the British Government was Sherlock, though all that seemed to mean was Mycroft wouldn’t let him be killed. Blackmail, manipulation and measures short of death neither of them had been able to rule out, though they’d both agreed the fate of the country would probably have to be at stake before the British Government would go that far, given the effort usually put into keeping Sherlock safe from those things.
As Sherlock’s Bonded, John was relatively untouchable. Greg usually considered himself fairly safe as well, confident Mycroft-his-friend would stop the British Government sacrificing him for the greater good until the stakes were well past when Greg, if given the option, would have thrown himself into the furore to try and save others. Mycroft seemed to be aware of this despite their never having spoken of it, and had, it appeared, kept Greg deaf and blind to a number of situations in the past where he might otherwise have tried to ‘get himself needlessly killed’ (do his job). When it came to other people’s lives Greg’s self-valuation was much lower than Mycroft’s and Mycroft seemed determined to protect him from ‘himself’ and his ‘idiotic heroism complex’.
Of course, he’d never had to contemplate what the British Government might do to him if he were a perceived threat while Mycroft was too pissed off to bend. Currently on the outs with Sherlock and with Sally happy to provide cases, Greg’s cards were rendered fairly close to useless.
It bothered him he was so unnerved he was thinking in pre-restaurant welcome-to-my-abandoned-warehouse power play themes. It was very disturbing.
“Would you please relax or fret less obviously.” Anthea’s voice conveyed her irritation in her usual polite, dismissive manner.
“Can you tell me I don’t have a reason?” Greg asked hopefully.
“I can lie, yes.” Anthea’s eyes flicked over her screen.
Greg winced.
“Right, thanks. That’s really going to help.” He turned his head to watch London stream past. “Can I ask you where you’re taking me?”
“You can ask.” Anthea replied neutrally.
“Will you answer?”
“No.”
“…Right…”
Not even Mycroft’s superb government driver/bodyguard could teleport them through London traffic. A particularly nasty intersection took half an hour of silence to clear and Greg positively itched for his police radio to check the accident report.
“How’s he been?” He asked softly as they moved again.
“Intolerable.” Her mind was clearly elsewhere.
“Was it bad?” He eventually asked, trying to assess the damage.
“Before or After?”
“Before.”
He chickened out. Anthea’s glacial eyebrow twitch showed she was aware of it too.
“Irritated. Impatient for the baby to be born. I do not believe he has been away from the office so long since he joined the Civil Service and even with remote access he has not been taking his enforced leave… well.”
In a less oppressive and nerve-wracked environment, Greg might have snickered at the genetic inability of the Holmeses to take a holiday. Instead he merely asked “Withdrawal symptoms?” in a stress-flattened tone.
“That is one way of putting it.” She muttered, fingers flying over the screen.
“Slightly…” Greg hesitated not sure whether completing his sentence would sign his not-yet-valid death warrant should Mycroft ever find out.
“Hormonal?” Anthea had no such worries. “Mycroft Holmes is above mere physiological influences and is in total control of everything.”
Definitely hormonal, Greg winced, and it appeared Anthea had been fielding the worst of it. For the first time he wondered whether he might in fact have been better off safe in London with Mycroft… elsewhere … terrorising the world.
“And, um, After?” He asked, aware he probably didn’t want to know the answer.
“I spent three weeks attempting to apologise to various politicians and dignitaries to prevent WWIII, or at least the breakup of the European Union and a repeat of the Hundred Years War.” Anthea’s voice went straight to his marrow and made Greg’s bones ache with cold. “How do you think?”
“Attempting?” Greg tried to sidestep the subject, slightly worried he’d managed to create an international incident.
“The Russians are holding out for increased concessions. He’ll have to deal with that himself later.”
Anthea must have been exhausted. It was the only explanation for the fact she’d let that slip, unless she was trying to give Greg some idea of the scale of the repercussions from his actions and Mycroft’s power. She certainly was frowning and blinking rapidly at her phone as she tried to focus on the screen.
“And, um, now? If I’m not being carted off to my death, does that mean I’m forgiven?”
“The standing orders for anyone who sees you are to take any measures necessary to remove you permanently from the premises.” Anthea recited calmly.
“Oh,” Greg bit his lip, trying to keep the rest in.
He’d been hoping his presence maybe meant forgiveness was around the corner, or at least up for discussion. Hope seemed to be becoming an increasingly expensive commodity.
“So why am I here exactly?”
“Because I have the authority to ignore any and all orders I feel are contrary to his on-going health and safety, and based on his recent behaviour and medical advice I feel it is in his best interests for you to be present for the duration of his labour.”
“Labour?” Greg yelped, snapping to attention. “As in, Mycroft’s actually in labour?”
“For several hours now, yes.”
“Isn’t it too early? For the baby, he’s not ready yet.” Greg babbled in a state of shock filled panic.
It was too early. The baby wasn’t due yet, would he survive? Would he have brain damage? How premature would he be? What month was it? Greg scrambled to work out the date he’d been writing on the forms only two hours ago, but couldn’t remember it, let alone work out how long it had been since conception.
“The baby is at 39 weeks and so can be considered to term. He is not expected to suffer adversely from a 48 hour earlier than anticipated delivery.” There was a faintly exasperate note in her voice that sounded like Anthea was rolling her eyes.
“But…” Greg trailed off.
Anthea seemed to take pity on him.
“It’s September.” She reminded quietly.
Greg leant back, trying to work out whether they were really at that point of time already.
9th of September… apparently they were.
His baby boy’s birthday.
It had snuck up on him completely unawares. He’d been so focused on trying to resolve things with Mycroft and at work he’d never, in all the time he’d been living and fighting and loving with Mycroft, thought to ask what his due date was, let alone whether he could be there for the birth. It was some nebulous date out ahead of them, coming up so things needed to be done, but not something that would actually arrive!
He couldn’t sit still, nerves fluttering in his stomach and prickling along his skin making him antsy, He couldn’t settle, muscles jumping and twitching wither he wanted them to or not.
Anthea frowned even as she took the almost unprecedented step of taking one hand off her phone to rub at her forehead. Greg tried to tone down his fidgeting as she was clearly under a lot of strain.
“So what exactly do you do that you can just ignore Mycroft’s instructions?” Greg’s traitorous mouth asked.
Greg’s mind winced. Trying to avoid asking about Mycroft, the baby, Mycroft, the fact Mycroft was in labour, or Mycroft hadn’t meant he’d wanted to ask that.
Anthea’s mouth curled into a disappointed grimace, as though Greg had failed some test with that question. It was her only response.
More cars flashed past as their diver smoothly manoeuvred around the busy motorway traffic. Other than out of London, Greg still didn’t know where they were going.
“Why me?” He asked, voice cracking in his desperation to keep the silence at bay. “Shouldn’t you be getting his doctor or someone?”
“Dr Koen has been in residence for some weeks now.” Anthea replied. “Mycroft has all appropriate medical care he requires.”
She seemed frostily annoyed Greg would dare to think she hadn’t taken care of Mycroft’s health first.
“So, how do I fit into continuing health and safety then? I don’t think bringing stress and anger into the situation is quite what you’re meant to do.” Greg tried not to sound like he was begging for answers. He tried to stop his knee jiggling. He sort of managed the knee.
With an impatient sigh Anthea dropped her phone into her lap and turned to look at him. Close up the dark smudges under her eyes were bleeding through the worn concealer that had been reduced to a chalky cover on her skin. Her eyes seemed slightly swollen and bloodshot, surrounded by furrows that if she wasn’t careful were going to become permanently etched into her skin.
Greg instantly felt guilty about making her life more difficult, even if more difficult was only by pestering her with questions during an unrequested car ride.
“Do not expect him to admit it, but he has spent the months of your separation missing you. You’ve probably not noticed your tracksuit and one of your t-shirts are missing - he stole them from the laundry and wore them until they didn’t fit. When the scent faded, his mood descended rapidly into irritability, though he denied it of course. I had the movers fetch a scarf of yours - his general demeanour improved.
“After your fight he has refused to go near it, and his health has deteriorated rapidly to the point Dr Koen was called in to monitor his situation. Despite bringing forward the projected due date, the baby has still come early, though not early enough to cause damage to the child. A biological defence mechanism as his Alpha is not present. Dr Koen and I both believe that the potential for complications during the birth will be reduced if you’re present and there will be less stress for the baby.
“Besides which, both of you want to be together for this, but he is too pig headed and you are too scared to make it happen.” Anthea raised an eyebrow and turned back to her phone with clear ‘may I continue with my work now?’ derision.
Greg swallowed and turned back to the window.
“We have some distance to drive. I suggest you use the time to think.” Anthea switched the screen off and leant back with her eyes closed.
She looked like she was sleeping, but Greg had seen Sherlock and Mycroft do the same when thinking through complex problems and recognised the alert stillness, eyes flicking rapidly behind her eyelids.
Think. Time to Think. Greg had had nothing but time to think for the last few months.
Though, he supposed if he was honest, he hadn’t really thought, not like John had suggested, not like he presumed Anthea meant. He’d sort of skated around the thinking, accepting the surface solution because John was right and he didn’t believe Mycroft wouldn’t just hand their son over to Mummy. Not because Mycroft didn’t care, not because Greg doubted for a second that Mycroft would love their baby the first time he held him, but because Greg thought he would.
If Mycroft’s fleeing from his own house over the strength of his reaction to Greg proved anything, it proved that a Mycroft Holmes who felt was more dangerous than one who didn’t because a Mycroft who felt was afraid, and Mycroft Holmes was a dangerous person to scare. If Mycroft loved their son, and he would, he would either get rid of him, passing him off to Mummy to avoid being forced to feel, or he would lash out in some way, like he had when Greg had scared him with work.
Caring was not an advantage.
Trust, but in whom take care.
What did that mean though?
Greg supposed the reality was that he had been taking the easy path, the route of least resistance, precisely because it didn’t require thinking. Mostly because thinking meant he had to acknowledge things he didn’t want to. Thinking meant he had to face things, do things instead of sitting tight and complaining when they were thrown at him.
Because he couldn’t let Mycroft win this one, if that was even the right way to look at it. He let My run rampant over him and their relationship and he knew it, in some ways accepted it as his due for being pathetic enough to fall in love with a Holmes who didn’t love him and then walk into this farce of an agreement with his eyes and arms wide open, but he couldn’t let Mycroft do the same to their child. He could not let Mycroft dictate his, Greg’s, relationship with his son.
He’d put it off too long, he knew that. Gazing out the window as it started to rain, Greg knew he’d procrastinated and procrastinated and let Mycroft draw him away from the issue neither of them wanted to deal with time and time again, and now Mycroft was in labour (labour!) and they’d run out of time and never talked. Never talked about how they were and what they were and how they were going to raise a baby.
They’d both made demands, Greg’s counter to every protective iota of Mycroft’s, and they’d never tackled it long enough to see if there was a compromise, a way forward.
There was, there always was a way forward, but the largest obstacle was and always had been Mycroft and whether he would be willing to try, and Greg didn’t know. He’d been too angry, too scared, too desperate to hold on every time to push Mycroft over the edge, to jump off the cliff with him and see if together they really did fly or fall.
It made him sick to his stomach, dread curdling in his gut and thudding in his heart. He could feel the adrenaline, a sick burning sensation next to the genuine wholesome kick from the knowledge that right then, at that moment, his son was being born.
He hadn’t said ‘or what’ in his impassioned email to Mycroft because he had shied away from even the possibility it was real. Something inside had clung arrogantly to the belief that of course Mycroft would choose him, and now that was eaten away by the acidic sludge roiling in his belly.
Or what? What if?
He couldn’t leave, his baby would need him and there was no way to take him. Even if Greg forced a paternity test he’d be in no position to raise him; shepherded off to a secret government research facility to be poked and prodded, to work out why exactly he’d gone ‘wrong’. Mycroft! Mycroft would be in with him, or rather in a similar facility, possibly not the same one. They would probably take their son too, raising him in a controlled environment with test after test to find out whether he was ‘normal’, and if so why, and if not, why not?
Greg shuddered. They’d probably let him out into some low security facility fairly quickly; there was a limit after all to what they could do to him. He might even be allowed his son back if he wasn’t deemed any kind of corrupting influence, but he’d never work, never live under anything but government surveillance for the rest of his life, isolated in some village in the far north purpose built to house the members of the research facility.
Mycroft, Mycroft would never even get that. A Dominant Omega - Greg could imagine the tests: send him into Heat to be bred by Greg to see if the second baby was like the first; send him into Heat to be bred by some random Alpha to see what happened when two Doms went through Estrus together and what the baby was like. They’d probably drug him into oblivion as he was too strong for them to handle otherwise. Sadly, Mycroft would probably be safer in there if his secret was exposed then out in the world, might even have time to pop out a couple more babies for research before one of his enemies or slighted and bitter political allies managed to successfully ‘take care of’ him.
Any kind of idea of forcing things through officially was definitely out, even if Greg was willing to ignore the potential global fallout. Even at his most vengeful Greg couldn’t do that to Mycroft, let alone his son.
And he wouldn’t leave his son alone.
So what would he do? What did he need?
Commitment, Greg decided. He needed a commitment from Mycroft that he would try to work on things. It was too much go ask for things to work outright, but Greg needed to know that Mycroft wasn’t going to back out and decide it, they, were too hard and he was just going to handball it all over to the Family and run. Some sort of sign, something.
Something to show this wasn’t Act III of the Mummy Show.
Maybe he was being unfair to his not-really-mother-in-law, maybe it was all Daddy Holmes, but Greg certainly couldn’t see any evidence that the Omega had tried to stop his Alpha, or even just show his sons that their Sire was wrong. No, until proven otherwise Mummy was as guilty as anyone in Greg’s mind and would not get a third chance to screw up a Holmes for life.
He was asking a lot of Mycroft in one go. It was impossible to imagine that after thirty years Mycroft would finally decide to stand up to his Bearer and that he would take down his walls in one go.
Greg hoped. He prayed.
He doubted.
But what could he do? He didn’t have anywhere to go even if he was willing to leave. His flat was rented out to a young couple, which did at least mean he probably had more disposable income than he’d had since before he was married, but nowhere to live.
He could stay at Baker St for a bit. John wouldn’t turn him out and Sherlock would deal, but that didn’t solve his problems and wouldn’t mean he could take his son with him.
He could maybe get a smaller place; use the rent from the other one to offset the mortgage.
Would Sherlock help with Mycroft? He’d seemed pretty keen to get them sorted out before Greg had put his foot in it. Maybe, worst come to worst, Sherlock could take in the baby instead of Mummy. Then Greg could… work it out at the time, but it was a possibility! Maybe if he begged John enough, John would convince Sherlock to at least listen to Greg long enough to float the idea past him.
The Holmeses would never let their heir go willingly. They’d fight Greg every step of the way. He’d have to prove he had rights to the child. If Sherlock helped him… would Sherlock even manage to have any say? He was only an Omega after all.
Greg groaned and held his head in his hands as he went round and round in his head.
He needed Mycroft to show him this would work, had to be given that notice because otherwise he didn’t know what would happen.
If not, if not he’d go to 221B and throw himself on Sherlock’s mercy. Move out of the house until he and Mycroft reached an agreement.
Mycroft was in labour.
An involuntary grin split Greg’s face, hidden by his hand even as his heart sped up and stress induced laughter threatened to break free.
His son was being born. His son. It didn’t seem possible that that slight swell would actually be a baby, kicking and screaming and alive and real. It didn’t seem possible that this theory, this mad idea was coming to actual physical expression, right now.
“Will we be there in time?”
Speech was almost father to the thought. No sooner had it occurred than the words were sliding in tense syllables off Greg’s tongue.
“Unless an unforeseen emergency arises requiring immediate attention, yes.” Anthea had one hand curled around her phone. “I will be notified if that becomes necessary. The birthing process can take over a day, especially for first children.”
“And Mycroft didn’t opt for an emergency c-section when he realised he’d gone into labour?” Greg had trouble believing that.
“He was well into labour before he realised they were actual contractions distracting him from his work, not merely Braxton Hicks contractions. Dr Koen believes its more stress than advisable for the baby unless it becomes medically necessary to perform the operation now.”
“I imagine that went down well.”
“The house is still standing.”
Greg’s lips twitched into a small smile and he turned back to the window to continue to battle his mixed feelings and let Anthea work.
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