Rolling in the Deep (14/?)
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:
Evening everyone.I'm so sorry for the delay. theartofprose has been extremely busy lately and hasn't had a chance to beta Chapter 14 yet, hence the wait. Having said that, I don't want you all to have to wait too much longer SO the solution is thus. This is the UN-betaed version of Chapter 14. Once the betaed version is available, I'll update it for you and if you'd like you can read the much more polished version.
It's been so long, short recap of where we were was Moriarty has returned, as Sherlock figured out at the Yard and then followed up with Greg at the crime scene, Greg has met Mummy and then proceeded to get into a fight with Mycroft and has stormed out, and Anthea, in the interlude, really wishes they'd get themselves together. I'd probably recommend going back and reading Chapter 12 to remind yourself what was going on if that doesn't jog things.
We're back in the world of the nobility, so I have dragged another poor noble family through the muck by stealing their name. Needless to say, it's all from my head, and nothing like reality. Basically, I went house shopping with my mythical billions and decided they had a nice looking house that suited my purposes. Images are avaliable on their website, so you can go look if you'd like. It's not actually a relevant location for the story. Just a nice looking house.
Otherwise, some pseudo-science (not real, very loosely researched) so please suspend disbelief for that.
Warnings: References to abuse, possible past suicidal intentions, infertility, unhealthy home environment, abandonment
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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Nothing was going well and John didn’t have faintest clue what to do about it. He wasn’t an idiot, despite Sherlock’s casual/angry/frustrated/annoyed proclamations, but he may as well have been.
It had all started during Sherlock’s False Heat, as John called it in his mind. Watching his love writhing on the bed and being unable to help had been hellish. After the first few hours when they’d discovered intercourse provided only temporary relief and brought the cravings back even stronger, John couldn’t even be a willing cock, no matter how much Sherlock begged, whimpered or cried. His role had been reduced to attempting to coax some food or water into Sherlock and, once he’d braved a sex store, cleaning the toys, providing lube and weathering the full gambit of Sherlock’s lust crazed moods from bargaining over food (“I’ll eat if you fuck me”) to anger (“If you’re not going you fuck me, get out.”)
There was probably a reason that neither party remembered Estrus with any clarity. Quite apart from the biological explanations, it was the only way to preserve any sanity. This one though he and Sherlock would remember: him as a time of helplessness, Sherlock as a time of humiliating lack of control.
He’d wanted to ask Sherlock whether he still wanted to continue the treatments now that they were slightly better informed of the side effects, but Sherlock had got his back up before John had really managed to broach the topic, spitting chips and stalking out. When he came back to the flat John could tell with one glance at the defiant expression on Sherlock’s face that he’d gone to the specialist and taken care of things on his own, even if the appointment wasn’t supposed to be until the next day.
“It won’t put your schedule out?” He turned back to the bench and continued making dinner.
Behind him Sherlock had scowled and thrown himself sulkily into his chair, where he’d stayed the rest of the evening, studying slides and giving John the silent treatment.
That was usual, normal, a textbook Sherlock sulk and John could handle that, especially when Sherlock stayed true to form and snuck quietly into bed an exact sixty-seven minutes after John had retired to wind himself around his Alpha in bed.
How Sherlock had decided on sixty seven minutes as the appropriate amount of time to wait John would never know, but in these moods it was always sixty seven minutes, no matter the time of day or night. John just wrapped his arms around his love, dropped a kiss on his neck, and fell asleep smiling.
He’d woken up with an erection, but that was also normal. Unusually, they’d both ignored it, John heading off to work and Sherlock to whatever he planned to do now he didn’t have a doctor’s appointment.
They’d ignored the next morning erection as well, but by Thursday John was feeling decidedly like he could do with a shag. Outside of cases they had a very healthy sex life, especially in the mornings, and unlike Sherlock he hadn’t been laying around on a hormonal sex binge the week before. John had in fact spent the last week watching the most gorgeous creature to walk the Earth beg him to join his desperate frenzy, and without the stress being unable to help Sherlock brought, those were very erotic images.
In his dream Sherlock was splayed out on an impossible bed, soft and hard as required, completely boundless. The plum silk made his skin glow and eyes flash steel grey. The dark curls were a little longer than reality so they tumbled loosely against the sheet. John wasn’t Sherlock to work out at a glance exactly how much length his subconscious had added, and he frankly didn’t care.
What he did care about were Sherlock’s perfect lips, red and roughened from stubble rash and more. In his dream he knew instantly that the more had been his cock, his Sub choking prettily, attempting to keep up with John’s punishing pace as he relentlessly fucked Sherlock’s face. From the depths of memory his mind provided the delicious whimper as he pulled out, Sherlock trying to follow and guide him back into the warm, wet, talented cavern that was his mouth and throat.
Logically, it was a dream because Sherlock’s passage was slick and ready as John sank in without any preparation, but there was no mindless rut from Heat. Instead Sherlock drew him in with deliberate intent, genius brain there and blazing even as he sighed and gasped and released little hitching squeaks in time to John smoothly settling deeper and deeper into the wonderfully tight heat.
Sherlock lifted his legs and wrapped them around John’s back, guiding him to the point that only his heavy aching bollocks were still outside Sherlock’s body. John’s fingers tangled with Sherlock’s elegant violinist’s ones, short and dextrous linked with long and graceful, as he tantalisingly withdrew and pressed slowly back in.
After the hard fast rush of Sherlock’s mouth, the gentle pace was teasing temptation. Sherlock sighed, tilting his pelvis to better accept John, entirely acceding to John’s pace. John dropped a kiss to the creamy chest, tasting the drying sweat and vanilla almond musk he always defined as Sherlock. On the next stroke he added a swivel in his hips, greedily swallowing the gasp of surprise and lazy groan of pleasure his lover emitted.
Gradually he sped up until the spark and sizzling burn was back and the laconic loving was again animalistic sex, with teeth and nails and John snapping his hips as fast and hard as he could to bring them both right to the brink of orgasm-
The alarm that morning had been especially cruel, leaving John rutting against the mattress, Sherlock’s whispered pleas in his ear, teetering on the edge of orgasm with the knowledge he was on afternoon shift and if he’d remembered to turn his bloody alarm off he’d have enjoyed a spectacular orgasm in his sleep instead of being left hanging, aching to be touched.
This was the erection that wouldn’t go away, and awake the sheets were no match for his Omega’s pliant willing body. With a growl John had got up, pulled on his robe, and determined that if he didn’t have to be in the office until later, maybe he could talk Sherlock into a morning shag before he resorted to his hand in the shower.
Sherlock had been at his microscope, dressing gown pushed back off pale, muscular forearms. As always, his posture at the scope was impeccable, back straight and shoulders relaxed. His ebony curls were at their darkest, still damp from the shower. They hung longer and looser, not dripping water, but still weighed down by the moisture locked within the strands. John knew they’d feel cool and slippery against his fingers, heavier and contained rather than flyaway and free.
Sherlock was still favouring darker shades, that morning jet black with only a minor black self-pattern as relief. He looked stern and imposing. He looked like Eros personified.
“Is the sample not behaving?” John had teased lightly, wrapping his arms around his Sub and burying his nose in Sherlock’s neck.
Clean and fresh, the expensive rosemary and mint body wash Sherlock kept for mornings and the insanely expensive hair products he used flooded John’s nose. Breathing in again he thought he detected a hint of almond oil, the base of Sherlock’s after shaving lotion that was definitely not moisturiser, no matter that Sherlock almost never had to shave yet almost always used it. The only thing missing was Sherlock’s own natural vanilla, buried under the artificial products he’d applied.
“If you think,” Sherlock hissed coldly, “that you are getting anywhere near me with that, you can think again.”
John sighed and released his hold. “Sorry for saying good morning.”
He’d got a low grunt in response.
“It would be nice though, now you mention it.” John’d purred, sidling in close again and dropping a meaningful kiss to Sherlock’s neck.
“No.”
“Come on, love.” John tried desperately to keep the whine out of his voice. “It’s been ages.”
“Sorry if I’m not in the mood to indulge you after last week’s sex marathon.” Sherlock shook John’s hold off.
“Yeah well some of us didn’t get to spend four days jacking ourselves into oblivion.” John retorted angrily, stun more than he’d like to admit by Sherlock’s brusque outright rejection.
“I’m not your fucking sex toy.” Sherlock had snapped, bursting to his feet. “Go use your bloody hand.”
The movement sent the chair toppling backwards, clattering noisily against the cabinet and landing with a sharp bang on the floor as Sherlock stormed away from his experiment, the kitchen and John.
“Jesus, Sherlock. Overly dramatic much?” John had snarled, righting the chair slightly harder than necessary. “No is no. I’m not some testosterone fuelled dick that’s going to pin you down if you don’t want it.”
Chair back in place, John had begun furiously collecting the necessary items for tea, slamming them down on the bench as hard as he could without breaking anything. One mug, one teabag, one cup of tea. No matter he usually made two. If Sherlock wanted tea, he could bloody well make his own.
By the time the kettle had boiled his anger was already beginning to run out. He had a temper; he knew that and had been trying to control it for years, mostly successfully, but Sherlock… Sherlock always had been an exception. Like Harry, Sherlock just slipped right past his control, had done from day one when John stared after him as the stranger who would forever change his life pranced out of the lab at Bart’s with a flirtatious wink and arrogant smile, irrevocably imprinting himself on John’s heart.
Not that Sherlock knew that at the time. Not that John realised it either, and when he did eventually work it out he’d gone through a minor existential crisis and questioned his very identity, unable to believe he’d managed to live more than thirty years with a gay sister and a vast number of very fit Dominant army friends without ever realising he might be bisexual.
He wasn’t, apparently, but it took almost a year with Sherlock to work that one out, and even then it was mostly because Sherlock had looked him in the eye and ordered, ordered, John to get his head out of his arse and tie him up already.
Of course he’d fallen for the most un-submissive Sub in history.
Sherlock was infuriating, but usually John’s tempter cooled as fast as Sherlock riled it. That Thursday being no exception, John had sighed and pulled out an extra mug, flare of tension already working loose. His erection had faded too, a little, which at least made standing simpler though he had to fight the temptation to palm himself. That would have to wait for the shower, since evidently the topic was closed with Sherlock.
He could just imagine what some of his old army mates would have said - Three Continents Watson not able to get laid by a sex crazed Omega. Well, at the end of the day, there was a reason some of them were old mates.
Tea ready, John had splashed the requisite milk in each mug, more in Sherlock’s who took his tea as milky as his coffee black, and collected the drinks, never doubting Sherlock wouldn’t let his go cold, but it was against John’s nature not to offer the silent apology.
Sherlock had been curled up on the couch, back to the room. Even his feet were tucked up, pulled into the narrow ball and buried in the seam between the couch cushions.
“I made tea.” John had said quietly, sliding the mug across the coffee table and backing away to his own armchair.
He hadn’t sat, just perched on the arm, studying the tan liquid while sneaking covert glances at the ball on the couch. The trembling ball. He frowned, watching another shiver travel along the silk-clad back and the ball curl in a little tighter.
“Sherlock?” He asked softly.
John didn’t ask if he was okay; there would be no response to that question. He’d just watched silently, trying to work out whether the trembling was cold or mild Sub shock, and whether or not his presence would be welcome.
A muffled sob accompanied the next full body convulsion. John had almost dropped his mug in surprise. No, Sherlock couldn’t actually be… could he?
“Are you crying?” He blurted out in shock.
“No,” Sherlock snarled, or tried to. With his voice choked up and the unmistakeable tremor behind it, he failed miserably.
“Bloody hell you are.” John had stared at the figure on the couch before his brain belatedly caught up with the fact that Sherlock was crying.
“Oh, ‘lock, I’m sorry.” He had hurried over and knelt beside the couch, stroking Sherlock’s back. “What did I say? Whatever it was, I’m -“
“It’s not you, you imbecile.” Sherlock spat at him through gritted teeth. “It’s got nothing to do with you.”
“Oh.” John had blinked and sat back on his heels. “That’s, that’s good, but then wha-”
“I don’t know.” Sherlock hissed back, rolling to his feet in one fluid move, fingers clenched into fists at his side.
John had a brief glimpse of Sherlock’s tear streaked face before his long legs were tearing up the room as he paced.
“It’s nothing.” Sherlock had angrily flicked more tears off his face with his fingers. “I’m not even upset, I’m just…”
Another sob and fresh wave of tears broke free and stirred John to action. Pressing to his feet in a cacophony of cracking joints, John’d intercepted Sherlock’s pacing and pulled him into a firm hug, refusing to let go even as Sherlock struggled in his arms. He’d just kept holding, riding out the protests until all of a sudden Sherlock had slumped, strings cut, and buried his face in John’s neck, arms gripping him just as hard back.
“It’s just the hormones, love.” John had whispered in the dark curls, rubbing small circles with his thumb.
“I hate it!” Sherlock growled back. “It’s just transport, but I can’t control it.”
“I know, I’m sorry.” John pressed lightly, half nuzzle, half apologetic kiss. “We can stop, if you want, if it’s too much.”
“No.”
“You don’t have to keep having the treatments if it’s too much for you.” John had tried to reassure him.
“No.”
Sherlock started struggling again in John’s grip. His belt buckle had pinched the tender skin of John’s navel where his dressing gown had come undone, Sherlock’s socks slipping on the floorboards.
“Sherl-”
“I am having this child.” Sherlock wrenched free.
His face had been a mess of tears and stray curls were plastered down to his skin by the moisture. Tears still made new paths down his sharp cheekbones as he’d glared at John, red rimmed eyes filled with a ferocious mix of anger and pain, a snarl pulling his face into a twisted rictus of determination and grief. He’d looked wild, primal, torn apart and exposed in ways John had always dreaded because the broken pieces never quite fit back together the same way.
“Our child.” He’d whispered, holding out a hand as offering. “Together.”
Sherlock had hesitated, hesitated, as though searching for hidden strings, then launched himself at his Alpha. John had caught him with a huff, letting Sherlock’s momentum send them crashing onto the couch. The angle had been awkward, but they’d missed the table and the arm, and once on the couch John was better able to position them.
“Just don’t lock me out.” He whispered desperately. “Please love, I’ll do anything, just talk to me, please.”
“I hate this.” Sherlock had hiccupped.
“I love you.” John had replied.
He’d cradled Sherlock for hours as he’d finally let it out and cried for no reason at all, until he’d finally slept and John had reluctantly slipped out from under him to go to work.
Not unexpectedly Sherlock had woken up by the time John had returned home and was back at the table in front of his microscope, where he’d stayed, despite John’s attempts to feed him, convince him to watch a film, and finally coax him to bed for sleep. Nor had he crawled into bed sixty seven minutes later, leaving John staring at the ceiling until he’d eventually succumbed to sleep in the early hours of the morning.
He hadn’t liked his alarm that morning either. Three hours sleep would do that to a person, especially a person waking up alone in the queen sized bed he was supposed to be sharing with his partner. Instead Sherlock was still at the table staring into his microscope.
“Sherlock, love, you need to sleep.” John had tried.
He’d tried toast too, and tea, both of which had been rejected by his strangely wrung out and listless Sub. He’d tried daytime TV, inviting Sherlock to deduce the presenters and a trip to Bart’s for yet more body parts. He’d even offered to fetch Ben for a spot of babysitting and not to tell Greg if Sherlock catalogued his reactions to various non-threatening, non-invasive stimuli, but there’d been no response.
Absolutely nothing, to any of them.
Just Sherlock sitting blankly at the table, refusing to interact with the world.
Now he was trailing behind Sherlock, Sherlock who looked like Sherlock with the fire back in his eyes and spring in his step, all thanks to Jim Moriarty. Not John’s brushed off comfort or caring offers. Jim Sodding Moriarty. Again.
Sherlock, who was climbing into a cab and not even remembering John had come to the Yard with him, giving instructions and shutting the cab door. John reached them before they drove off and dragged the door open.
“Hey mate. Already got a fair.” The cabbie yelled at him.
“Get the next one.” Sherlock waved at him languidly, fingers of one hand already steepled at his lips and eyes glowing. “I need to think.”
“Like bloody hell.” John retorted, climbing in and shutting the door.
“Oi, mate, taken.” The cabbie yelled again.
“Just drive.” John snapped back.
Whether the display of temper or the cars leaning irritably on their horns behind him, the cabbie gave in and drove. John took a deep breath to steady himself, then another.
“You can’t go off on your own, Sherlock, not if he’s back.”
John thought he sounded reasonable. Very reasonable given the churning emotional mess he was turning into inside. Sherlock gave a dismissive huff, disregarding the warning with casual indifference.
“I mean it.” John tried very hard not to snap. “He’s a psychopath.”
“A criminal genius, yes.” Sherlock breathed.
“Dangerous.” John insisted.
“Interesting.”
“Insane.”
“Oh undoubtedly.” Sherlock smiled. “Boredom would drive anyone into madness, let alone someone like Jim.”
He looked like a kid at Christmas, a prize winner at presentations, a bride at the altar. It made John feel sick looking at him, the ecstatic glow of a puzzle, the irresistible lure of the master criminal.
“What do we know then?” He asked quietly, desperate to stay connected to Sherlock and involved.
This was going to be the Great Game again, he just knew it. He could feel it in his stomach: heavy, heavy dread.
“Mmm.” Sherlock hummed instead of answering.
“Don’t do that.” John said firmly.
“Don’t do what?” Sherlock asked in surprise.
“Baker St, lads.” The cabbie interrupted.
John blindly groped for his wallet to pay, not taking his eyes off Sherlock. “The face. You’re doing the face again.”
“What face?”
“The face.” John shoved a rough number of bills into the cabbie’s hand, hoping it was enough.
Half of them came back, so it must have been.
“Well I can’t see it.” Sherlock sniffed.
“You’re doing the ‘we both know what’s going on here’ face. If you were wearing the coat you’d have flipped the collar up to look all mysterious and cool.” John crossed his arms, a stubborn wall of wool and muscle on the pavement.
“I don’t do that.” Sherlock denied.
“Yes, you do, and you’re still doing the face.”
“Well we do know what’s going on here.”
“No, we don’t, which is why I find the face so annoying. Not this time, Sherlock. This time you explain things and keep me in the loop.”
“I always keep you in the loop.” Sherlock dismissed his concerns, heading for the door to the flat.
“No, you always do a grand reveal.” John corrected him, moving into his path. “That’s not what you’re doing this time. Everything, every theory, every move, as you go.”
“That’s not how I work.” Sherlock disagreed, attempting to side step John.
John moved with him, still blocking the way. “It is now. It is for Moriarty.”
“So what, someone’s finally being interesting and you’re going to be my gaoler?” Sherlock angrily stepped left. “The game is on, John.”
“It’s not,” John stepped with him, “a game.”
“Yes, it is.” Sherlock stepped right. “The best, the only kind worth winning.”
“There’s a Sub lying dead.”
“Diddums.”
“You’re risking your life.”
“And it’s mine to risk.” Sherlock stepped back, away from the flat. “Mine, not yours on loan.”
John didn’t follow him the step forward. “I want you to be safe.”
“How nice for you.” Sherlock spun back to the kerb edge, flinging his arm out for a cab. “I’m going to the crime scene. Alone.”
His face was defiant, daring John to protest, to insist he stay home or let John come too. It was a look John was all too familiar with - Harry had looked like that whenever Clara had told her not to have another drink. Those nights usually ended up with Harry at whatever crappy hotel room John had rented on leave, puking her guts up.
“Try not to fall in the Thames.” He replied evenly.
Inside he wanted to rage, scream and shout, demand Sherlock stop this nonsense right now and leave Moriarty to someone else, but the surest way to lose Sherlock for good would be to deny him the Work. Even if John didn’t like it.
A brief look of shock flitted over Sherlock’s face, followed by microseconds of guilt. He’d expected John to protest, to justify Sherlock storming off in a cloud of indignant fury.
“Let me know what you want for dinner.” John turned his back, climbing the steps to 221 and fumbling out his key.
“Case, John.” Sherlock reminded him. “I don’t eat when I’m working.”
“You do now, remember?” John managed the door.
Stepping inside and closing it was harder, but he kept it in until he’d made it up the stairs, safely into their flat. Just. The rumbling snarl was animalistic in its anger, but it was enough. It would bleed off the savage aggression, just enough for him to keep the rest of it locked away. He wouldn’t let it out again, couldn’t. If he started now he wouldn’t stop until the flat was in ruins and that more than anything felt like playing Moriarty’s game.
He cleaned instead - starting in the kitchen and attacking everything down to the grout with a toothbrush. Then he did the bathroom, pausing after to allow himself a shower and a new set of clothes after discovering, and spilling, an experiment of Sherlock’s under the sink.
Cleaning as an outlet was a mechanism he’d learnt in the army. He’d been lucky his Major had been perceptive because he’d come from a unit chock full of very strong Alphas, and sometimes the only way fights had been prevented was the warning presentation of a toothbrush just as it began to brew.
As a recruit he’d had to use the toothbrush a lot.
Since his discharge his other coping strategies had been all he’d needed - breathing exercises, iron control, long walks and the occasional mild shouting to let off pressure. So far, anyway. With Moriarty back…
He tidied the bedroom next, taking the time to carefully clean all his equipment and oil the leather to a supple shine. It was almost as relaxing as maintaining his hand gun so he did that next. He’d probably need it soon.
Sherlock wasn’t home for lunch.
John cleaned the main room, not caring he was disturbing Sherlock’s precious dust. He wanted it clean.
The downstairs door burst open, just audible over the vacuum John hastily packed away. His surge of relief crested and fell away as someone hammered on the door.
Not Sherlock then.
John sighed, switching on the lights as he noticed how dark it had become. It was after five, he couldn’t help but notice and nothing from Sherlock yet.
He wasn’t really surprised it was Greg hammering on the door.
“Greg, now’s not really a good-”
Greg stormed past him, clearly not caring whether or not John considered it a good time. The furious pacing and ferocious scowl didn’t make it likely he was going to leave either.
“If someone’s complained about Sherlock, he’s not here. He went to the crime scene.” John stayed next to the open door, hoping Greg would get the hint and use it.
“I know that.” Greg snapped at him. “I was there with him.”
“Oh.”
The tightness in his chest eased at the thought that Sherlock hadn’t gone alone. Not so much because he thought Moriarty would try something, but because Sherlock had actually taken the time to call for back-up. If not him, at least Sherlock had summoned Greg, probably quite rudely.
“Right, well, he’s not here if you’re looking to yell at-”
“I,” Greg threw himself into Sherlock’s chair, arms placed forcefully on the arm rests like a King making a grand pronouncement, “have just met Mummy.”
“Mummy?” John’s head shot up in surprise. Without pause he reached out to push the door shut. “He’s here? Why are you so angry? What’s he like?”
“Mum-my,” Greg venomously drew out the word, “is actually Step-Mummy and she is a bitch.”
“She?” John gaped at him.
“Oh yeah, She. Lady Dom, and the most stuck up, arrogant, controlling, manipulative harpy I have ever had the misfortune to meet.”
“I’m sorry; you’re telling me that that macho prick Holmes Senior was gay? Actually gay?” John was having trouble reconciling his view of Siger Holmes with the new information.
“Well, he married her, so yeah, I guess.” Greg’s fingers were digging into the arms of the chair.
“But-”
The door to the flat swung open, coming to an abrupt halt when it collided with John.
“Oh.” Sherlock blinked, the unexpected sight of Greg in their sitting room throwing him for a loop. Dismissing him as unimportant for the moment, he held out the plastic Tesco bag for John’s perusal. “I got milk.”
John accepted the bag, touched. It didn’t matter they already had two barely used bottles in the fridge or that Sherlock had got the wrong kind again. Sherlock liked the supermarket as a whole as much as John liked the self-service checkouts, and was about as good with it too. He never got milk, unless he was apologising.
“That explains how Greg got here first.” John smiled lovingly at his Sub.
Sherlock relaxed a little, realising he was forgiven and began nonchalantly pulling his coat and scarf off.
“Greg had an interesting visitor.” John commented as he made his way to the kitchen. “You and Mycroft have been holding out on us.”
“Pardon?” Sherlock frowned, pausing halfway through shrugging his coat off.
“Oh, yes.” John tried to look reassuring as he came back through, kettle on for tea. “Apparently he’s just met Mummy.”
Sherlock froze, eyes widening just slightly making him look like a wild animal caught in a hunters beam.
He swallowed. “Mummy?”
“Yep.” Greg smacked his lips on the p.
Sherlock broke into explosive movement, coat back up his arms and scarf back on before John had registered him moving. “Where? How long ago? Quickly Lestrade.”
“Ours, after I left you.”
“Plus time to get there, no that’s still time. I have to go.” Sherlock spun around, hand on the door handle.
“Go where?” John asked in surprise.
“Anywhere not here. Bart’s. I’ll go to Bart’s.” Sherlock hurried out the door, then poked his head in. “Don’t tell her that. Actually, don’t let him,” he jerked his head at Greg, “tell her that. She’ll try to make someone and it’ll be him, not you.”
“She’s not showing up here, Sherlock.” Greg told him, slouching back in the chair. “She left before I did, and I’ve been here a bit.”
“Oh.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes, considering. “Maybe we should go to Angelo’s for dinner, John. My shout. We could eat in for once. I’m sure Angelo would love the chance to use his candles.”
“Or,” John broke in sternly, “you could come in, sit down, and explain a few things. You have a step-mother?”
“Unfortunately.” Sherlock muttered, reluctantly shedding his outerwear.
“And you don’t particularly want to see her, given you just about fled at the mention of her?” John prodded.
“Not particularly, no.” Sherlock threw himself dramatically on the couch, presenting them both with his profile and refusing to look at them.
“Any particular reason?”
The kettle clicked off in the kitchen, almost covered by Sherlock and Greg’s tandem derisive snorts.
“You’ve never met her. If you had you wouldn’t need to ask.” Sherlock lazily curled his fingers through his hair, affecting disinterest.
“You can say that again.” Greg growled.
“Well, Greg has met her, now, and a bit of… context might be nice.” John moved over to the couch and lifted one of Sherlock hands to his lips. “Please love? You know Mycroft’s never going to fill in the gaps.”
Sherlock grunted unhappily.
“Please? Forewarned is forearmed and all that?” John worked his ‘I love you’ smile, shamelessly exploiting Sherlock’s residual guilt from earlier.
Apparently, Sherlock still felt guilty and it was enough.
“Her name is Elizabeth Henrietta Ingham Roper-Curzon Holmes.” Sherlock answered waspishly. “She is a Dominant and not someone any sane person would want to spend any time with. I’d rather pass the hours with Anderson any day.”
“Condemnation indeed.” John settled into his chair to listen. “Old School?”
“Of course.” Sherlock rolled his eyes.
“I thought all the old family Alphas got Omegas?” Greg asked. “Or did someone actually have a love match among that lot?”
“It’s not all arranged Bindings, you know. It is the twenty first century.” Sherlock turned his head to glare at Greg.
“Believe it when I see it.” Greg shot back.
Sherlock humped and turned back to the ceiling.
“Tell us?” John asked. “Please?”
Sherlock huffed. “Her Sire, Baron Teynham, had an affair with one of his household staff, not an uncommon occurrence. Nor was the resulting offspring. What was unusual, and for Mummy opportune, was that not long after she was born, the good Baron was in a hunting accident. He survived of course, but would never be reproducing again.”
John and Greg both flinched in instinctive sympathy.
“So suddenly robbed of any other offspring, the old Baron comes over all familial and decides to acknowledge and all that, so Mummy gets a proper education and upbringing and her mother gets sacked because the Old Baron’s Bound Omega feels a lot less charitable about the whole idea.”
“So she’s a baroness in her own right?” John asked. “Rags to riches?”
“Hardly.” Sherlock snorted. “Firstly, Mummy has never been without everything she could possibly want in her memory, and secondly no, she’s not the baroness. Her older legitimate half-brother presented as an Omega, so she almost snatched it from him. Eventually though Lord Teynham decided it was better to ensure succession and give the title to his son-in-law. Not before changing his mind half a dozen times in as many years though, so Mummy had to settle for a substantial dowry and the much more prominent Marquisate of Northampton instead.”
“Mycroft’s title.” Greg clarified for John, who had never actually realised that the Holmes family weren’t just rich, but were extremely rich and titled to boot.
“If he would ever bother to wrest it from her, yes.” Sherlock tucked his hand under his head. “Not that he will. She’s spent his whole life making sure he’s too under her thumb to ever conceive of it.”
“So your Sire was gay?” Greg asked.
“No, but he married her anyway. It was an arranged match, and Mummy came with significant financial incentives, after all.” Sherlock drawled.
They sat there in silence, the two Alphas watching Sherlock, waiting for him to say more. Sherlock continued to ignore their attention, still gazing up and away. He wasn’t actually studying the ceiling, because his eyes were still, fixed on one point. It was just to have something away from them to look at.
To look and to make clear his cooperation was under sufferance. His continued silence made it clear he was done.
“Who is Sherringford?” Greg asked into the void.
Sherlock’s lips tightened. “The Honourable Sherringford Llewellyn Ingham Roper-Curzon Holmes.”
“Holmes? You have another brother?” John sat upright in surprise.
“Half-brother.” Sherlock corrected him tightly.
“You have a younger half-brother?” John repeated. “Why have you never mentioned him? What does-”
“Older half-brother.”
John paused. “Older? But I thought you said you and Mycroft were full - oh. He’s the elde-”
“No.”
John stopped and hesitantly exchanged glances with Greg. It was unusual for an Alpha to have multiple children with one Omega separated by a son with a woman who was his wife. That didn’t tend to go down well with either party.
“Leg-itimate?” John asked, flipping his eyes back to Sherlock.
“Ye-es.” Sherlock mimicked.
John and Greg exchanged another glance.
“Sherlock, love,” John took a deep breath. “Idiot, I know, but I’m really not following.”
“That doesn’t surprise.”
The comment lacked the usual vitriol. Instead Sherlock sounded weary and resigned.
“Please?” John asked. He shushed Greg who was opening his mouth to speak with a wave of his hand. “Explain it for me.”
“Do I have to?” Sherlock whispered.
“Not if you really don’t want to.”
“You don’t want to hear it.”
“Of course we do, ‘lock. We want to know everything.” John studied the fragile face before him. “It won’t change our opinions of you, or Mycroft. We just want to know, be prepared in case anything happens. With Ben.”
There was beat, then Sherlock asked “Tea?”
“Of course.” John got up and started the kettle boiling again, glaring Greg into silence when he started to press immediately for more.
Greg’s mouth snapped shut swallowing his words, but it didn’t stop him glaring back, his anger still hot under the surface. Whatever Mummy or Mycroft had done, Greg was still plenty pissed off and the prospect of finally getting information out of one of the Holmeses was not actually calming him down. Not that John would have expected it to. It was the balance between Curiosity and Temper, and the more Curiosity was assuaged, the more he suspected Temper would return.
“Who mentioned Sherringford?” John heard Sherlock quietly ask as he poured the water.
“The harpy.” Greg drummed his fingers on the arm. “Why?”
Sherlock didn’t respond. He was still in the same position staring at the same spot when John came back in and offered the tea. Sherlock didn’t move to take it, so John put it on the coffee table and went back for his and Greg’s mugs.
“What do you want to know?” Sherlock asked as John sat down again.
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Part II
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:
Evening everyone.I'm so sorry for the delay. theartofprose has been extremely busy lately and hasn't had a chance to beta Chapter 14 yet, hence the wait. Having said that, I don't want you all to have to wait too much longer SO the solution is thus. This is the UN-betaed version of Chapter 14. Once the betaed version is available, I'll update it for you and if you'd like you can read the much more polished version.
It's been so long, short recap of where we were was Moriarty has returned, as Sherlock figured out at the Yard and then followed up with Greg at the crime scene, Greg has met Mummy and then proceeded to get into a fight with Mycroft and has stormed out, and Anthea, in the interlude, really wishes they'd get themselves together. I'd probably recommend going back and reading Chapter 12 to remind yourself what was going on if that doesn't jog things.
We're back in the world of the nobility, so I have dragged another poor noble family through the muck by stealing their name. Needless to say, it's all from my head, and nothing like reality. Basically, I went house shopping with my mythical billions and decided they had a nice looking house that suited my purposes. Images are avaliable on their website, so you can go look if you'd like. It's not actually a relevant location for the story. Just a nice looking house.
Otherwise, some pseudo-science (not real, very loosely researched) so please suspend disbelief for that.
Warnings: References to abuse, possible past suicidal intentions, infertility, unhealthy home environment, abandonment
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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Nothing was going well and John didn’t have faintest clue what to do about it. He wasn’t an idiot, despite Sherlock’s casual/angry/frustrated/annoyed proclamations, but he may as well have been.
It had all started during Sherlock’s False Heat, as John called it in his mind. Watching his love writhing on the bed and being unable to help had been hellish. After the first few hours when they’d discovered intercourse provided only temporary relief and brought the cravings back even stronger, John couldn’t even be a willing cock, no matter how much Sherlock begged, whimpered or cried. His role had been reduced to attempting to coax some food or water into Sherlock and, once he’d braved a sex store, cleaning the toys, providing lube and weathering the full gambit of Sherlock’s lust crazed moods from bargaining over food (“I’ll eat if you fuck me”) to anger (“If you’re not going you fuck me, get out.”)
There was probably a reason that neither party remembered Estrus with any clarity. Quite apart from the biological explanations, it was the only way to preserve any sanity. This one though he and Sherlock would remember: him as a time of helplessness, Sherlock as a time of humiliating lack of control.
He’d wanted to ask Sherlock whether he still wanted to continue the treatments now that they were slightly better informed of the side effects, but Sherlock had got his back up before John had really managed to broach the topic, spitting chips and stalking out. When he came back to the flat John could tell with one glance at the defiant expression on Sherlock’s face that he’d gone to the specialist and taken care of things on his own, even if the appointment wasn’t supposed to be until the next day.
“It won’t put your schedule out?” He turned back to the bench and continued making dinner.
Behind him Sherlock had scowled and thrown himself sulkily into his chair, where he’d stayed the rest of the evening, studying slides and giving John the silent treatment.
That was usual, normal, a textbook Sherlock sulk and John could handle that, especially when Sherlock stayed true to form and snuck quietly into bed an exact sixty-seven minutes after John had retired to wind himself around his Alpha in bed.
How Sherlock had decided on sixty seven minutes as the appropriate amount of time to wait John would never know, but in these moods it was always sixty seven minutes, no matter the time of day or night. John just wrapped his arms around his love, dropped a kiss on his neck, and fell asleep smiling.
He’d woken up with an erection, but that was also normal. Unusually, they’d both ignored it, John heading off to work and Sherlock to whatever he planned to do now he didn’t have a doctor’s appointment.
They’d ignored the next morning erection as well, but by Thursday John was feeling decidedly like he could do with a shag. Outside of cases they had a very healthy sex life, especially in the mornings, and unlike Sherlock he hadn’t been laying around on a hormonal sex binge the week before. John had in fact spent the last week watching the most gorgeous creature to walk the Earth beg him to join his desperate frenzy, and without the stress being unable to help Sherlock brought, those were very erotic images.
In his dream Sherlock was splayed out on an impossible bed, soft and hard as required, completely boundless. The plum silk made his skin glow and eyes flash steel grey. The dark curls were a little longer than reality so they tumbled loosely against the sheet. John wasn’t Sherlock to work out at a glance exactly how much length his subconscious had added, and he frankly didn’t care.
What he did care about were Sherlock’s perfect lips, red and roughened from stubble rash and more. In his dream he knew instantly that the more had been his cock, his Sub choking prettily, attempting to keep up with John’s punishing pace as he relentlessly fucked Sherlock’s face. From the depths of memory his mind provided the delicious whimper as he pulled out, Sherlock trying to follow and guide him back into the warm, wet, talented cavern that was his mouth and throat.
Logically, it was a dream because Sherlock’s passage was slick and ready as John sank in without any preparation, but there was no mindless rut from Heat. Instead Sherlock drew him in with deliberate intent, genius brain there and blazing even as he sighed and gasped and released little hitching squeaks in time to John smoothly settling deeper and deeper into the wonderfully tight heat.
Sherlock lifted his legs and wrapped them around John’s back, guiding him to the point that only his heavy aching bollocks were still outside Sherlock’s body. John’s fingers tangled with Sherlock’s elegant violinist’s ones, short and dextrous linked with long and graceful, as he tantalisingly withdrew and pressed slowly back in.
After the hard fast rush of Sherlock’s mouth, the gentle pace was teasing temptation. Sherlock sighed, tilting his pelvis to better accept John, entirely acceding to John’s pace. John dropped a kiss to the creamy chest, tasting the drying sweat and vanilla almond musk he always defined as Sherlock. On the next stroke he added a swivel in his hips, greedily swallowing the gasp of surprise and lazy groan of pleasure his lover emitted.
Gradually he sped up until the spark and sizzling burn was back and the laconic loving was again animalistic sex, with teeth and nails and John snapping his hips as fast and hard as he could to bring them both right to the brink of orgasm-
The alarm that morning had been especially cruel, leaving John rutting against the mattress, Sherlock’s whispered pleas in his ear, teetering on the edge of orgasm with the knowledge he was on afternoon shift and if he’d remembered to turn his bloody alarm off he’d have enjoyed a spectacular orgasm in his sleep instead of being left hanging, aching to be touched.
This was the erection that wouldn’t go away, and awake the sheets were no match for his Omega’s pliant willing body. With a growl John had got up, pulled on his robe, and determined that if he didn’t have to be in the office until later, maybe he could talk Sherlock into a morning shag before he resorted to his hand in the shower.
Sherlock had been at his microscope, dressing gown pushed back off pale, muscular forearms. As always, his posture at the scope was impeccable, back straight and shoulders relaxed. His ebony curls were at their darkest, still damp from the shower. They hung longer and looser, not dripping water, but still weighed down by the moisture locked within the strands. John knew they’d feel cool and slippery against his fingers, heavier and contained rather than flyaway and free.
Sherlock was still favouring darker shades, that morning jet black with only a minor black self-pattern as relief. He looked stern and imposing. He looked like Eros personified.
“Is the sample not behaving?” John had teased lightly, wrapping his arms around his Sub and burying his nose in Sherlock’s neck.
Clean and fresh, the expensive rosemary and mint body wash Sherlock kept for mornings and the insanely expensive hair products he used flooded John’s nose. Breathing in again he thought he detected a hint of almond oil, the base of Sherlock’s after shaving lotion that was definitely not moisturiser, no matter that Sherlock almost never had to shave yet almost always used it. The only thing missing was Sherlock’s own natural vanilla, buried under the artificial products he’d applied.
“If you think,” Sherlock hissed coldly, “that you are getting anywhere near me with that, you can think again.”
John sighed and released his hold. “Sorry for saying good morning.”
He’d got a low grunt in response.
“It would be nice though, now you mention it.” John’d purred, sidling in close again and dropping a meaningful kiss to Sherlock’s neck.
“No.”
“Come on, love.” John tried desperately to keep the whine out of his voice. “It’s been ages.”
“Sorry if I’m not in the mood to indulge you after last week’s sex marathon.” Sherlock shook John’s hold off.
“Yeah well some of us didn’t get to spend four days jacking ourselves into oblivion.” John retorted angrily, stun more than he’d like to admit by Sherlock’s brusque outright rejection.
“I’m not your fucking sex toy.” Sherlock had snapped, bursting to his feet. “Go use your bloody hand.”
The movement sent the chair toppling backwards, clattering noisily against the cabinet and landing with a sharp bang on the floor as Sherlock stormed away from his experiment, the kitchen and John.
“Jesus, Sherlock. Overly dramatic much?” John had snarled, righting the chair slightly harder than necessary. “No is no. I’m not some testosterone fuelled dick that’s going to pin you down if you don’t want it.”
Chair back in place, John had begun furiously collecting the necessary items for tea, slamming them down on the bench as hard as he could without breaking anything. One mug, one teabag, one cup of tea. No matter he usually made two. If Sherlock wanted tea, he could bloody well make his own.
By the time the kettle had boiled his anger was already beginning to run out. He had a temper; he knew that and had been trying to control it for years, mostly successfully, but Sherlock… Sherlock always had been an exception. Like Harry, Sherlock just slipped right past his control, had done from day one when John stared after him as the stranger who would forever change his life pranced out of the lab at Bart’s with a flirtatious wink and arrogant smile, irrevocably imprinting himself on John’s heart.
Not that Sherlock knew that at the time. Not that John realised it either, and when he did eventually work it out he’d gone through a minor existential crisis and questioned his very identity, unable to believe he’d managed to live more than thirty years with a gay sister and a vast number of very fit Dominant army friends without ever realising he might be bisexual.
He wasn’t, apparently, but it took almost a year with Sherlock to work that one out, and even then it was mostly because Sherlock had looked him in the eye and ordered, ordered, John to get his head out of his arse and tie him up already.
Of course he’d fallen for the most un-submissive Sub in history.
Sherlock was infuriating, but usually John’s tempter cooled as fast as Sherlock riled it. That Thursday being no exception, John had sighed and pulled out an extra mug, flare of tension already working loose. His erection had faded too, a little, which at least made standing simpler though he had to fight the temptation to palm himself. That would have to wait for the shower, since evidently the topic was closed with Sherlock.
He could just imagine what some of his old army mates would have said - Three Continents Watson not able to get laid by a sex crazed Omega. Well, at the end of the day, there was a reason some of them were old mates.
Tea ready, John had splashed the requisite milk in each mug, more in Sherlock’s who took his tea as milky as his coffee black, and collected the drinks, never doubting Sherlock wouldn’t let his go cold, but it was against John’s nature not to offer the silent apology.
Sherlock had been curled up on the couch, back to the room. Even his feet were tucked up, pulled into the narrow ball and buried in the seam between the couch cushions.
“I made tea.” John had said quietly, sliding the mug across the coffee table and backing away to his own armchair.
He hadn’t sat, just perched on the arm, studying the tan liquid while sneaking covert glances at the ball on the couch. The trembling ball. He frowned, watching another shiver travel along the silk-clad back and the ball curl in a little tighter.
“Sherlock?” He asked softly.
John didn’t ask if he was okay; there would be no response to that question. He’d just watched silently, trying to work out whether the trembling was cold or mild Sub shock, and whether or not his presence would be welcome.
A muffled sob accompanied the next full body convulsion. John had almost dropped his mug in surprise. No, Sherlock couldn’t actually be… could he?
“Are you crying?” He blurted out in shock.
“No,” Sherlock snarled, or tried to. With his voice choked up and the unmistakeable tremor behind it, he failed miserably.
“Bloody hell you are.” John had stared at the figure on the couch before his brain belatedly caught up with the fact that Sherlock was crying.
“Oh, ‘lock, I’m sorry.” He had hurried over and knelt beside the couch, stroking Sherlock’s back. “What did I say? Whatever it was, I’m -“
“It’s not you, you imbecile.” Sherlock spat at him through gritted teeth. “It’s got nothing to do with you.”
“Oh.” John had blinked and sat back on his heels. “That’s, that’s good, but then wha-”
“I don’t know.” Sherlock hissed back, rolling to his feet in one fluid move, fingers clenched into fists at his side.
John had a brief glimpse of Sherlock’s tear streaked face before his long legs were tearing up the room as he paced.
“It’s nothing.” Sherlock had angrily flicked more tears off his face with his fingers. “I’m not even upset, I’m just…”
Another sob and fresh wave of tears broke free and stirred John to action. Pressing to his feet in a cacophony of cracking joints, John’d intercepted Sherlock’s pacing and pulled him into a firm hug, refusing to let go even as Sherlock struggled in his arms. He’d just kept holding, riding out the protests until all of a sudden Sherlock had slumped, strings cut, and buried his face in John’s neck, arms gripping him just as hard back.
“It’s just the hormones, love.” John had whispered in the dark curls, rubbing small circles with his thumb.
“I hate it!” Sherlock growled back. “It’s just transport, but I can’t control it.”
“I know, I’m sorry.” John pressed lightly, half nuzzle, half apologetic kiss. “We can stop, if you want, if it’s too much.”
“No.”
“You don’t have to keep having the treatments if it’s too much for you.” John had tried to reassure him.
“No.”
Sherlock started struggling again in John’s grip. His belt buckle had pinched the tender skin of John’s navel where his dressing gown had come undone, Sherlock’s socks slipping on the floorboards.
“Sherl-”
“I am having this child.” Sherlock wrenched free.
His face had been a mess of tears and stray curls were plastered down to his skin by the moisture. Tears still made new paths down his sharp cheekbones as he’d glared at John, red rimmed eyes filled with a ferocious mix of anger and pain, a snarl pulling his face into a twisted rictus of determination and grief. He’d looked wild, primal, torn apart and exposed in ways John had always dreaded because the broken pieces never quite fit back together the same way.
“Our child.” He’d whispered, holding out a hand as offering. “Together.”
Sherlock had hesitated, hesitated, as though searching for hidden strings, then launched himself at his Alpha. John had caught him with a huff, letting Sherlock’s momentum send them crashing onto the couch. The angle had been awkward, but they’d missed the table and the arm, and once on the couch John was better able to position them.
“Just don’t lock me out.” He whispered desperately. “Please love, I’ll do anything, just talk to me, please.”
“I hate this.” Sherlock had hiccupped.
“I love you.” John had replied.
He’d cradled Sherlock for hours as he’d finally let it out and cried for no reason at all, until he’d finally slept and John had reluctantly slipped out from under him to go to work.
Not unexpectedly Sherlock had woken up by the time John had returned home and was back at the table in front of his microscope, where he’d stayed, despite John’s attempts to feed him, convince him to watch a film, and finally coax him to bed for sleep. Nor had he crawled into bed sixty seven minutes later, leaving John staring at the ceiling until he’d eventually succumbed to sleep in the early hours of the morning.
He hadn’t liked his alarm that morning either. Three hours sleep would do that to a person, especially a person waking up alone in the queen sized bed he was supposed to be sharing with his partner. Instead Sherlock was still at the table staring into his microscope.
“Sherlock, love, you need to sleep.” John had tried.
He’d tried toast too, and tea, both of which had been rejected by his strangely wrung out and listless Sub. He’d tried daytime TV, inviting Sherlock to deduce the presenters and a trip to Bart’s for yet more body parts. He’d even offered to fetch Ben for a spot of babysitting and not to tell Greg if Sherlock catalogued his reactions to various non-threatening, non-invasive stimuli, but there’d been no response.
Absolutely nothing, to any of them.
Just Sherlock sitting blankly at the table, refusing to interact with the world.
Now he was trailing behind Sherlock, Sherlock who looked like Sherlock with the fire back in his eyes and spring in his step, all thanks to Jim Moriarty. Not John’s brushed off comfort or caring offers. Jim Sodding Moriarty. Again.
Sherlock, who was climbing into a cab and not even remembering John had come to the Yard with him, giving instructions and shutting the cab door. John reached them before they drove off and dragged the door open.
“Hey mate. Already got a fair.” The cabbie yelled at him.
“Get the next one.” Sherlock waved at him languidly, fingers of one hand already steepled at his lips and eyes glowing. “I need to think.”
“Like bloody hell.” John retorted, climbing in and shutting the door.
“Oi, mate, taken.” The cabbie yelled again.
“Just drive.” John snapped back.
Whether the display of temper or the cars leaning irritably on their horns behind him, the cabbie gave in and drove. John took a deep breath to steady himself, then another.
“You can’t go off on your own, Sherlock, not if he’s back.”
John thought he sounded reasonable. Very reasonable given the churning emotional mess he was turning into inside. Sherlock gave a dismissive huff, disregarding the warning with casual indifference.
“I mean it.” John tried very hard not to snap. “He’s a psychopath.”
“A criminal genius, yes.” Sherlock breathed.
“Dangerous.” John insisted.
“Interesting.”
“Insane.”
“Oh undoubtedly.” Sherlock smiled. “Boredom would drive anyone into madness, let alone someone like Jim.”
He looked like a kid at Christmas, a prize winner at presentations, a bride at the altar. It made John feel sick looking at him, the ecstatic glow of a puzzle, the irresistible lure of the master criminal.
“What do we know then?” He asked quietly, desperate to stay connected to Sherlock and involved.
This was going to be the Great Game again, he just knew it. He could feel it in his stomach: heavy, heavy dread.
“Mmm.” Sherlock hummed instead of answering.
“Don’t do that.” John said firmly.
“Don’t do what?” Sherlock asked in surprise.
“Baker St, lads.” The cabbie interrupted.
John blindly groped for his wallet to pay, not taking his eyes off Sherlock. “The face. You’re doing the face again.”
“What face?”
“The face.” John shoved a rough number of bills into the cabbie’s hand, hoping it was enough.
Half of them came back, so it must have been.
“Well I can’t see it.” Sherlock sniffed.
“You’re doing the ‘we both know what’s going on here’ face. If you were wearing the coat you’d have flipped the collar up to look all mysterious and cool.” John crossed his arms, a stubborn wall of wool and muscle on the pavement.
“I don’t do that.” Sherlock denied.
“Yes, you do, and you’re still doing the face.”
“Well we do know what’s going on here.”
“No, we don’t, which is why I find the face so annoying. Not this time, Sherlock. This time you explain things and keep me in the loop.”
“I always keep you in the loop.” Sherlock dismissed his concerns, heading for the door to the flat.
“No, you always do a grand reveal.” John corrected him, moving into his path. “That’s not what you’re doing this time. Everything, every theory, every move, as you go.”
“That’s not how I work.” Sherlock disagreed, attempting to side step John.
John moved with him, still blocking the way. “It is now. It is for Moriarty.”
“So what, someone’s finally being interesting and you’re going to be my gaoler?” Sherlock angrily stepped left. “The game is on, John.”
“It’s not,” John stepped with him, “a game.”
“Yes, it is.” Sherlock stepped right. “The best, the only kind worth winning.”
“There’s a Sub lying dead.”
“Diddums.”
“You’re risking your life.”
“And it’s mine to risk.” Sherlock stepped back, away from the flat. “Mine, not yours on loan.”
John didn’t follow him the step forward. “I want you to be safe.”
“How nice for you.” Sherlock spun back to the kerb edge, flinging his arm out for a cab. “I’m going to the crime scene. Alone.”
His face was defiant, daring John to protest, to insist he stay home or let John come too. It was a look John was all too familiar with - Harry had looked like that whenever Clara had told her not to have another drink. Those nights usually ended up with Harry at whatever crappy hotel room John had rented on leave, puking her guts up.
“Try not to fall in the Thames.” He replied evenly.
Inside he wanted to rage, scream and shout, demand Sherlock stop this nonsense right now and leave Moriarty to someone else, but the surest way to lose Sherlock for good would be to deny him the Work. Even if John didn’t like it.
A brief look of shock flitted over Sherlock’s face, followed by microseconds of guilt. He’d expected John to protest, to justify Sherlock storming off in a cloud of indignant fury.
“Let me know what you want for dinner.” John turned his back, climbing the steps to 221 and fumbling out his key.
“Case, John.” Sherlock reminded him. “I don’t eat when I’m working.”
“You do now, remember?” John managed the door.
Stepping inside and closing it was harder, but he kept it in until he’d made it up the stairs, safely into their flat. Just. The rumbling snarl was animalistic in its anger, but it was enough. It would bleed off the savage aggression, just enough for him to keep the rest of it locked away. He wouldn’t let it out again, couldn’t. If he started now he wouldn’t stop until the flat was in ruins and that more than anything felt like playing Moriarty’s game.
He cleaned instead - starting in the kitchen and attacking everything down to the grout with a toothbrush. Then he did the bathroom, pausing after to allow himself a shower and a new set of clothes after discovering, and spilling, an experiment of Sherlock’s under the sink.
Cleaning as an outlet was a mechanism he’d learnt in the army. He’d been lucky his Major had been perceptive because he’d come from a unit chock full of very strong Alphas, and sometimes the only way fights had been prevented was the warning presentation of a toothbrush just as it began to brew.
As a recruit he’d had to use the toothbrush a lot.
Since his discharge his other coping strategies had been all he’d needed - breathing exercises, iron control, long walks and the occasional mild shouting to let off pressure. So far, anyway. With Moriarty back…
He tidied the bedroom next, taking the time to carefully clean all his equipment and oil the leather to a supple shine. It was almost as relaxing as maintaining his hand gun so he did that next. He’d probably need it soon.
Sherlock wasn’t home for lunch.
John cleaned the main room, not caring he was disturbing Sherlock’s precious dust. He wanted it clean.
The downstairs door burst open, just audible over the vacuum John hastily packed away. His surge of relief crested and fell away as someone hammered on the door.
Not Sherlock then.
John sighed, switching on the lights as he noticed how dark it had become. It was after five, he couldn’t help but notice and nothing from Sherlock yet.
He wasn’t really surprised it was Greg hammering on the door.
“Greg, now’s not really a good-”
Greg stormed past him, clearly not caring whether or not John considered it a good time. The furious pacing and ferocious scowl didn’t make it likely he was going to leave either.
“If someone’s complained about Sherlock, he’s not here. He went to the crime scene.” John stayed next to the open door, hoping Greg would get the hint and use it.
“I know that.” Greg snapped at him. “I was there with him.”
“Oh.”
The tightness in his chest eased at the thought that Sherlock hadn’t gone alone. Not so much because he thought Moriarty would try something, but because Sherlock had actually taken the time to call for back-up. If not him, at least Sherlock had summoned Greg, probably quite rudely.
“Right, well, he’s not here if you’re looking to yell at-”
“I,” Greg threw himself into Sherlock’s chair, arms placed forcefully on the arm rests like a King making a grand pronouncement, “have just met Mummy.”
“Mummy?” John’s head shot up in surprise. Without pause he reached out to push the door shut. “He’s here? Why are you so angry? What’s he like?”
“Mum-my,” Greg venomously drew out the word, “is actually Step-Mummy and she is a bitch.”
“She?” John gaped at him.
“Oh yeah, She. Lady Dom, and the most stuck up, arrogant, controlling, manipulative harpy I have ever had the misfortune to meet.”
“I’m sorry; you’re telling me that that macho prick Holmes Senior was gay? Actually gay?” John was having trouble reconciling his view of Siger Holmes with the new information.
“Well, he married her, so yeah, I guess.” Greg’s fingers were digging into the arms of the chair.
“But-”
The door to the flat swung open, coming to an abrupt halt when it collided with John.
“Oh.” Sherlock blinked, the unexpected sight of Greg in their sitting room throwing him for a loop. Dismissing him as unimportant for the moment, he held out the plastic Tesco bag for John’s perusal. “I got milk.”
John accepted the bag, touched. It didn’t matter they already had two barely used bottles in the fridge or that Sherlock had got the wrong kind again. Sherlock liked the supermarket as a whole as much as John liked the self-service checkouts, and was about as good with it too. He never got milk, unless he was apologising.
“That explains how Greg got here first.” John smiled lovingly at his Sub.
Sherlock relaxed a little, realising he was forgiven and began nonchalantly pulling his coat and scarf off.
“Greg had an interesting visitor.” John commented as he made his way to the kitchen. “You and Mycroft have been holding out on us.”
“Pardon?” Sherlock frowned, pausing halfway through shrugging his coat off.
“Oh, yes.” John tried to look reassuring as he came back through, kettle on for tea. “Apparently he’s just met Mummy.”
Sherlock froze, eyes widening just slightly making him look like a wild animal caught in a hunters beam.
He swallowed. “Mummy?”
“Yep.” Greg smacked his lips on the p.
Sherlock broke into explosive movement, coat back up his arms and scarf back on before John had registered him moving. “Where? How long ago? Quickly Lestrade.”
“Ours, after I left you.”
“Plus time to get there, no that’s still time. I have to go.” Sherlock spun around, hand on the door handle.
“Go where?” John asked in surprise.
“Anywhere not here. Bart’s. I’ll go to Bart’s.” Sherlock hurried out the door, then poked his head in. “Don’t tell her that. Actually, don’t let him,” he jerked his head at Greg, “tell her that. She’ll try to make someone and it’ll be him, not you.”
“She’s not showing up here, Sherlock.” Greg told him, slouching back in the chair. “She left before I did, and I’ve been here a bit.”
“Oh.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes, considering. “Maybe we should go to Angelo’s for dinner, John. My shout. We could eat in for once. I’m sure Angelo would love the chance to use his candles.”
“Or,” John broke in sternly, “you could come in, sit down, and explain a few things. You have a step-mother?”
“Unfortunately.” Sherlock muttered, reluctantly shedding his outerwear.
“And you don’t particularly want to see her, given you just about fled at the mention of her?” John prodded.
“Not particularly, no.” Sherlock threw himself dramatically on the couch, presenting them both with his profile and refusing to look at them.
“Any particular reason?”
The kettle clicked off in the kitchen, almost covered by Sherlock and Greg’s tandem derisive snorts.
“You’ve never met her. If you had you wouldn’t need to ask.” Sherlock lazily curled his fingers through his hair, affecting disinterest.
“You can say that again.” Greg growled.
“Well, Greg has met her, now, and a bit of… context might be nice.” John moved over to the couch and lifted one of Sherlock hands to his lips. “Please love? You know Mycroft’s never going to fill in the gaps.”
Sherlock grunted unhappily.
“Please? Forewarned is forearmed and all that?” John worked his ‘I love you’ smile, shamelessly exploiting Sherlock’s residual guilt from earlier.
Apparently, Sherlock still felt guilty and it was enough.
“Her name is Elizabeth Henrietta Ingham Roper-Curzon Holmes.” Sherlock answered waspishly. “She is a Dominant and not someone any sane person would want to spend any time with. I’d rather pass the hours with Anderson any day.”
“Condemnation indeed.” John settled into his chair to listen. “Old School?”
“Of course.” Sherlock rolled his eyes.
“I thought all the old family Alphas got Omegas?” Greg asked. “Or did someone actually have a love match among that lot?”
“It’s not all arranged Bindings, you know. It is the twenty first century.” Sherlock turned his head to glare at Greg.
“Believe it when I see it.” Greg shot back.
Sherlock humped and turned back to the ceiling.
“Tell us?” John asked. “Please?”
Sherlock huffed. “Her Sire, Baron Teynham, had an affair with one of his household staff, not an uncommon occurrence. Nor was the resulting offspring. What was unusual, and for Mummy opportune, was that not long after she was born, the good Baron was in a hunting accident. He survived of course, but would never be reproducing again.”
John and Greg both flinched in instinctive sympathy.
“So suddenly robbed of any other offspring, the old Baron comes over all familial and decides to acknowledge and all that, so Mummy gets a proper education and upbringing and her mother gets sacked because the Old Baron’s Bound Omega feels a lot less charitable about the whole idea.”
“So she’s a baroness in her own right?” John asked. “Rags to riches?”
“Hardly.” Sherlock snorted. “Firstly, Mummy has never been without everything she could possibly want in her memory, and secondly no, she’s not the baroness. Her older legitimate half-brother presented as an Omega, so she almost snatched it from him. Eventually though Lord Teynham decided it was better to ensure succession and give the title to his son-in-law. Not before changing his mind half a dozen times in as many years though, so Mummy had to settle for a substantial dowry and the much more prominent Marquisate of Northampton instead.”
“Mycroft’s title.” Greg clarified for John, who had never actually realised that the Holmes family weren’t just rich, but were extremely rich and titled to boot.
“If he would ever bother to wrest it from her, yes.” Sherlock tucked his hand under his head. “Not that he will. She’s spent his whole life making sure he’s too under her thumb to ever conceive of it.”
“So your Sire was gay?” Greg asked.
“No, but he married her anyway. It was an arranged match, and Mummy came with significant financial incentives, after all.” Sherlock drawled.
They sat there in silence, the two Alphas watching Sherlock, waiting for him to say more. Sherlock continued to ignore their attention, still gazing up and away. He wasn’t actually studying the ceiling, because his eyes were still, fixed on one point. It was just to have something away from them to look at.
To look and to make clear his cooperation was under sufferance. His continued silence made it clear he was done.
“Who is Sherringford?” Greg asked into the void.
Sherlock’s lips tightened. “The Honourable Sherringford Llewellyn Ingham Roper-Curzon Holmes.”
“Holmes? You have another brother?” John sat upright in surprise.
“Half-brother.” Sherlock corrected him tightly.
“You have a younger half-brother?” John repeated. “Why have you never mentioned him? What does-”
“Older half-brother.”
John paused. “Older? But I thought you said you and Mycroft were full - oh. He’s the elde-”
“No.”
John stopped and hesitantly exchanged glances with Greg. It was unusual for an Alpha to have multiple children with one Omega separated by a son with a woman who was his wife. That didn’t tend to go down well with either party.
“Leg-itimate?” John asked, flipping his eyes back to Sherlock.
“Ye-es.” Sherlock mimicked.
John and Greg exchanged another glance.
“Sherlock, love,” John took a deep breath. “Idiot, I know, but I’m really not following.”
“That doesn’t surprise.”
The comment lacked the usual vitriol. Instead Sherlock sounded weary and resigned.
“Please?” John asked. He shushed Greg who was opening his mouth to speak with a wave of his hand. “Explain it for me.”
“Do I have to?” Sherlock whispered.
“Not if you really don’t want to.”
“You don’t want to hear it.”
“Of course we do, ‘lock. We want to know everything.” John studied the fragile face before him. “It won’t change our opinions of you, or Mycroft. We just want to know, be prepared in case anything happens. With Ben.”
There was beat, then Sherlock asked “Tea?”
“Of course.” John got up and started the kettle boiling again, glaring Greg into silence when he started to press immediately for more.
Greg’s mouth snapped shut swallowing his words, but it didn’t stop him glaring back, his anger still hot under the surface. Whatever Mummy or Mycroft had done, Greg was still plenty pissed off and the prospect of finally getting information out of one of the Holmeses was not actually calming him down. Not that John would have expected it to. It was the balance between Curiosity and Temper, and the more Curiosity was assuaged, the more he suspected Temper would return.
“Who mentioned Sherringford?” John heard Sherlock quietly ask as he poured the water.
“The harpy.” Greg drummed his fingers on the arm. “Why?”
Sherlock didn’t respond. He was still in the same position staring at the same spot when John came back in and offered the tea. Sherlock didn’t move to take it, so John put it on the coffee table and went back for his and Greg’s mugs.
“What do you want to know?” Sherlock asked as John sat down again.
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Part II
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