Rolling in the Deep (12/?)
Rolling in the Deep
Title: Rolling in the DeepSeries: Still Waters (Run Deep) (Part III of IV)
Author:
melody_in_time
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Through S1 only
Disclaimer: I wish they were mine, but they aren't. Nor am I creative enough to have written the song that gave this instalment its title. That belongs to Adele, and whomever else had IP rights along side her.
Author's Notes: Sorry everyone for the delays with this. Trying to coordinate two people's schedules across a wide range of time zones is proving an interesting exercise. I've also had a ton on with work and life stuff, so I'm going to officially make if fortnightly updates for a while. Hopefully I'll get far enough ahead in chapters that I can go back to weekly soon.
If you speak French, this is the chapter for you. If not, I'm putting the English translations in spoiler cuts (which has taken an HOUR) so if you click on the French it'll appear for you. If they sound a little unnatural in English, that's because you're reading the English translation of the French translation of the original English.
Massive shout out to theartofprose who has not only beta'ed, but translated this chapter. Thank you so much!
Also, I've written a little expose on the different levels of relationship in this world. It's not necessary reading or anything, but you might find it easier to understand later chapters (I'm thinking 14 in particular) if you've had a quick flick through. You can find it in the Encyclopaedia - Til Death do us Part: An Explanation of the World of Matrimony. There's also an expose on Gender, Reprodution and Dynamics - The World of Omegaverse which might help if you're finding this chapter a little confusing.
Warnings: People being very arrogant rude people?
If you've wondered here by mistake, you may wish to start at Part I of the series, Rarest of the Rare: Chapter 1.
Chapter 10 - Chapter 11 - Chapter 12 - Chapter 13 - Chapter 14 - Chapter 15 - Chapter 16 - Chapter 17 - Chapter 18 - Chapter 19 - Chapter 20
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“So what do you think?” Sally asked, legs swinging idly.
Sherlock grunted non-committedly, eyes glued to the crime scene notes and photos spread out on the table before him.
They’d commandeered one of the bigger meeting rooms for this, covering the table with photo after photo of every angle of the body and the crime scene. Sally perched on the edge, denim clad legs loosely dangling above the ground as she watched Sherlock work. Greg was rather less elegantly sprawled across the corner with his feet up on the furniture, re-reading the forensic report and stubbornly ignoring the fact that it was Saturday and that his love was at home getting to spend quality time with their son, while he was at work for the second weekend in a row.
The whole week at been long - long days and very little progress. He’d gone home last Friday after finishing the preliminaries, reluctantly aware that he’d missed the opportunity to cuddle Ben before he was put down to sleep. Dinner had been waiting for him, kept warm in the oven for his late arrival. Taking an educated guess based on his tingling spidey sense (and knowledge of his love), he’d rapped lightly on the study door and waited.
“Just a moment.”
There was a light ruffling of papers and muffled thumps as Mycroft cleared whatever confidential material he wanted out of sight and locked up.
“Come in.”
Greg balanced his plate carefully so he could open the door. “Hey,” he greeted Mycroft who sat behind the imposing desk, its work surface clear. As was typical, he still wore his full suit, with his tie neatly knotted and perfectly straight. Just the sight of him made Greg smile.
“Evening,” Mycroft returned the greeting.
Greg moved into the room and slumped into the chair across the desk with a weary sigh.
“How’d he go down?” he asked, stabbing a piece of ravioli with his fork.
“With nare a whimper,” Mycroft told him arrogantly.
Greg grunted and listened to the light tone over the pompous look, deciding Mycroft sounded fond in the ‘still coming out of work mode’ way he had.
“That’s good.” Greg absently twirled his fork in the air, eyeing off the pasta square before nibbling off the edge. “I’m going to have to work tomorrow.”
“I suspected as much,” Mycroft sighed, leaning back in his leather chair. “I’m having some files delivered and have rescheduled my meeting so I’ll be home.”
“Good. That’s good.”
That had been the running trend. He hadn’t seen Ben awake and smiling all week. Now it was Saturday again and he still wasn’t home to spend time with his son.
John was a couple of chairs further again, morosely staring out the window. Greg hadn’t asked, but Sherlock was avoiding looking at his blogger with a dedication not entirely due to the case before him. Something was definitely up.
“Time of death?” Sherlock’s deep baritone rumbled through the room.
Sally’s lips pursed and she dug up the autopsy report. “Outside limit’s two weeks ago.”
She looked hopeful, as though Sherlock would prove Dr George wrong with an obscure observation about how the victim’s socks showed the body had in fact been preserved since May, but he just frowned and scanned the report.
“Do you think-”
“Not Remington, Sally.” Sherlock shook his head. “Date of death: he was well and truly in custody.”
He upturned the autopsy photos onto the table and sorted them according to his own logic, eyes darting everywhere.
Sally frowned in annoyance, but held her tongue and let him work; a massive change from all the previous posturing that had gone on between them.
“Maybe it was one of his gang buddies. A revenge thing or something,” Greg postulated.
“A gang hit, that’s what you’ve come up with?” Sherlock scoffed. “It’s not a gang hit.”
“Oh yeah?” Greg closed the report and scowled at him. “Do share.”
“No visitors.”
“Could have, I dunno, smuggled the message out.”
“No,” Sherlock scowled back. “It’s too good, too clean. This isn’t a gang killing by some low class enforcer. This is a professional.”
“A hit?” Greg asked sceptically. “On this bloke?”
“You can tell there are no traces of anything because unlike someone Gregson had his teams take photos before they disturbed the body or the scene.”
Greg just rolled his eyes and ignored the jibe. It stung, but at least it was classic Sherlock.
Abandoning the photos Sherlock pulled the evidence bag with Carr’s clothes out and opened it.
“There’s nothing there,” Sally told him. “Not a thread, not a trace.”
“There’s always a trace,” Sherlock shot back, snapping his gloves into place.
His frown deepened as he pawed through the clothes and came up with exactly the same as the forensic team - nothing.
“Definitely professional,” he murmured, eyes lighting up at the challenge. “But not infallible. John, take a look. Tell me what you see.”
With a long suffering sigh John obeyed his Sub’s orders, standing and reaching for the first item.
“What am I looking for?” he asked in a resigned tone.
Sherlock waved his hand impatiently.
“All right, but no calling me an idiot when I get it all wrong. Again,” he muttered, turning the suit jacket over in his hands. “Well, it’s a jacket.”
Sherlock gave a huff that managed to sound derogatory and put upon. John just ignored him, well used to Sherlock’s derision of the obvious, but knowing more often than not it was where he found his inspiration.
“In good nick,” he continued. “New? Except the cuffs have been re-hemmed. Adjusted? Maybe?”
He turned it again to look at the label. “Westwood. That’s not off the rack, is it? You get some of yours near there. It’s tailored. So why have the cuffs adjusted then?
“It’s expensive. Maybe it was second hand and he had to take the cuffs up? Sherlock?” John looked up, studying the taller Detective’s face. “Need me to keep going?”
“No, no. You’ve said quite enough.” Sherlock held out a hand, his blank gaze staring straight ahead and not actually seeing the wall. “You did well. All obvious, but not incorrect.”
Greg smiled as John tried to look annoyed at Sherlock’s off-hand condescending tone, but just looked pleased instead.
The detective stood, running the navy blue material through his fingers, still lost in thought. It wasn’t a deep fugue: he hadn’t retreated into his mind palace so it wouldn’t be too long before he teased out whatever it was he was chasing.
“Professional indeed,” Sherlock murmured, not one minute later.
“Yeah?” John asked, leaning on the desk between Sally and Sherlock.
Greg could see he was trying to avoid touching Sherlock because the Sub always claimed it was too distracting when he was trying to think, but he wanted to.
Sherlock blinked. Back in his head again. He began running long, lean fingers over the jacket lining, his sensitive fingertips smoothing the silk flat.
“Ah ha.”
There was a box cutter on the table they’d been using to slice photographs and recreate the scene. Now he applied it to the jacket lining, creating one small slit over Sally’s protesting “Freak!”
Ignoring the protest, Sherlock teased the slit open just slightly further and slid two fingers into the gap. Pulling them back revealed a white business card, plain on the back and obviously expensive.
The words ‘Did you miss me?’ stood out in bold, black typeface on the front.
Greg didn’t want to know. He suddenly really, really didn’t want to know.
“It’s him, isn’t it?” John asked grimly.
“I believe so.” Sherlock studied the card then held it out for Sally to drop into an evidence bag. “You won’t find who killed Bruce Carr.”
“We can’t just-”
“Moriarty doesn’t leave traces. Not unless he wants to.”
“Why,” Greg waded in, “would Moriarty kill an abused Beta Sub?”
“Organise to have killed,” Sherlock corrected him, fingers steepled under his chin as his mind churned. “Jim doesn’t like to get his hands dirty.”
“So why did Jim,” there was a hint of steel in John’s voice, “organise to have him killed?”
Watching Sherlock’s mind work was like riding in a luxury car: you knew under the bonnet things were pumping away, but in the driver’s seat the superb suspension made it feel like you were barely moving. Not in his mind palace just connecting dots at the surface, Sherlock was much the same: his face smooth and disconnected while his mind whirled underneath.
“Dear Jim,” his whisper broke the silence, “please could you fix it for me to make my errant Sub disappear. The consulting criminal at work. This was business.”
“So it was Remington?” Greg asked. “Thought you said-”
“That no one in his little gang could have managed it, yes.” Sherlock didn’t even deign to look at him, eyes fixed fervently in the middle distance. “Jim changes things.”
“Yes, let’s all hear how dear Jim changes things,” John muttered angrily under his breath.
Greg didn’t think he was meant to have heard.
“What could Remington offer?” Sally crossed her ankles, chewing on her pen. “He would have had to pay-”
“Won’t be a financial trail. Don’t waste your time.” Sherlock’s eyes were starting to gleam with excitement.
John Watson kept trying to incinerate the wall with his glare, mouth twisted into a distinctly unhappy scowl.
“I know that.” Sally snapped at Sherlock. “I meant Moriarty isn’t just for hire. You have to interest him. What could Remington offer to interest him?”
Sherlock’s lips twitched up in a delighted curl. “Me.”
“Okay mate, watch the ego.” Greg cast a worried glance at John, who seemed to be at the stage of angry he went dangerously controlled and still.
Clearly there were unresolved Moriarty issues between the two of them.
“Why else would he bother?” Sherlock broke off his staring match with the air to start shuffling the photographs of the entire crime scene again, looking for a Moriarty shaped hold in the evidence. “Why would he leave the body otherwise?”
“To dispose of it?”
“He can do that without you ever realising someone’s dead. No, no this was a message. The body was meant to be found.”
One particular photograph seemed to capture Sherlock’s interest. He peered at it, turning it around in his hands as though changing the orientation would reveal the secrets of the world.
“We could have found the card,” Sally scowled.
It was a relief, just a slight one, to see that while Sally and Sherlock would now work together they were not at the stage of doing so gracefully. John had told Greg before that Sherlock really did care more than he let on, and Sherlock himself had even tentatively expressed such a statement, but it felt fragile. Sally and Sherlock arguing was refreshingly normal and no little bit reassuring.
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
“It’s his suit, isn’t it?” John asked in a staccato burst. “The one from the pool.”
The furrows around his eyes were especially deep and his thin lips were pressed together in a hard line. The Pool was not a good memory for John Watson.
“Tailored to fit Bruce Carr, yes,” Sherlock replied absently. “Carr would never have owned a Westwood.”
“That’s all well and good Sherlock, but I can’t go back to Packenham and Mulgrave and say Moriarty, that mad bomber we never caught, organised this, end of story.” Greg folded his arms.
“Question Remington, but I would advise you do so quickly and get everything out of him in one go. He’ll be dead soon enough.”
“Dead?”
“You don’t think he’ll be left alive once Jim knows you have made the connection, do you?” Sherlock sent Greg one of his ‘don’t be dull’ trademarked looks.
“We only held off questioning to wait for you.” Sally snarled.
“And now you have something to ask him about,” Sherlock smiled his fake smile, the one he used to annoy people, not con them.
“Break it up children,” Greg warned half-heartedly as Sally began to lightly growl. “I swear my 6 week old’s not as much trouble as you two. Speaking of, I’d rather like to get home to him, so, what’s next?”
“I’ll pull the gang members alibis together.” Sally flicked her hair, sending the bouncy spirals flying.
“Why? I just-”
“It’s called police work, Freak. That thing you never have to do to prove your answers.”
“I do prove myself.” Sherlock looked confused.
“Not in a way a court of law would acknowledge.” Greg stretched as he stood. “All right, Donovan, off you go. Don’t stay longer than 3, yeah?”
With a brisk nod she grabbed her jacket and left.
“And you? What are you up to now?” Greg eyed off the other child in his vicinity.
“Finding Jim.”
Not to be out drama queened, Sherlock collected his coat and sauntered out after Sally.
“You’d better mean thinking about Moriarty in your flat!” Greg yelled after him.
“I won’t let him do anything too stupid, Greg.” John still had that pinched look around his eyes.
“He really okay to be doing this?”
The short sharp exhalation was respected as was the resigned air of John’s response.
“He’s hormonal and bitchy and frustrating and needy, but is there anything that can stop him now he knows Moriarty is involved? No.”
“So just like usual then?” Greg tried gamely.
“Ha, yeah.” John rubbed his nose. “I’d better go or he’ll be halfway to Kent for some reason without telling me.”
“Good luck with that.” Greg waved him out then turned to pack everything up.
That was him: clean up duty.
He’d finished documenting the calling card in the evidence log and was sinking deep into a lovely sense of desolate martyrdom when his phone rang.
Just Sherlock demanding to be taken to the exact spot the body had been found.
“Oh, and bring the photos,” he instructed.
John was not with him at the bridge.
“Show me exactly where the body was left.” Sherlock demanded as he snatched the photographs from Greg with feverish anticipation.
“Over there.” Greg pointed down the muddy embankment.
“I said exactly, Lestrade.” Sherlock didn’t even spare the time to shoot Greg a withering look, he was so single-minded in his hunt for Moriarty.
At least this time it wasn’t raining, Greg reflected as he made his way carefully down the slope. With the sun peeking out behind the clouds and light breeze it was actually quite a pleasant day. Even the muddy brown Thames managed to look inviting, a silvery sheen dancing over the surface as the sun reflected off its rippling waves. Across the way old wharf facilities littered the shore, managing to look dignified and solemn with age rather than old and decrepit.
He should be at the park, taking Ben for a stroll and showing him the ducks. He was too young for them, but it would still be fun introducing him to the birds. Then they could go home and listen to nursery rhymes while Ben had tummy time before his nap. When he was asleep Greg could have gone and conned Mycroft into leaving his study to watch the match with him on the telly before dinner, maybe even managed to sneak an arm around him given how openly affectionate Mycroft had been lately.
That’s what he should have been doing. Instead he was attempting not to go arse over tail in mud because his shoes were not suited to this.
Sherlock, the git, had no trouble, smooth soled leather shoes or not. Sometimes Greg really did hate him.
“Right here on this one.” Greg indicated where the body had been positioned. “Up straight, legs extended. You’ve got the photos.”
Sherlock hummed in agreement, not really listening, which meant Greg was fine to do whatever he wanted as long as it didn’t disturb Sherlock’s concentration.
It was a good place for a body dump, especially one you wanted found. This section of the Thames didn’t see much tourist traffic, but it was far from isolated so sooner or later someone would notice, but not so soon as to be likely to interfere with your plans. The sloping embankment meant no one would trample your message, preserving the site for the people, or person if Sherlock was right, you wanted to see it.
How did the body get there without leaving any traces? No footprints, no unusual disturbances, but too neat to have been casually tossed off the bridge. Lowered maybe?
“Why did he tailor the suit?” Greg wondered out loud.
“Because he’s vain,” Sherlock unexpectedly replied, sweeping pathways Greg had just looked over himself, but undoubtedly seeing much, much more. “He can’t stand the idea of an ill-fitting custom Westwood. He certainly has brand loyalty.”
“Not the kind of customer you want,” Greg muttered darkly. “Might be a way to catch him though.”
“No, already looked into it.” Sherlock dismissed his suggestion instantly. “None of the store assistants, tailors or designers recognised him. He must go in incognito, somehow changing his appearance without compromising the line of his suit or colour palette. Good thought though. Only took you a year.”
“Drat.” Greg heaved a sigh, sneaking a sideways glance at the Sub next to him.
Sherlock positively thrummed with manic energy. The single track focus was razor sharp and he was vibrating slightly. Anticipation, Greg assumed. If he’d been a dog his tail would have been wagging and ears pricked, narrowing in the scent.
The comparison alone worried Greg. Sherlock more typically resembled a cat - one of the large sleek predators with a streak of arrogant independence a mile wide. For him to bring to mind the slavish devotion of a dog rather than the leonine stalking of a cat. . . . Already. . . .
“Sherlock,” Greg started then trailed off. “Sherlock, I need you to promise me something.”
“What now, Lestrade?” Came the irritable response. “Remember to be a team player and not to go off on my own?”
“No, just try not to get drawn in by him.”
Sherlock snorted.
“I mean it.” Greg didn’t bother to hide how concerned he really was. “He’s done this for you.”
“I know.” There was a dreamlike quality to Sherlock’s voice.
“To lure you,” Greg repeated. “He wants you to chase him.”
“The best criminal mind of its generation.” Sherlock’s eyes gleamed with excitement. “How can I not oblige?”
“Sh-”
“Lestrade, do stop being tedious and go stand against the bridge. I want to test your arm span.”
~*~
The sky was still clear, the weather was still gorgeous, and Gregory Lestrade was heading home at four o’clock on a Saturday afternoon with mud on his arse.
Of course Sherlock hadn’t slipped. No, as usual the dirty work was all Greg’s, and once he was down in the mud Sherlock decided he might as well stay down there and pose like their corpse, letting the cold, wet mud soak right through into his pants.
He was possibly being unfair. Sherlock was no prissy Omega despite the number of hair products he owned. He regularly went dumpster diving or undercover in less than sanitary locations, and grime was no barrier to detective work. Unless of course, there was someone there he could make do it for him.
So possibly unfair, but he didn’t feel like it. Not with his trousers plastered to his arse and stinking of the Thames.
There was a very expensive car outside Mycroft’s house. Of the very, very category. Greg would openly admit he was better at his bikes than his cars, but even he could recognise a Rolls Royce. A very distinguished but bored looking chauffeur sat in the front, openly watching Greg with suspicious eyes as he passed too close to the vehicle. Worried that he was going to breathe on it probably.
It could have been for someone else, but Greg wasn’t willing to risk money on that. Apparently they had a guest.
Christ Almighty he hoped he could sneak upstairs without being seen.
Greg opened the door as carefully and smoothly as possible, easing it closed with equal precision before quietly releasing the handle. After that were the shoes, because if Mrs Potts found tracks on her floor… Just in case he stripped off his sodden socks and balled them into his shoes as well.
He just had to make it up the stairs.
It was the way Mycroft was standing, just visible in the parlour, which caught Greg’s attention. His Omega was rigid, shoulders back and down, his back military straight. Shifting closer, Greg could make out the distant, bored mask he wore to hide everything other than the polite disdain it seemed mandatory for Alphas of a certain rank to wear or assume, except. . . something seemed off, even more wrong than Mycroft in full commanding posh tit mode in their parlour in the middle of a Saturday afternoon.
Unable to help himself, Greg sidled closer to the door, trying to work out what it was that was wrong.
“. . . Really Mycroft, I do believe your handling of the Forburton situation could have used refinement. The Forburtons are well a respected family and it was too harsh of you. Matthew and I were speaking the other day and I assured him you would reconsider.”
“Lord Forburton was discovered committing fraud and selling Crown secrets to cover his debts,” Mycroft pushed back. “He should have stood trial for treason, not merely been sent overseas.”
“He’s a peer of the realm Mycroft. You can’t just exile a peer of the realm. No, I assured his Matthew you would recall him and provide suitable financial incentives not to reoffend.”
Whomever Mycroft was talking to, she was clearly both a work colleague and a snob. Her voice was a higher register than Greg often found pleasant, but well-modulated and refined. He bet she could shriek a house down though, if she put her mind to it; it was that sort of high pitched tone. The assurance and blatant assumption that she would be obeyed could be birth or breeding, Greg couldn’t tell, but something in him was leaning towards both, a Domme from a good family.
Mycroft didn’t respond, deciding silence was better than words, though he frowned just slightly.
“Don’t take that tone with me, young man,” the querulous voice scolded as if Mycroft had verbally retorted.
Greg frowned, inching closer to the door from what he hoped was a discreet angle. The Alpha in him bristled at the way this strange lady Dom was daring to speak to hi- Mycroft. Whoever she was, she was certainly opinionated and unafraid to share, expecting Mycroft to do as she said.
From where he was he could just see Anthea seated in one of the armchairs, focus on her phone as she pretended to ignore the scene in front of her. Greg had no doubt she could have detailed every second of it if asked, but she maintained the polite fiction of distraction from whatever was going on in the room.
Up close, Greg still couldn’t quite work out what was off about Mycroft - the ramrod posture and the cold, detached mask were all a given measure of normal.
“Are you going to come in? Or are you just going to skulk around doorways like the working class hooligan you are?”
Greg froze, the acerbic tones catching him mid-step.
“Yes, you,” they icily continued. “If you think us so unobservant as to miss the sound of your borrowed key in the lock, you might at least have considered the mirror.
“Not,” she continued as Greg reluctantly moved into the doorway, “that you’re welcome, Stop¸ exactly where you are. This carpet is an Axminster and you shall not drip mud all over it.”
The dominant command shocked Greg into stopping as much as the order itself, especially when Mycroft failed to protest or even give a territorial flicker. From the doorway he could see her, exquisitely dressed and coiffed with expensive, but tasteful jewels. If she tended towards ostentatious with a ring on every finger and an ornate drop in each ear, she wore it well. Even Anthea in her bespoke everyday suits and carefully made up appearance seemed lacking in comparison.
Standing in the doorway barefoot, shoes in one hand dripping on the tiles and sodden off the rack trousers, Greg felt shabby.
Her gaze travelled over him, lingering on the dark circles under his eyes, stubble on his chin and paunch he’d never fully be rid of at his waist before disdainfully turning her nose into the air.
“Mycroft, I do not wish to be made known to this creature. You will not introduce us.”
“Of course not.” Mycroft demurred.
That this woman would presume to use a Dominant command on Mycroft, who was a much stronger Dom, in his own home, and that Mycroft would just mumble his reply and acquiesce rocked Greg to his core.
That, Greg suddenly realised, was what was wrong, what had been screaming out at his instincts. There was no dominance, no command in Mycroft’s body language at all. The stature was there, the arrogant tilt, but none of the authenticity. Mycroft was actually ceding control to this woman, who accepted it as her due.
[“Franchement, Mycroft,” she sniffed haughtily. “Finallement tu accomplis ton devoir et c’est lui que tu as choisi pour saillir l’héritier des Holmes? Je suppose que les Omégas choisissent vraiment n’importe qui quand ils sont en Chaleur tant qu’il à une bitte qui fonctionne.”]“Really, Mycroft,” she sniffed haughtily. “Finally you fulfill your duty and this is the one you choose to sire the Holmes heir? I suppose that Omegas really do choose just about anybody when they’re in heat as long as it has a functioning cock.”
In utter disbelief, Greg just stared at her.
Ignoring the utter lack of manners switching languages in front of him, how on God’s green Earth could she think it was acceptable to say those things, let alone to Mycroft’s face?
[“Regarde comment il fixe le vide comme un animal. Si tu voulais vraiment un animal de companie, tu aurais les mêmes résultats si t’étais allé tourner dans le foin avec les chiens de chasse. C’est certain que l’issu aurait le même potentiel.”]“Look at how he stares dumbly like an animal. If you really wanted a pet, you could have had the same results if you’d lain with the hunting hounds. Surely the resulting issue would show the same promise.”
Greg glowered and straightened, spoiling for a fight. This obscene intruder could say what she wanted about him, but the implied insult to his son he wouldn’t stand for.
“Abernathy-” Mycroft started.
[“Oui,” she drew out the word into a long hiss. “Abernathy François je crois?”]“Yes,” she drew out the word into a long hiss. “Abernathy François I believe?”
Mycroft closed his mouth abruptly. His chin lost its upward tilt, actually angling downwards in . . . shame? Embarrassment?
[“Ce vilain,” the derision was acidic enough to eat through the carpet, “est comment tu as choisi de décevoir ta famille? L’idiot? Ton état de Dominant reproducteur est gâché sur toi, n’est-ce pas? Sherringford, lui, aurait choisi une addition d’estime pour la Famille. Dieu soit loué que tu ne puisse pas montrer vôtre liaison à cause de ta condition.”]“This serf,” the derision was acidic enough to eat through the carpet, “is how you choose to disappoint your family? This idiot? Being a breeding Dominant is just wasted on you, isn’t it? Sherringford, at least, would have chosen a creditable addition to the Family. Thank God you can’t advertise your relationship due to your condition.”
“Mummy-”
Greg jolted out of his aggressive stance in disbelief. This was the long fabled Mummy? A woman? Mummy was a woman?
[“Pas un autre mot.”]“Not another word.”
Mycroft stopped short obediently, swallowing back his words.
Her eyes narrowed, studying him and not liking what she was seeing. Nervously Greg’s eyes flicked to Mycroft, but whatever it was, he couldn’t see it.
[“Mycroft. Je sais que tu n’as pas laissé tes émotions s’embrouiller dans cette situation éxecrable. De toute manière, ta . . . condition est déjà un assez grand handicap, n’est-ce pas?]“Mycroft. I know that you didn’t let your emotions get involved in this already distateful situation. In any case, your. . . condition is already a big enough handicap/weakness, isn’t it?”
[“Bien sûr que non, Mummy. C’était qu’une liaison. Rien de plus,” Mycroft hurried to reassure her.]“Of course not, Mother. It was just a fling/hook-up/one-night stand. Nothing more,” Mycroft hurried to reassure her.
Greg told himself he could hardly expect Mycroft to say otherwise, not with her beady eyes pressing down on them. Mycroft hadn’t admitted to Greg that he cared, despite his softer behaviour lately. He was hardly going to admit it to this witch. It still stung to hear though, how easily he was thrown aside without hesitation, especially on top of Sherlock’s dismissive attitude earlier.
[“De toute manière,” she continued silkily, “c’est certainment pas qui tu aurais choisi pour la tâche. Je sais que tu as un goût plus fin.”]“In any case,” she continued silkily, “it’s certainly not who you would have chosen for the affair. I know you have a more discriminating taste.”
The lingering implication was that Mycroft was slipping, failing to live up to her standards. Greg, knowing now the type of person Mummy dearest seemed to be, knew that those goal posts would keep shifting and that Mycroft never had and never would manage to satisfy her. Mycroft however seemed quietly devastated, if the little flickers Greg could see at the edge of his mouth and eyes meant anything.
It was clear this woman could play Mycroft like a drum. It was even more clear to Greg that she knew it and wasn’t afraid to flex that muscle on occasion when she thought Mycroft was getting too far from her control. Her presence here suggested that maybe he had been winning, maybe Mycroft had genuinely been softening, and now she was here to push back.
[“Et maintenant que tu as donné la Famille un métis comme héritier. . . espérons qu’il sera adéquat. J’ai confiance que tu es suffisament contrit de ton chois de donneur?”]“And now that you’ve given the Family a half-breed heir. . . let us hope he’ll be adequate. I have full confidence you are suitably apologetic for your choice of donor?”
That was too far. She could say what she wanted about him thinking he couldn’t understand, and clearly would, but she did not get to insult their son. Even worse, Mycroft’s chin was drifting ever downwards in shame, and at her raised eyebrow actually murmured,[“Je vous prie de m’excuser.”]“I am asking for your forgiveness.”
[“Soit.” The eyebrow didn’t lower. “Tes actions ont gâté le nom de Holmes pour des générations à venir. Regarde lui, couvert de boue et d’ordures après avoir fait Dieu sait quoi toute la journée.”]“Just so." The eyebrow didn’t lower. “Your actions have tainted the Holmes name now for generations. Just look at him, covered in mud and slime after God knows what all day.”
[“J’étais en train de garder vôtre beau-fils, en faite,” Greg replied angrily, a red film beginning to drift over his vision as he imagined exactly how many ways he’d love for this creature to disappear.]“I was busy babysitting your step-son, actually,” Greg replied angrily, a red film beginning to drift over his vision as he imagined exactly how many ways he’d love for this creature to disappear.
Next to the Parisian tones of Mycroft and Mummy his own regional accent sounded particularly heavy. It was still, however, clear and unmistakeably French.
Through the red glaze of anger he could see Mycroft blanch. Mummy merely turned the eyebrow on him, coolly implacable.
[“Oh, il parle,” she crowed.]“Oh, it talks,” she crowed.
“Yes, it does.” Greg shot back.
As much as he longed to yell at her, all that would do would made her feel justified in ignoring him.
“Now, as it has ended up practically in the Thames this afternoon, it is going to have a shower. Don’t feel obligated to say goodbye when you leave.”
It was all he could do to turn and walk up the stairs without punching her. How dare she talk about her grandson, step-grandson as the case may be, like that? That stuck up, insolent, good for nothing cow, who had probably never done a day’s work or nice deed in her life! That was the Mummy who ruled over all? That Mycroft deferred to? Would have sent their son to?
Over Greg’s dead body.
Blood pounding in his ears, water over his head, Greg almost missed the faint sounds of Ben next door. Might have, except for the happy squeal that Ben interspersed between his giggles. The need to hold him took sudden priority over everything, the anger, the need to get clean, everything.
Since the giggles were Ben’s happy and not needing attention sound, Greg took the time to redress instead of just pulling on a robe. Shaving went out the window, as did drying his hair, but clothes he managed before hurrying into the nursery. Ben’s genuinely happy squeaks at seeing him were the perfect antidote to the nastiness downstairs.
It didn’t matter what Mummy thought, Ben was the best and most important thing in either Greg or Mycroft’s lives and if his idiotic partner was too short-sighted to see that, well Greg’d just have to keep applying his boot to Mycroft’s arse until he realised.
The thought of downstairs made his blood begin to boil again, so he purposefully pushed it away. Anger wasn’t an emotion he wanted to expose Ben to, not if he could help it. Instead he turned Ben onto his tummy and encouraged him to push himself up and roll over.
He wasn’t quite managing, but Greg lived in hope.
It was the quiet tread of expensive shoes that alerted Greg to the fact Mummy must have left. Gathering Ben up and kissing his forehead, he lowered him into the crib and tucked the baby blue blanket around him.
The steps stopped just inside the doorway. Mycroft didn’t speak, so neither did Greg, smoothing the wisps of Ben’s hair back and tickling his chubby tummy while he waited.
“I didn’t know you spoke French.” Mycroft eventually said.
“Really? That’s the first thing you have to say.” Greg didn’t turn around, but he stopped stroking Ben’s hair as the anger and hurt he hadn’t truly felt earlier roared over him.
Mycroft paused a moment, then continued. “You never mentioned you could-”
“Grégoire François Lestrade.” Greg spun around, pronouncing his name with its full French inflection.
His Da had never cared about making sure any of his kids could speak what was his native language and Greg had always used the anglicised form at school, but Pierre Lestrade had refused to rest until Greg could be called fluent and had persisted in calling him Grégoire despite many attempts to get him to cut it out. Sure, Greg hadn’t spoken French since his uncle had died, but that in no way meant he’d forgotten it. Not after Pierre had spent so long impressing upon him that it was his heritage and family legacy.
Mycroft had the grace not to meet Greg’s glare, letting his own gaze slide downwards to the side.
“You weren’t supposed to understand what-”
“Jesus, Mycroft! That doesn’t change what she said! What you agreed with her over!”
Mycroft’s hands clenched, then forcible released. “Mummy is very opinionated and-”
“She called our son a half breed!” Greg snarled, advancing two steps at Mycroft. “Said he was an animal, no better than a dog.”
“She wasn’t-“
“Yes, she bloody was, Mycroft!” Greg yelled.
Mycroft started at the outburst, eyes flicking to the crib and back to Greg.
“Now, let’s get something very clear.” Greg continued at a slightly lower volume. “That stuck-up bitch can say anything she wants about me, because I guarantee I think worse about her, but she will keep her fucking mouth away from Ben. If you won’t stand up for our son, well I bloody well will.
“That woman is not to come anywhere near Ben, ever, and I don’t care if she’s the Queen of bloody fucking England, she is never getting her hands on him. If I am breathing, she will never have anything to do with him.
“Do I make myself clear?”
Mycroft didn’t reply, frozen mask slipping over his face.
“Do I make myself clear?” Greg roared. “Because so help me God, Mycroft, I don’t care if you back me up or not, but I will tear her a new one if she comes anywhere near him.”
Ben started wailing, upset by the noise. Greg wanted to turn and comfort him, but that would mean losing whatever ground he had with Mycroft and he wouldn’t do that. Not over this.
“Crystal.”
Icicles were warmer. Mycroft’s voice was so cold it burned.
The capitulation didn’t help. Looking at Mycroft, the red film kept threatening to veil over his eyes and Ben’s upset cries were just working him further over the top into anger as he was reminded again and again how Mycroft hadn’t stood up for either of them - his son or his lover.
He couldn’t stay, not without descending into the kind of anger he didn’t want Ben to know was possible.
“I’m going to Baker St,” he growled and stormed out before he could make things worse.
If that was possible.
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So hands up who likes Mummy!
Previous - Next
Title: Rolling in the DeepSeries: Still Waters (Run Deep) (Part III of IV)
Author:
melody_in_time
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Through S1 only
Disclaimer: I wish they were mine, but they aren't. Nor am I creative enough to have written the song that gave this instalment its title. That belongs to Adele, and whomever else had IP rights along side her.
Author's Notes: Sorry everyone for the delays with this. Trying to coordinate two people's schedules across a wide range of time zones is proving an interesting exercise. I've also had a ton on with work and life stuff, so I'm going to officially make if fortnightly updates for a while. Hopefully I'll get far enough ahead in chapters that I can go back to weekly soon.
If you speak French, this is the chapter for you. If not, I'm putting the English translations in spoiler cuts (which has taken an HOUR) so if you click on the French it'll appear for you. If they sound a little unnatural in English, that's because you're reading the English translation of the French translation of the original English.
Massive shout out to theartofprose who has not only beta'ed, but translated this chapter. Thank you so much!
Also, I've written a little expose on the different levels of relationship in this world. It's not necessary reading or anything, but you might find it easier to understand later chapters (I'm thinking 14 in particular) if you've had a quick flick through. You can find it in the Encyclopaedia - Til Death do us Part: An Explanation of the World of Matrimony. There's also an expose on Gender, Reprodution and Dynamics - The World of Omegaverse which might help if you're finding this chapter a little confusing.
Warnings: People being very arrogant rude people?
If you've wondered here by mistake, you may wish to start at Part I of the series, Rarest of the Rare: Chapter 1.
Chapter 10 - Chapter 11 - Chapter 12 - Chapter 13 - Chapter 14 - Chapter 15 - Chapter 16 - Chapter 17 - Chapter 18 - Chapter 19 - Chapter 20
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“So what do you think?” Sally asked, legs swinging idly.
Sherlock grunted non-committedly, eyes glued to the crime scene notes and photos spread out on the table before him.
They’d commandeered one of the bigger meeting rooms for this, covering the table with photo after photo of every angle of the body and the crime scene. Sally perched on the edge, denim clad legs loosely dangling above the ground as she watched Sherlock work. Greg was rather less elegantly sprawled across the corner with his feet up on the furniture, re-reading the forensic report and stubbornly ignoring the fact that it was Saturday and that his love was at home getting to spend quality time with their son, while he was at work for the second weekend in a row.
The whole week at been long - long days and very little progress. He’d gone home last Friday after finishing the preliminaries, reluctantly aware that he’d missed the opportunity to cuddle Ben before he was put down to sleep. Dinner had been waiting for him, kept warm in the oven for his late arrival. Taking an educated guess based on his tingling spidey sense (and knowledge of his love), he’d rapped lightly on the study door and waited.
“Just a moment.”
There was a light ruffling of papers and muffled thumps as Mycroft cleared whatever confidential material he wanted out of sight and locked up.
“Come in.”
Greg balanced his plate carefully so he could open the door. “Hey,” he greeted Mycroft who sat behind the imposing desk, its work surface clear. As was typical, he still wore his full suit, with his tie neatly knotted and perfectly straight. Just the sight of him made Greg smile.
“Evening,” Mycroft returned the greeting.
Greg moved into the room and slumped into the chair across the desk with a weary sigh.
“How’d he go down?” he asked, stabbing a piece of ravioli with his fork.
“With nare a whimper,” Mycroft told him arrogantly.
Greg grunted and listened to the light tone over the pompous look, deciding Mycroft sounded fond in the ‘still coming out of work mode’ way he had.
“That’s good.” Greg absently twirled his fork in the air, eyeing off the pasta square before nibbling off the edge. “I’m going to have to work tomorrow.”
“I suspected as much,” Mycroft sighed, leaning back in his leather chair. “I’m having some files delivered and have rescheduled my meeting so I’ll be home.”
“Good. That’s good.”
That had been the running trend. He hadn’t seen Ben awake and smiling all week. Now it was Saturday again and he still wasn’t home to spend time with his son.
John was a couple of chairs further again, morosely staring out the window. Greg hadn’t asked, but Sherlock was avoiding looking at his blogger with a dedication not entirely due to the case before him. Something was definitely up.
“Time of death?” Sherlock’s deep baritone rumbled through the room.
Sally’s lips pursed and she dug up the autopsy report. “Outside limit’s two weeks ago.”
She looked hopeful, as though Sherlock would prove Dr George wrong with an obscure observation about how the victim’s socks showed the body had in fact been preserved since May, but he just frowned and scanned the report.
“Do you think-”
“Not Remington, Sally.” Sherlock shook his head. “Date of death: he was well and truly in custody.”
He upturned the autopsy photos onto the table and sorted them according to his own logic, eyes darting everywhere.
Sally frowned in annoyance, but held her tongue and let him work; a massive change from all the previous posturing that had gone on between them.
“Maybe it was one of his gang buddies. A revenge thing or something,” Greg postulated.
“A gang hit, that’s what you’ve come up with?” Sherlock scoffed. “It’s not a gang hit.”
“Oh yeah?” Greg closed the report and scowled at him. “Do share.”
“No visitors.”
“Could have, I dunno, smuggled the message out.”
“No,” Sherlock scowled back. “It’s too good, too clean. This isn’t a gang killing by some low class enforcer. This is a professional.”
“A hit?” Greg asked sceptically. “On this bloke?”
“You can tell there are no traces of anything because unlike someone Gregson had his teams take photos before they disturbed the body or the scene.”
Greg just rolled his eyes and ignored the jibe. It stung, but at least it was classic Sherlock.
Abandoning the photos Sherlock pulled the evidence bag with Carr’s clothes out and opened it.
“There’s nothing there,” Sally told him. “Not a thread, not a trace.”
“There’s always a trace,” Sherlock shot back, snapping his gloves into place.
His frown deepened as he pawed through the clothes and came up with exactly the same as the forensic team - nothing.
“Definitely professional,” he murmured, eyes lighting up at the challenge. “But not infallible. John, take a look. Tell me what you see.”
With a long suffering sigh John obeyed his Sub’s orders, standing and reaching for the first item.
“What am I looking for?” he asked in a resigned tone.
Sherlock waved his hand impatiently.
“All right, but no calling me an idiot when I get it all wrong. Again,” he muttered, turning the suit jacket over in his hands. “Well, it’s a jacket.”
Sherlock gave a huff that managed to sound derogatory and put upon. John just ignored him, well used to Sherlock’s derision of the obvious, but knowing more often than not it was where he found his inspiration.
“In good nick,” he continued. “New? Except the cuffs have been re-hemmed. Adjusted? Maybe?”
He turned it again to look at the label. “Westwood. That’s not off the rack, is it? You get some of yours near there. It’s tailored. So why have the cuffs adjusted then?
“It’s expensive. Maybe it was second hand and he had to take the cuffs up? Sherlock?” John looked up, studying the taller Detective’s face. “Need me to keep going?”
“No, no. You’ve said quite enough.” Sherlock held out a hand, his blank gaze staring straight ahead and not actually seeing the wall. “You did well. All obvious, but not incorrect.”
Greg smiled as John tried to look annoyed at Sherlock’s off-hand condescending tone, but just looked pleased instead.
The detective stood, running the navy blue material through his fingers, still lost in thought. It wasn’t a deep fugue: he hadn’t retreated into his mind palace so it wouldn’t be too long before he teased out whatever it was he was chasing.
“Professional indeed,” Sherlock murmured, not one minute later.
“Yeah?” John asked, leaning on the desk between Sally and Sherlock.
Greg could see he was trying to avoid touching Sherlock because the Sub always claimed it was too distracting when he was trying to think, but he wanted to.
Sherlock blinked. Back in his head again. He began running long, lean fingers over the jacket lining, his sensitive fingertips smoothing the silk flat.
“Ah ha.”
There was a box cutter on the table they’d been using to slice photographs and recreate the scene. Now he applied it to the jacket lining, creating one small slit over Sally’s protesting “Freak!”
Ignoring the protest, Sherlock teased the slit open just slightly further and slid two fingers into the gap. Pulling them back revealed a white business card, plain on the back and obviously expensive.
The words ‘Did you miss me?’ stood out in bold, black typeface on the front.
Greg didn’t want to know. He suddenly really, really didn’t want to know.
“It’s him, isn’t it?” John asked grimly.
“I believe so.” Sherlock studied the card then held it out for Sally to drop into an evidence bag. “You won’t find who killed Bruce Carr.”
“We can’t just-”
“Moriarty doesn’t leave traces. Not unless he wants to.”
“Why,” Greg waded in, “would Moriarty kill an abused Beta Sub?”
“Organise to have killed,” Sherlock corrected him, fingers steepled under his chin as his mind churned. “Jim doesn’t like to get his hands dirty.”
“So why did Jim,” there was a hint of steel in John’s voice, “organise to have him killed?”
Watching Sherlock’s mind work was like riding in a luxury car: you knew under the bonnet things were pumping away, but in the driver’s seat the superb suspension made it feel like you were barely moving. Not in his mind palace just connecting dots at the surface, Sherlock was much the same: his face smooth and disconnected while his mind whirled underneath.
“Dear Jim,” his whisper broke the silence, “please could you fix it for me to make my errant Sub disappear. The consulting criminal at work. This was business.”
“So it was Remington?” Greg asked. “Thought you said-”
“That no one in his little gang could have managed it, yes.” Sherlock didn’t even deign to look at him, eyes fixed fervently in the middle distance. “Jim changes things.”
“Yes, let’s all hear how dear Jim changes things,” John muttered angrily under his breath.
Greg didn’t think he was meant to have heard.
“What could Remington offer?” Sally crossed her ankles, chewing on her pen. “He would have had to pay-”
“Won’t be a financial trail. Don’t waste your time.” Sherlock’s eyes were starting to gleam with excitement.
John Watson kept trying to incinerate the wall with his glare, mouth twisted into a distinctly unhappy scowl.
“I know that.” Sally snapped at Sherlock. “I meant Moriarty isn’t just for hire. You have to interest him. What could Remington offer to interest him?”
Sherlock’s lips twitched up in a delighted curl. “Me.”
“Okay mate, watch the ego.” Greg cast a worried glance at John, who seemed to be at the stage of angry he went dangerously controlled and still.
Clearly there were unresolved Moriarty issues between the two of them.
“Why else would he bother?” Sherlock broke off his staring match with the air to start shuffling the photographs of the entire crime scene again, looking for a Moriarty shaped hold in the evidence. “Why would he leave the body otherwise?”
“To dispose of it?”
“He can do that without you ever realising someone’s dead. No, no this was a message. The body was meant to be found.”
One particular photograph seemed to capture Sherlock’s interest. He peered at it, turning it around in his hands as though changing the orientation would reveal the secrets of the world.
“We could have found the card,” Sally scowled.
It was a relief, just a slight one, to see that while Sally and Sherlock would now work together they were not at the stage of doing so gracefully. John had told Greg before that Sherlock really did care more than he let on, and Sherlock himself had even tentatively expressed such a statement, but it felt fragile. Sally and Sherlock arguing was refreshingly normal and no little bit reassuring.
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
“It’s his suit, isn’t it?” John asked in a staccato burst. “The one from the pool.”
The furrows around his eyes were especially deep and his thin lips were pressed together in a hard line. The Pool was not a good memory for John Watson.
“Tailored to fit Bruce Carr, yes,” Sherlock replied absently. “Carr would never have owned a Westwood.”
“That’s all well and good Sherlock, but I can’t go back to Packenham and Mulgrave and say Moriarty, that mad bomber we never caught, organised this, end of story.” Greg folded his arms.
“Question Remington, but I would advise you do so quickly and get everything out of him in one go. He’ll be dead soon enough.”
“Dead?”
“You don’t think he’ll be left alive once Jim knows you have made the connection, do you?” Sherlock sent Greg one of his ‘don’t be dull’ trademarked looks.
“We only held off questioning to wait for you.” Sally snarled.
“And now you have something to ask him about,” Sherlock smiled his fake smile, the one he used to annoy people, not con them.
“Break it up children,” Greg warned half-heartedly as Sally began to lightly growl. “I swear my 6 week old’s not as much trouble as you two. Speaking of, I’d rather like to get home to him, so, what’s next?”
“I’ll pull the gang members alibis together.” Sally flicked her hair, sending the bouncy spirals flying.
“Why? I just-”
“It’s called police work, Freak. That thing you never have to do to prove your answers.”
“I do prove myself.” Sherlock looked confused.
“Not in a way a court of law would acknowledge.” Greg stretched as he stood. “All right, Donovan, off you go. Don’t stay longer than 3, yeah?”
With a brisk nod she grabbed her jacket and left.
“And you? What are you up to now?” Greg eyed off the other child in his vicinity.
“Finding Jim.”
Not to be out drama queened, Sherlock collected his coat and sauntered out after Sally.
“You’d better mean thinking about Moriarty in your flat!” Greg yelled after him.
“I won’t let him do anything too stupid, Greg.” John still had that pinched look around his eyes.
“He really okay to be doing this?”
The short sharp exhalation was respected as was the resigned air of John’s response.
“He’s hormonal and bitchy and frustrating and needy, but is there anything that can stop him now he knows Moriarty is involved? No.”
“So just like usual then?” Greg tried gamely.
“Ha, yeah.” John rubbed his nose. “I’d better go or he’ll be halfway to Kent for some reason without telling me.”
“Good luck with that.” Greg waved him out then turned to pack everything up.
That was him: clean up duty.
He’d finished documenting the calling card in the evidence log and was sinking deep into a lovely sense of desolate martyrdom when his phone rang.
Just Sherlock demanding to be taken to the exact spot the body had been found.
“Oh, and bring the photos,” he instructed.
John was not with him at the bridge.
“Show me exactly where the body was left.” Sherlock demanded as he snatched the photographs from Greg with feverish anticipation.
“Over there.” Greg pointed down the muddy embankment.
“I said exactly, Lestrade.” Sherlock didn’t even spare the time to shoot Greg a withering look, he was so single-minded in his hunt for Moriarty.
At least this time it wasn’t raining, Greg reflected as he made his way carefully down the slope. With the sun peeking out behind the clouds and light breeze it was actually quite a pleasant day. Even the muddy brown Thames managed to look inviting, a silvery sheen dancing over the surface as the sun reflected off its rippling waves. Across the way old wharf facilities littered the shore, managing to look dignified and solemn with age rather than old and decrepit.
He should be at the park, taking Ben for a stroll and showing him the ducks. He was too young for them, but it would still be fun introducing him to the birds. Then they could go home and listen to nursery rhymes while Ben had tummy time before his nap. When he was asleep Greg could have gone and conned Mycroft into leaving his study to watch the match with him on the telly before dinner, maybe even managed to sneak an arm around him given how openly affectionate Mycroft had been lately.
That’s what he should have been doing. Instead he was attempting not to go arse over tail in mud because his shoes were not suited to this.
Sherlock, the git, had no trouble, smooth soled leather shoes or not. Sometimes Greg really did hate him.
“Right here on this one.” Greg indicated where the body had been positioned. “Up straight, legs extended. You’ve got the photos.”
Sherlock hummed in agreement, not really listening, which meant Greg was fine to do whatever he wanted as long as it didn’t disturb Sherlock’s concentration.
It was a good place for a body dump, especially one you wanted found. This section of the Thames didn’t see much tourist traffic, but it was far from isolated so sooner or later someone would notice, but not so soon as to be likely to interfere with your plans. The sloping embankment meant no one would trample your message, preserving the site for the people, or person if Sherlock was right, you wanted to see it.
How did the body get there without leaving any traces? No footprints, no unusual disturbances, but too neat to have been casually tossed off the bridge. Lowered maybe?
“Why did he tailor the suit?” Greg wondered out loud.
“Because he’s vain,” Sherlock unexpectedly replied, sweeping pathways Greg had just looked over himself, but undoubtedly seeing much, much more. “He can’t stand the idea of an ill-fitting custom Westwood. He certainly has brand loyalty.”
“Not the kind of customer you want,” Greg muttered darkly. “Might be a way to catch him though.”
“No, already looked into it.” Sherlock dismissed his suggestion instantly. “None of the store assistants, tailors or designers recognised him. He must go in incognito, somehow changing his appearance without compromising the line of his suit or colour palette. Good thought though. Only took you a year.”
“Drat.” Greg heaved a sigh, sneaking a sideways glance at the Sub next to him.
Sherlock positively thrummed with manic energy. The single track focus was razor sharp and he was vibrating slightly. Anticipation, Greg assumed. If he’d been a dog his tail would have been wagging and ears pricked, narrowing in the scent.
The comparison alone worried Greg. Sherlock more typically resembled a cat - one of the large sleek predators with a streak of arrogant independence a mile wide. For him to bring to mind the slavish devotion of a dog rather than the leonine stalking of a cat. . . . Already. . . .
“Sherlock,” Greg started then trailed off. “Sherlock, I need you to promise me something.”
“What now, Lestrade?” Came the irritable response. “Remember to be a team player and not to go off on my own?”
“No, just try not to get drawn in by him.”
Sherlock snorted.
“I mean it.” Greg didn’t bother to hide how concerned he really was. “He’s done this for you.”
“I know.” There was a dreamlike quality to Sherlock’s voice.
“To lure you,” Greg repeated. “He wants you to chase him.”
“The best criminal mind of its generation.” Sherlock’s eyes gleamed with excitement. “How can I not oblige?”
“Sh-”
“Lestrade, do stop being tedious and go stand against the bridge. I want to test your arm span.”
~*~
The sky was still clear, the weather was still gorgeous, and Gregory Lestrade was heading home at four o’clock on a Saturday afternoon with mud on his arse.
Of course Sherlock hadn’t slipped. No, as usual the dirty work was all Greg’s, and once he was down in the mud Sherlock decided he might as well stay down there and pose like their corpse, letting the cold, wet mud soak right through into his pants.
He was possibly being unfair. Sherlock was no prissy Omega despite the number of hair products he owned. He regularly went dumpster diving or undercover in less than sanitary locations, and grime was no barrier to detective work. Unless of course, there was someone there he could make do it for him.
So possibly unfair, but he didn’t feel like it. Not with his trousers plastered to his arse and stinking of the Thames.
There was a very expensive car outside Mycroft’s house. Of the very, very category. Greg would openly admit he was better at his bikes than his cars, but even he could recognise a Rolls Royce. A very distinguished but bored looking chauffeur sat in the front, openly watching Greg with suspicious eyes as he passed too close to the vehicle. Worried that he was going to breathe on it probably.
It could have been for someone else, but Greg wasn’t willing to risk money on that. Apparently they had a guest.
Christ Almighty he hoped he could sneak upstairs without being seen.
Greg opened the door as carefully and smoothly as possible, easing it closed with equal precision before quietly releasing the handle. After that were the shoes, because if Mrs Potts found tracks on her floor… Just in case he stripped off his sodden socks and balled them into his shoes as well.
He just had to make it up the stairs.
It was the way Mycroft was standing, just visible in the parlour, which caught Greg’s attention. His Omega was rigid, shoulders back and down, his back military straight. Shifting closer, Greg could make out the distant, bored mask he wore to hide everything other than the polite disdain it seemed mandatory for Alphas of a certain rank to wear or assume, except. . . something seemed off, even more wrong than Mycroft in full commanding posh tit mode in their parlour in the middle of a Saturday afternoon.
Unable to help himself, Greg sidled closer to the door, trying to work out what it was that was wrong.
“. . . Really Mycroft, I do believe your handling of the Forburton situation could have used refinement. The Forburtons are well a respected family and it was too harsh of you. Matthew and I were speaking the other day and I assured him you would reconsider.”
“Lord Forburton was discovered committing fraud and selling Crown secrets to cover his debts,” Mycroft pushed back. “He should have stood trial for treason, not merely been sent overseas.”
“He’s a peer of the realm Mycroft. You can’t just exile a peer of the realm. No, I assured his Matthew you would recall him and provide suitable financial incentives not to reoffend.”
Whomever Mycroft was talking to, she was clearly both a work colleague and a snob. Her voice was a higher register than Greg often found pleasant, but well-modulated and refined. He bet she could shriek a house down though, if she put her mind to it; it was that sort of high pitched tone. The assurance and blatant assumption that she would be obeyed could be birth or breeding, Greg couldn’t tell, but something in him was leaning towards both, a Domme from a good family.
Mycroft didn’t respond, deciding silence was better than words, though he frowned just slightly.
“Don’t take that tone with me, young man,” the querulous voice scolded as if Mycroft had verbally retorted.
Greg frowned, inching closer to the door from what he hoped was a discreet angle. The Alpha in him bristled at the way this strange lady Dom was daring to speak to hi- Mycroft. Whoever she was, she was certainly opinionated and unafraid to share, expecting Mycroft to do as she said.
From where he was he could just see Anthea seated in one of the armchairs, focus on her phone as she pretended to ignore the scene in front of her. Greg had no doubt she could have detailed every second of it if asked, but she maintained the polite fiction of distraction from whatever was going on in the room.
Up close, Greg still couldn’t quite work out what was off about Mycroft - the ramrod posture and the cold, detached mask were all a given measure of normal.
“Are you going to come in? Or are you just going to skulk around doorways like the working class hooligan you are?”
Greg froze, the acerbic tones catching him mid-step.
“Yes, you,” they icily continued. “If you think us so unobservant as to miss the sound of your borrowed key in the lock, you might at least have considered the mirror.
“Not,” she continued as Greg reluctantly moved into the doorway, “that you’re welcome, Stop¸ exactly where you are. This carpet is an Axminster and you shall not drip mud all over it.”
The dominant command shocked Greg into stopping as much as the order itself, especially when Mycroft failed to protest or even give a territorial flicker. From the doorway he could see her, exquisitely dressed and coiffed with expensive, but tasteful jewels. If she tended towards ostentatious with a ring on every finger and an ornate drop in each ear, she wore it well. Even Anthea in her bespoke everyday suits and carefully made up appearance seemed lacking in comparison.
Standing in the doorway barefoot, shoes in one hand dripping on the tiles and sodden off the rack trousers, Greg felt shabby.
Her gaze travelled over him, lingering on the dark circles under his eyes, stubble on his chin and paunch he’d never fully be rid of at his waist before disdainfully turning her nose into the air.
“Mycroft, I do not wish to be made known to this creature. You will not introduce us.”
“Of course not.” Mycroft demurred.
That this woman would presume to use a Dominant command on Mycroft, who was a much stronger Dom, in his own home, and that Mycroft would just mumble his reply and acquiesce rocked Greg to his core.
That, Greg suddenly realised, was what was wrong, what had been screaming out at his instincts. There was no dominance, no command in Mycroft’s body language at all. The stature was there, the arrogant tilt, but none of the authenticity. Mycroft was actually ceding control to this woman, who accepted it as her due.
[“Franchement, Mycroft,” she sniffed haughtily. “Finallement tu accomplis ton devoir et c’est lui que tu as choisi pour saillir l’héritier des Holmes? Je suppose que les Omégas choisissent vraiment n’importe qui quand ils sont en Chaleur tant qu’il à une bitte qui fonctionne.”]“Really, Mycroft,” she sniffed haughtily. “Finally you fulfill your duty and this is the one you choose to sire the Holmes heir? I suppose that Omegas really do choose just about anybody when they’re in heat as long as it has a functioning cock.”
In utter disbelief, Greg just stared at her.
Ignoring the utter lack of manners switching languages in front of him, how on God’s green Earth could she think it was acceptable to say those things, let alone to Mycroft’s face?
[“Regarde comment il fixe le vide comme un animal. Si tu voulais vraiment un animal de companie, tu aurais les mêmes résultats si t’étais allé tourner dans le foin avec les chiens de chasse. C’est certain que l’issu aurait le même potentiel.”]“Look at how he stares dumbly like an animal. If you really wanted a pet, you could have had the same results if you’d lain with the hunting hounds. Surely the resulting issue would show the same promise.”
Greg glowered and straightened, spoiling for a fight. This obscene intruder could say what she wanted about him, but the implied insult to his son he wouldn’t stand for.
“Abernathy-” Mycroft started.
[“Oui,” she drew out the word into a long hiss. “Abernathy François je crois?”]“Yes,” she drew out the word into a long hiss. “Abernathy François I believe?”
Mycroft closed his mouth abruptly. His chin lost its upward tilt, actually angling downwards in . . . shame? Embarrassment?
[“Ce vilain,” the derision was acidic enough to eat through the carpet, “est comment tu as choisi de décevoir ta famille? L’idiot? Ton état de Dominant reproducteur est gâché sur toi, n’est-ce pas? Sherringford, lui, aurait choisi une addition d’estime pour la Famille. Dieu soit loué que tu ne puisse pas montrer vôtre liaison à cause de ta condition.”]“This serf,” the derision was acidic enough to eat through the carpet, “is how you choose to disappoint your family? This idiot? Being a breeding Dominant is just wasted on you, isn’t it? Sherringford, at least, would have chosen a creditable addition to the Family. Thank God you can’t advertise your relationship due to your condition.”
“Mummy-”
Greg jolted out of his aggressive stance in disbelief. This was the long fabled Mummy? A woman? Mummy was a woman?
[“Pas un autre mot.”]“Not another word.”
Mycroft stopped short obediently, swallowing back his words.
Her eyes narrowed, studying him and not liking what she was seeing. Nervously Greg’s eyes flicked to Mycroft, but whatever it was, he couldn’t see it.
[“Mycroft. Je sais que tu n’as pas laissé tes émotions s’embrouiller dans cette situation éxecrable. De toute manière, ta . . . condition est déjà un assez grand handicap, n’est-ce pas?]“Mycroft. I know that you didn’t let your emotions get involved in this already distateful situation. In any case, your. . . condition is already a big enough handicap/weakness, isn’t it?”
[“Bien sûr que non, Mummy. C’était qu’une liaison. Rien de plus,” Mycroft hurried to reassure her.]“Of course not, Mother. It was just a fling/hook-up/one-night stand. Nothing more,” Mycroft hurried to reassure her.
Greg told himself he could hardly expect Mycroft to say otherwise, not with her beady eyes pressing down on them. Mycroft hadn’t admitted to Greg that he cared, despite his softer behaviour lately. He was hardly going to admit it to this witch. It still stung to hear though, how easily he was thrown aside without hesitation, especially on top of Sherlock’s dismissive attitude earlier.
[“De toute manière,” she continued silkily, “c’est certainment pas qui tu aurais choisi pour la tâche. Je sais que tu as un goût plus fin.”]“In any case,” she continued silkily, “it’s certainly not who you would have chosen for the affair. I know you have a more discriminating taste.”
The lingering implication was that Mycroft was slipping, failing to live up to her standards. Greg, knowing now the type of person Mummy dearest seemed to be, knew that those goal posts would keep shifting and that Mycroft never had and never would manage to satisfy her. Mycroft however seemed quietly devastated, if the little flickers Greg could see at the edge of his mouth and eyes meant anything.
It was clear this woman could play Mycroft like a drum. It was even more clear to Greg that she knew it and wasn’t afraid to flex that muscle on occasion when she thought Mycroft was getting too far from her control. Her presence here suggested that maybe he had been winning, maybe Mycroft had genuinely been softening, and now she was here to push back.
[“Et maintenant que tu as donné la Famille un métis comme héritier. . . espérons qu’il sera adéquat. J’ai confiance que tu es suffisament contrit de ton chois de donneur?”]“And now that you’ve given the Family a half-breed heir. . . let us hope he’ll be adequate. I have full confidence you are suitably apologetic for your choice of donor?”
That was too far. She could say what she wanted about him thinking he couldn’t understand, and clearly would, but she did not get to insult their son. Even worse, Mycroft’s chin was drifting ever downwards in shame, and at her raised eyebrow actually murmured,[“Je vous prie de m’excuser.”]“I am asking for your forgiveness.”
[“Soit.” The eyebrow didn’t lower. “Tes actions ont gâté le nom de Holmes pour des générations à venir. Regarde lui, couvert de boue et d’ordures après avoir fait Dieu sait quoi toute la journée.”]“Just so." The eyebrow didn’t lower. “Your actions have tainted the Holmes name now for generations. Just look at him, covered in mud and slime after God knows what all day.”
[“J’étais en train de garder vôtre beau-fils, en faite,” Greg replied angrily, a red film beginning to drift over his vision as he imagined exactly how many ways he’d love for this creature to disappear.]“I was busy babysitting your step-son, actually,” Greg replied angrily, a red film beginning to drift over his vision as he imagined exactly how many ways he’d love for this creature to disappear.
Next to the Parisian tones of Mycroft and Mummy his own regional accent sounded particularly heavy. It was still, however, clear and unmistakeably French.
Through the red glaze of anger he could see Mycroft blanch. Mummy merely turned the eyebrow on him, coolly implacable.
[“Oh, il parle,” she crowed.]“Oh, it talks,” she crowed.
“Yes, it does.” Greg shot back.
As much as he longed to yell at her, all that would do would made her feel justified in ignoring him.
“Now, as it has ended up practically in the Thames this afternoon, it is going to have a shower. Don’t feel obligated to say goodbye when you leave.”
It was all he could do to turn and walk up the stairs without punching her. How dare she talk about her grandson, step-grandson as the case may be, like that? That stuck up, insolent, good for nothing cow, who had probably never done a day’s work or nice deed in her life! That was the Mummy who ruled over all? That Mycroft deferred to? Would have sent their son to?
Over Greg’s dead body.
Blood pounding in his ears, water over his head, Greg almost missed the faint sounds of Ben next door. Might have, except for the happy squeal that Ben interspersed between his giggles. The need to hold him took sudden priority over everything, the anger, the need to get clean, everything.
Since the giggles were Ben’s happy and not needing attention sound, Greg took the time to redress instead of just pulling on a robe. Shaving went out the window, as did drying his hair, but clothes he managed before hurrying into the nursery. Ben’s genuinely happy squeaks at seeing him were the perfect antidote to the nastiness downstairs.
It didn’t matter what Mummy thought, Ben was the best and most important thing in either Greg or Mycroft’s lives and if his idiotic partner was too short-sighted to see that, well Greg’d just have to keep applying his boot to Mycroft’s arse until he realised.
The thought of downstairs made his blood begin to boil again, so he purposefully pushed it away. Anger wasn’t an emotion he wanted to expose Ben to, not if he could help it. Instead he turned Ben onto his tummy and encouraged him to push himself up and roll over.
He wasn’t quite managing, but Greg lived in hope.
It was the quiet tread of expensive shoes that alerted Greg to the fact Mummy must have left. Gathering Ben up and kissing his forehead, he lowered him into the crib and tucked the baby blue blanket around him.
The steps stopped just inside the doorway. Mycroft didn’t speak, so neither did Greg, smoothing the wisps of Ben’s hair back and tickling his chubby tummy while he waited.
“I didn’t know you spoke French.” Mycroft eventually said.
“Really? That’s the first thing you have to say.” Greg didn’t turn around, but he stopped stroking Ben’s hair as the anger and hurt he hadn’t truly felt earlier roared over him.
Mycroft paused a moment, then continued. “You never mentioned you could-”
“Grégoire François Lestrade.” Greg spun around, pronouncing his name with its full French inflection.
His Da had never cared about making sure any of his kids could speak what was his native language and Greg had always used the anglicised form at school, but Pierre Lestrade had refused to rest until Greg could be called fluent and had persisted in calling him Grégoire despite many attempts to get him to cut it out. Sure, Greg hadn’t spoken French since his uncle had died, but that in no way meant he’d forgotten it. Not after Pierre had spent so long impressing upon him that it was his heritage and family legacy.
Mycroft had the grace not to meet Greg’s glare, letting his own gaze slide downwards to the side.
“You weren’t supposed to understand what-”
“Jesus, Mycroft! That doesn’t change what she said! What you agreed with her over!”
Mycroft’s hands clenched, then forcible released. “Mummy is very opinionated and-”
“She called our son a half breed!” Greg snarled, advancing two steps at Mycroft. “Said he was an animal, no better than a dog.”
“She wasn’t-“
“Yes, she bloody was, Mycroft!” Greg yelled.
Mycroft started at the outburst, eyes flicking to the crib and back to Greg.
“Now, let’s get something very clear.” Greg continued at a slightly lower volume. “That stuck-up bitch can say anything she wants about me, because I guarantee I think worse about her, but she will keep her fucking mouth away from Ben. If you won’t stand up for our son, well I bloody well will.
“That woman is not to come anywhere near Ben, ever, and I don’t care if she’s the Queen of bloody fucking England, she is never getting her hands on him. If I am breathing, she will never have anything to do with him.
“Do I make myself clear?”
Mycroft didn’t reply, frozen mask slipping over his face.
“Do I make myself clear?” Greg roared. “Because so help me God, Mycroft, I don’t care if you back me up or not, but I will tear her a new one if she comes anywhere near him.”
Ben started wailing, upset by the noise. Greg wanted to turn and comfort him, but that would mean losing whatever ground he had with Mycroft and he wouldn’t do that. Not over this.
“Crystal.”
Icicles were warmer. Mycroft’s voice was so cold it burned.
The capitulation didn’t help. Looking at Mycroft, the red film kept threatening to veil over his eyes and Ben’s upset cries were just working him further over the top into anger as he was reminded again and again how Mycroft hadn’t stood up for either of them - his son or his lover.
He couldn’t stay, not without descending into the kind of anger he didn’t want Ben to know was possible.
“I’m going to Baker St,” he growled and stormed out before he could make things worse.
If that was possible.
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So hands up who likes Mummy!
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