Though I Walk Through the Valley (6/38)
Though I Walk through the Valley
Title:Though I Walk through the Valley (6/38)Series: Still Waters (Run Deep) (Part II of IV)
Author: melody_in_time
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Through S1 only
Disclaimer: I wish, I wish upon a star... but until that works, not mine and sadly no money made.
Author's Notes: Evening All! So the general consensus seems to be that people want two chapters today. Not the worst combination you could have chosen for cliffhangers, though some of you may disagree. I don't think this chapter is going to make any of you like Mycroft any more than you already do, but give him a chance... not that he's earned it yet, but when he does let him have it.
I think you'll find this chapter less angsty? Probably more frustrating, but less angsty.
Warnings: all the discussions and attitudes usually found when someone doesn't want to be pregnant and is; dominance abuse;
If you've wondered here by mistake, you may wish to start at Part I of the series, Rarest of the Rare: Chapter 1.
Prologue - Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8 - Chapter 9 - Chapter 10
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Even on the weekend Mycroft Holmes did not sleep in.
Most commonly this was because he was at the office by nine; the late start to reflect that it was the weekend, but on the international stage the weekend was an artificial construct, having Thursday-Friday and Friday-Saturday variants in the Middle East alone for example, so somewhere in the world, even without the time zones, one of his counterparts was working, which meant Mycroft was too. That didn’t mean he didn’t have days off where he worked from his home office and reviewed his finances and the Estate’s figures - fully contactable on home phone, mobile phone, pager and email - or that he never went on holiday, most commonly extended weekends at the Family Estate to visit Mummy - contactable on mobile phone, pager and email - it just meant he was always awake, dressed and working, or preparing for work, in some capacity or another by eight o’clock.
So for Mycroft Holmes to be sitting at his kitchen table in pyjamas and a dressing gown determinably not staring at the wall after ten in the morning was, to say the least, a highly unusual state of affairs, even for a Saturday.
Of course, he wouldn’t be there at all if not for his traitorous PA.
In defiance of Arum’s order Mycroft had in fact turned up to work yesterday and had successfully avoided her for three hours by ensuring he was ensconced in high profile meetings, none of which had originally been on his schedule as they were of more face than substantive value. Mycroft found the posturing tedious so attended only as frequently as required to maintain his influence. This saved both his patience and the illusion of free reign; it would never be suitable for his role in affairs to become publically obvious.
He’d sat, interjecting only at the utmost need, while mentally recording details to be documented later. It was a challenging task, it had been quite some time since he’d had to mentally minute a meeting as well as keep a record of his own observations, but it would never do for him to be seen writing things down. The slim notebook that normally resided in his jacket pocket was a prop, not a true memory aid.
Arum had slipped into the meeting room at the three hour mark and sat elegantly in the seat next to him, as appropriate for a PA. As appropriate for his PA, her presence was accepted without a word despite no one else’s assistants being present.
Mycroft defiantly continued to minute the meeting and his own observations in his head, despite Arum beginning her own written record in impeccable shorthand. Not a single word, expression or flicker of muscle was anything less than perfectly implacable as she acted utterly unconcerned about her late arrival. The others would have assumed it was because she had been performing other duties.
Which she had been: clearing Mycroft’s schedule for his unrequested day off.
So when the Prime Minister had mentioned he had to leave at the four hour mark for a Customs and Excise meeting and asked whether Mycroft was also attending...well, he was merely a simple bureaucrat whose presence was being requested by the head of the government so of course he would attend.
Arum’s revenge was swift and subtle.
Mycroft’s one regular indulgence with his eating regime was bread. He hated whole grain, preferring fresh crusty white rolls, steaming Turkish breads and flavoursome sourdoughs. So naturally the lunch delivered to the meeting arrived with an introductory corollary about the new government health initiatives that were being implemented, including salad instead of roast vegetables, lean chicken instead of lamb roast with gravy, and, relevant to this particular lunch, wholemeal bread sandwiches and bran muffins instead of white bread and pastries, all perfectly nutritionally balanced for the lone female, and obviously pregnant, member of the meeting.... well Mycroft only wished Sherlock was half as understated and effective. The things they could do...
He was a fair Dominant. He could admire her efforts even while planning three different ways even she could disappear. He was allowed to dream, and while chocking down the sandwiches and his water, she had served everyone else tea or coffee and it wasn’t worth the even miniscule negative impression to correct her (which she knew), oh he could dream!
By the time the meeting, and honestly to call it such was laughable, finally ended Mycroft could vaguely empathise with Sherlock’s fondness for John’s fire arm during periods of extreme boredom. Only he wasn’t sure he would have been going to aim at the wall.
Arum had coolly informed him his four o’clock meeting with the head of the French Secret Service, unofficial of course (both the meeting and the position) was still on. Obviously, Mycroft had thought, this was one she hadn’t managed to cancel before discovering him. Good, the day wouldn’t be a total waste and he might get some real work done despite everything to the contrary.
He had allowed a tight smirk in light of this victory, which was quickly derailed as they passed Q in the corridor who had grasped Mycroft’s hand and offered his sincere condolences; it truly was too awful, wasn’t it, and of course everyone understood why he’d taken the next four days leave, and not to worry, they’d handle everything. Really, it was a testament to Mycroft’s dedication he’d come in that day, even for such important meetings, but naturally after such a tragic event...
In fact, Mycroft should take longer. Four days was hardly enough time to organise things and to reconnect with family at such an important and moving time. Yes, he’d let everyone know Mycroft would be completely unavailable and uncontactable for anything and may take further time. Really, everyone understood, and Q wished him and his all the best.
Mycroft hadn’t been able to prevent himself clenching his jaw through Q’s enthusiastic spiel, which was unfortunately taken by Q as further evidence of Mycroft’s distress. Distress over what Mycroft wasn’t quite sure, but he had grimaced through the little speech knowing he’d find out eventually. Q finally continued walking, a last firm handshake and another enthusiastic round of condolences, and Mycroft had turned to Arum, not bothering to hide his fury.
“Explain.” He had hissed through clenched teeth, drawing himself instinctively to his full icy height.
Arum had merely met his eye and tilted her head the slightest bit left and down, acknowledging his Dominance without conceding her position.
“Your request for leave due to family circumstances was approved. It was necessary to inform Q and your other conflicting engagements of this change of events.” She couldn’t quite hide the smile in her voice. “Q being such an inveterate gossip I’m sure the message will have been passed onto all relevant people within MI6, and probably most of the other offices and associated Government organisations as well soon, so you can be assured of leave with absolutely no interruptions. Sir.”
“And what,” Mycroft’s voice had trembled slightly with the force of his anger as he attempted to keep his voice to an acceptable volume, “did you tell them?”
“That due to an unforeseen set of circumstances you were required to take four days personal leave for your family.” Her hair had been twirled into an elaborate French twist, otherwise Mycroft was sure that she would have tossed it back over her shoulder with that pronouncement.
It was a clever line - entirely true, utterly un-sinister, and yet given Mycroft’s work ethic and history of never taking a sick day, every high ranked official who had received her notice would be providing their own imaginative and undoubtedly tragic spin.
Now, in the secluded world of his kitchen, Mycroft could acknowledge the masterful stroke that it was. The rumours would fly wild and extreme, and even if on the unlikely far-fetched chance anyone did hit on the correct explanation for his leave, the theory would be denounced as another example of crazy hearsay. She had obviously discovered his presence much earlier than he’d realised and organised this method of forcing his removal from the office in enough time to arrive at the meeting within his calculated period of discovery. She had even distracted him with a skilfully executed diversionary move, relaxing his guard while her scheme brewed to fruition.
He’d become complacent and underestimated her. It would not happen again.
At the time, however, Mycroft’s mind had latched onto two words and two words only, blocking out the rest of the world. “Four days.”
“I am sorry Sir. I would have arranged longer for you, but you have the meeting with the Prime Minister of Japan and his trip to England has been scheduled for months. Everything else has been rearranged as required.” She hadn’t said requested, but anyone who overheard that statement would instantly assume Mycroft had required this reorganisation and was demanding more, not less, time.
Mycroft had begun running through his mental list of meetings and plans over the next four days to work out exactly what might be compromised: Q for technology update, security briefing, security briefing, budget meeting, meeting with possible future Prime Ministerial candidate, security briefing, the Queen-
She had not cancelled his meeting with the Queen.
“Her Majesty has sent her condolences and best wishes. She will be available at your convenience upon your return. Harry will confirm the exact date with you soon.”
At that moment, Mycroft had honestly felt he could have hurt her, have turned his full Dominance on her and driven her to her knees right there in the public corridor. Until then her actions had been somewhat endearing, a kitten playing in Lion’s territory, but now she had interfered with very important matters. One did not simply reschedule the Queen of England, especially when one had no wish to do so.
She knew. She had known every thought that crossed his mind, known that should he choose he could have Dominated her through pain she had never imagined before whether she wanted it or not, and yet she had stood in front of him defiant and unrepentant.
As angry as he’d been with her, in that split second he had never cared for her more as she showed all her hidden depths. The thought of what the predator in him might have been tempted to do if she had showed any weakness was... terrifying.
There were few people on this Earth who would dare defy him. It was strangely comforting to know he had one of them so close.
They had stayed there, a frozen tableau, while Mycroft wrestled instinct and emotion into its proper box and firmly closed the lid. Years and years of discipline would not be thrown away, let alone in public. She had waited until he was done, firmly, though reluctantly, in control of himself.
“Four days, Sir.” She didn’t need to continue.
Four days. Only four days. It wasn’t that long away from work. It wasn’t that long to be forced to sit idle. It wasn’t that long in which to investigate and adapt to his circumstances, whatever they may be.
He had not replied, but had walked in brisk steps towards his next meeting, only five minutes late. She had not followed him, but when he entered his office for the first time all day, his briefcase was ready and waiting and she was noticeably absent.
So now he sat here, at the table, listening to the minute sounds that whispered through the house. There was traffic from outside, the occasional bird singing, a dog barking at a passer-by, all mingling with the distant clatter as Mrs Potts, the housekeeper, performed her latest inspection before returning to the Estate.
Mrs Potts was an institution in the Holmes family. She’d been Housekeeper for the Holmes Estate for as long as Mycroft could remember, and through all those years had looked the same: grey haired, round, and cheery. He could remember asking as a very young child, before Sherlock was born, why she was the housekeeper if her name was Mrs Potts. Surely she should have been the cook? She had smiled and stroked his hair, a gesture that had always been allowed from her though never anyone else, and told him that she was married to Mr Potts, the Beta Dominant gardener, and that’s why she was Mrs Potts. Mycroft had thought, decided that Potts was a satisfactory name for a gardener, and accepted her role in the household without further question. It was appropriate after all to his young mind that the housekeeper be married to the gardener.
He’d had nannies, of course he’d had nannies, and minders and by the time he was thirteen he’d had a valet, admittedly one he’d had to share with Sherlock, but he always gone to Mrs Potts when he actually needed something - a band aid because Sherlock’s experiment had gone wrong, a midnight snack because he was hungry and scared of Cook, a pat on the head because Mummy and Daddy were busy and Father was gone and he’d just achieved the best result in the year again on a test. Mrs Potts just was: a childhood relic that seemed more at home in fairy tales than real life.
Because she just was, she’d followed him down to London. Oh not permanently. She came down twice a week on the train, he’d offered a driver after she insisted on making the trip and was continually refused, because she had to make sure her boys were living properly. She no longer checked in on Sherlock, satisfied that Martha Hudson had him well in hand, though she routinely joined Mrs Hudson for scones and a gossip about the youngest Holmes and other topics, but she was still here, twice a week, doing his cleaning since he had failed to settle down to her satisfaction. There was never too much to do, a deliberate move on Mycroft’s behalf in deference to her age. He’d suggested retirement once, only once, and her response had been that she would retire when a suitable replacement had been trained.
So far a ‘suitable replacement’ hadn’t even been found, let alone begun what would undoubtedly be an extensive training period.
Mycroft took a sip of his tea and grimaced. Camomile tea. He would have preferred Earl Grey or English Breakfast, but apparently Arum’s unrepentant rampage through his life had included his kitchen. It was now stocked with a variety of herbal and green teas and no conventional caffeinated tea or coffee. The alcohol cabinet had also acquired a lock, something which had never existed before and obviously more of a suggestion than an order as Arum was well aware Mycroft was capable of using lock picks, he had taught Sherlock as a child, and if she’d truly thought she needed to prevent him drinking she would have ordered the alcohol removed from the premises. All in all, meaningless gestures, but gestures with a very strong implication Mycroft chose to ignore.
He took another sip of the tea. He wouldn’t have had it at all, if he’d had his own way. A glass of juice would have been more than sufficient as his morning beverage and could easily replace tea until he organised for more to be procured, but he’d made the mistake of remaining abed longer than he ought to have, knowing he didn’t have to, couldn’t, go into the office, and the sight of him in his pyjamas had sent Mrs Potts into Fuss Mode, resulting in a Full English breakfast being prepared despite his protestations. The smell of the eggs had sent him running, gagging for the bathroom, and when he returned plain toast and the tea was waiting for him with a stern evaluating eye.
She didn’t say anything, but Mycroft suspected that even if one of his preferred teas had been available he would have only been given the herbal variety anyway. Certainly Mrs Potts had then rampaged through his kitchen in the manner only a privileged family Submissive could and had disposed of anything Arum had missed that she no longer deemed ...appropriate for his diet.
Mycroft half wondered whether she had been talking to Arum, but then Mrs Potts had always been one of those old ladies who knew. She didn’t deduce, she just knew.
The silk of his scarlet pyjama pants whispered across his skin as he shuffled his slippered feet. One finger idly stroked the black silk of the dressing gown near his elbow, a habit he only indulged in when alone and even then rarely. He did not deny he was a sensualist, his clothing was of the highest quality, his sheets were silk or impossibly high thread count cotton, and he savoured every bite of food for its texture as much as its taste, but it would never do to show the world that weakness through distinctive wear patterns.
He was Mycroft Holmes. He did not have weaknesses. He did not make mistakes.
He ignored the slim white object next to his tea cup that suggested otherwise.
He remained where he was, absently stroking his dressing gown and staring at the wall, through the sounds of scraping at the front door and Mrs Potts throwing it open to confront the poor fool attempting to pick the lock in broad daylight. Her voice rose in a melodic and fervent scolding, growing closer as they progressed down the passage way.
He hadn’t expected Sherlock for half an hour, but at least his brother had deigned to come at all.
Sherlock was released at the doorway with a parting admonishment regarding doorbells, a hug, and a warning to pass on her best wishes to Martha Hudson or else. With a cheery smile Mrs Potts informed them both that she was going to pop down the store for some supplies, Mycroft grimaced, and she’d make them some lunch when she got back.
Mycroft didn’t bother to request tea or coffee. The pointed glance at his plate and the accompanying maternal eyebrow suggested until he could prove they were otherwise acceptable foodstuffs, he wasn’t getting either. He nonchalantly took a bite of toast as Sherlock dropped into the chair opposite, gangly limbs flying everywhere.
It was one of life’s great mysteries how Sherlock could be both incredibly elegant and at the same time resemble a teenager who hadn’t yet grown into his body. Every movement was precise and graceful, but the overall effect still resembled a sprawling heap of body and limbs.
Sherlock eyed the kitchen, observing all the little details only another Holmes would notice as he pulled his gloves off and deposited them on the table. His scarf joined them, the black collar gleaming dully around his neck. The silver Omega embellishment had been recently cleaned, Mycroft noticed absently, and the leather freshly oiled and buffed. The relationship was still going well then.
That was good. Being Bonded no more guaranteed a successful relationship than anything else, and despite John Watson being a good Alpha, things could still go wrong with far more disastrous results than the collapse of a normal relationship, because when something went wrong in a Bonded relationship, there was no exit strategy left. If there was anything that could go wrong, Sherlock’s self-destructive tendencies would almost guarantee it would.
Mycroft did worry so about him.
Finally finished with his sweep, Sherlock turned to regard his brother with his grey-blue eyes. “She was quite thorough in her clean out.”
Mycroft wasn’t sure which she Sherlock was referring to, Arum or Mrs Potts. He would never let Sherlock know this though.
“She felt it necessary.”
“I’m sure they both did.”
There was silence while Mycroft sipped his tea and attempted not to grimace. Fetching something else to drink felt like surrender, but it was awful. Sherlock’s eyes flickered from Mycroft’s face to the tea cup, and back to his face. Mycroft wondered what he was reading from the situation.
“I apologise for not responding last night. I was... unavailable.” Sherlock looked away out the window.
Unavailable could mean so many things. Sherlock could have been on a case, he could have been tied up at John’s enthusiastic mercy, he could have been deep in the throes of ennui. Mycroft didn’t like the fact he didn’t know which it was. He was so used to knowing, and Sherlock always made it hard to deduce.
“This morning is more convenient.”
Last night Mycroft had wanted Sherlock’s attention right then as he struggled to cope, to the point of bowing to his brother’s preference for text communication over calls, but then last night Mycroft had been more emotional than he was fond of admitting and it was fortuitous Sherlock had been otherwise occupied. He wasn’t sure if he really would have wanted anyone, even, or perhaps especially, his brother to see him in such a state.
“I’m sure.”
Mycroft wasn’t certain what to make of that response. Certainly Sherlock was limiting his visual cues with tightly controlled body language. It wasn’t a purposeful behaviour, Sherlock was unlikely to be hiding anything from him at that time, but growing up with each other they both instinctively controlled their non-verbal communications to a more precise degree than most politicians or actors. It had served Mycroft well in government and Sherlock undercover, but it did make conversations between them more tense and reserved. It was hard to be open with your words when the person across from you was so rigidly blank with their body.
He took a sip of tea and allowed the silence to fall, almost wishing the tick of the old fashioned grandfather clock could be heard from here. There was nothing unusual about the conversation so far, but Mycroft was already feeling disquieted. This was not a topic he had ever wanted to have to discuss after all.
“Would it be easier if I ask?” Sherlock almost sounded bored. “Or I can deduce for you. I have recently been made aware that this is occasionally a favoured means of having these conversations.”
“These conversations?” Mycroft inquired politely.
“The awkward ones.”
“Ah. Indeed.”
It was an opening. If nothing else it was an opportunity to enquire into Sherlock’s life and exactly when he had been in such a situation, Sherlock hardly being most people’s choice of conversation partner for said troublesome discussions. Instead Mycroft took a sip of his tea. Now that Sherlock was here, he found he was reluctant to broach the subject and make it real.
Sherlock sighed. It was over the top, exaggerated, and completely his brother.
“Fine.” Sherlock swung around to face Mycroft straight on, no more slumping sideways. It was always unnerving to have Sherlock’s full attention, even if you were Mycroft Holmes, and Sherlock never failed to use that when he felt the need. “I’ll ask then. Tell me about Lestrade and the fact you slept together.”
Mycroft started. Well of course Sherlock would have worked it out, Gregory would hardly have been able to hide his end of the affair, but that didn’t necessarily mean that he was the one who... maybe there had been some trace of him on Gregory when Sherlock had-
“Please, Mycroft. Do occasionally consider the obvious.”
“The obvious?”
Sherlock smirked. “Greg told me.”
There was a sharp crunch that drew both their eyes downward to where Mycroft’s fingers had tightened around the delicate, and no longer attached, handle on his tea cup.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Interesting. Was it that he told me or that I called him Greg?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Mycroft calmly stood and poured his tea down the sink to cover the fact that he did honestly have no idea why he had reacted that way.
He returned to the table in two forceful, but reluctant strides, every move documented by Sherlock’s questing eyes. Surprisingly his brother chose not to say anything as Mycroft settled himself back at the table. In fact, he continued to not say anything as Mycroft fussed with his dressing gown and retied the belt, and still not to say anything as Mycroft straightened and faced him, tilting his chin to look down his nose imperiously at Sherlock.
“There is nothing to discuss regarding Detective Inspector Lestrade.”
“Really.” Sherlock drawled. “Because that’s not the impression I got from Greg.”
Mycroft refused to react, having already inadvertently succumbed to Sherlock’s pointed strikes once. “I am surprised the Detective Inspector was open to discussions on the subject.”
Sherlock leant back in his chain, fingers steepling under his chin as he prepared his next move. “For a significant portion of time he wasn’t, but the physical evidence was still... sufficient for those not blind idiots to determine events. Recently he has been quite enthusiastic in volunteering information.”
“Indeed.”
There certainly had been plenty of physical traces of their time. Mycroft’s memory of the weekend may have been hazy thanks to the hormones his body had been swamping him with, but he could remember the feel of the riding crop in his hand as it impacted with Gregory’s buttocks and the glorious sight he had presented, skin flushed and cross crossed with warm red lines.
He clenched his jaw, reminding himself that even if these were the physical traces Sherlock had seen, he had seen them in an entirely innocent context because Sherlock was Bonded and would never, ever cheat on John.
Not that it mattered. Gregory was free to sleep and play with whomever he wished.
In fact he should.
And soon.
Repeatedly.
So that both of them could move on.
Sherlock’s lip twitched and Mycroft wondered exactly what tell the detective was using to follow his thought pattern. Unfortunately each of them knew each other so well the smallest slip was easily pulled apart for details, and if forced Mycroft would have had to concede that he was still more than slightly emotionally compromised, making it more challenging to maintain the carefully crafted exterior he normally chose to present.
Being brothers those details were almost incontrovertibly utilised to pressure weak points and exploit insecurities.
Mycroft knew Sherlock loved him, but was also well aware that his younger brother had never forgiven him for being what he never could be, had never managed to overcome the resentment that had sprung up between them when Sherlock hit his teenage years and puberty as a Submissive. Sherlock could, and would, use every piece of evidence against Mycroft.
“So Mycroft, which was it, the fact that Greg told me about your little Heat, or the fact that your friend Greg came to me to talk about something not you?” There was a strong mocking emphasis on the word friend, as if Sherlock were aware that maybe things weren’t so simple between the two of them anymore.
“I will not get involved in your childish contest, Sherlock. The Detective Inspector is not a toy, and this is not kindergarten. I will not fight over him.” Mycroft took a small bite of his very cold toast, and then walked calmly to the fridge for juice. There was no way he would give Sherlock the satisfaction of seeing him tense every time his brother uncharacteristically used Gregory’s given name.
“Indeed?”
“Indeed.” Mycroft knew his voice was slightly tighter than normal, but all this talk of Gregory was playing havoc with his mind. He was still unsettled after the... incident on Thursday night.
“Alright then.” Sherlock smiled from behind his fingers as Mycroft returned to his seat with two glasses of water. “So if we’re not going to talk about Gregory,” he made sure to draw out every syllable of the name, “what am I here to talk about?”
Mycroft took a breath, then took a drink of water. He absolutely did not fiddle with the glass of water.
Sherlock gave an annoyed huff. “Mycroft, I am here because you requested my presence. I assure you I had better things to be doing this morning and as several of my experiments are time sensitive I do not have an unlimited supply of-”
“I’m pregnant.” Sherlock’s mouth closed with a snap. “But then surely,” Mycroft continued, built up anxiety translating to a distinctive sneer, “you could have deduced that from the obvious, or were you trying not to see?”
Sherlock broke eye contact first, swallowing heavily. He had suspected then, but hadn’t wanted to acknowledge the evidence. Mycroft had wondered whether he’d noticed the test Arum had retrieved from the bin and packed in his briefcase on the table between them, now hidden from Sherlock’s view by his scarf, or whether his deduction had been based on the tea and Mycroft’s minute weight gain alone. It would have been just like his brother to look past something in such plain view in favour of more diminutive clues. Especially when it wasn’t something he wanted to see. Sometimes he could be so unobservant.
“Lestrade’s?”
Back to surname basis, Mcyroft noted. Sherlock was serious now.
“Of course.”
“He doesn’t know.”
“Don’t be absurd, of course he doesn’t.” Mycroft took a sip of his water.
“I am well aware that he is not informed of the situation, Mycroft.” There was a pause. “How long have you known? Oh, of course. Last night. That’s why you texted me.”
“Yes.” There was no point denying it.
“I suppose that explains your unusual attire at this hour. Been forcibly removed from the office have we?”
Sherlock hadn’t looked back his way, choosing to keep his gaze somewhere around the bottom of the cabinets. Mycroft was appreciative of this as his own gaze was fused to the table beyond his water glass. His inability to focus elsewhere felt less involuntary when he wasn’t required to meet his brother’s gaze.
“I have taken several days leave.”
Sherlock snorted. “She kicked you out, didn’t she? Good.”
Mycroft declined to answer and they sat there for several long minutes in silence.
“Have you seen Lestrade lately?” Sherlock’s fingers danced idly over the edge of the table and eventually settled for twining through the ends of his scarf like a cat.
“Naturally. Last Thursday we had dinner together. You are aware of our custom, I believe.”
“Not this week then.”
“No, he was unavailable due to a meeting at New Scotland Yard.”
“Is that so? You may wish to wait until after three this afternoon to call him. It is highly unlikely he will be able to answer before then.”
Mycroft chose not to correct to Sherlock’s rather erroneous assumption. “Yes, I imagine he’s busy working.”
Sherlock’s fingers paused briefly in their movements before withdrawing from their occupation. “No, he’s not.”
How unusual. Gregory was as dedicated to his profession as Mycroft was to his.
A weight settled on Mycroft’s forehead and he slowly lifted his gaze to meet Sherlock’s considering regard.
“Yes?” He asked politely, re-crossing his legs and the knee and settling casually back in his chair. The rustling sweep of material was less enjoyable in the circumstances than it might have been.
“You’re very calm about your relationship with him.” Sherlock’s voice was questioning even if his statement was not.
“There is nothing to be emotional about. Gregory and I have reached an understanding.”
“An understanding?” Sherlock leant forward onto his elbows. “Mycroft, he’s falling to pieces.”
“Nonsense. There are some lingering issues I admit, but he is well on the path to overcoming these emotional deficiencies.”
Most people wouldn’t be able to tell the facial expression currently adorning Sherlock’s visage was complete shock. Mycroft wondered whether John could or whether this was still an ability unique to him alone. He jealously hoped for the latter. He’d had to give enough of Sherlock to the world. This much of his little brother he could keep.
“Do you honestly believe that?” Sherlock was subdued.
“Of course. He was incredulous at my suggestion of potential partner, but I suspect it has never occurred to him to regard Sergeant Donovan in such a way so I am confident in time he will-”
“You told him that you were sleeping with your PA so he should sleep with the closest equivalent he has?”
Intriguing. Mycroft hadn’t considered the fact that Sally Donovan played a similar role in Gregory’s life to the one Arum played in his. Both were strong, female, Dominant seconds, more than competent in a variety of extreme situations. Indeed, the more challenging the respective environments the more the women seemed to thrive, and neither of them was particularly fond of Sherlock.
Many people weren’t particularly fond of Sherlock.
“She would be eminently suitable for him, once she dispenses with her extreme dislike of you.”
“He won’t do it.”
Clearly Sherlock knew nothing about the situation at hand. Gregory was slowly throwing off the shackles of Estrus induced emotion, was comfortably handling Mycroft’s own sexual liaisons, and with the slightest of on-going suggestions Mycroft was sure he would accept the idea in his own time.
“Gregory is handling the situation perfectly, Sherlock.”
“Gregory,” Sherlock mimicked, “is absolutely not handling the situation perfectly, Mycroft.”
“I assure you-”
“Mycroft, he’s one step away from being fired. He’s frequenting bars and shady clubs in order to attempt to pick up prostitutes to get over you. Attempting and failing, I might add. He’s barely sleeping, his diet consists mainly of the swill the Yard label coffee, and he’s emotionally unstable to the point of being one small step away from a mental breakdown.”
Mycroft carefully cleaned under a fingernail.
“He is not coping, Mycroft.” Sherlock’s voice was sharp.
“He will with time, Sherlock. I assure you his job is safe until such time as he recovers fully from this emotional lapse.”
“Emotional lapse.”
“Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock. You and I both learnt this lesson, perhaps it is time the Detective Inspector did too.”’
“You’re wrong.” Sherlock was quiet in his refusal. “We both were.”
Mycroft flicked his eyes up, but didn’t bother to move his head from his cocked position. “Oh I see. Bonded and now we’re all sentimental.”
Sherlock straightened imperceptivity, his hands curling into fists on the table. “I’m not ashamed to admit I care for John. Not anymore.”
“How sweet.” Mycroft turned dismissively back to his fingernail.
“Is it so hard for you to admit you might care?”
Mycroft resisted the urge to roll his eyes and pushed his shuddering heart aside. “Your insinuation is not unnoticed, little brother, but there is nothing to admit with reference to Gregory Lestrade and I will not reiterate my stance with respect of yourself.”
“You used to smile at him.”
“I smile a lot.” Mycroft smiled his politician’s smile at Sherlock, just to prove it.
“You were happy with him Mycroft.”
“I am a civil servant, Sherlock, I frequently enjoy the situations I find myself in, and if not, everyone believes I do anyway.”
“So you refuse to even consider a relationship with him?”
“Gregory and I are already in an established relationship, Sherlock. We are friends.”
“Friends don’t destroy their friends.”
“Are you suggesting I have destroyed Gregory? Because I assure you that is not scientifically possible, and of the two of us I would be the one to suffer political destruction, not him.”
“You’ve shredded his soul, Mycroft. At least feel a little guilty.” Sherlock spat the words at him over the table. John had been rubbing off on him, but then, Sherlock had always taken harm to the few people he cared about as personal attacks, even if he never admitted it.
Mycroft refused to feel the guilt that regularly surfaced at the thought of Gregory’s tired face and wane appearance. It would be resolved in time. Gregory would move on and things would be normal again.
Was that too much to ask for?
“You haven’t even talked to him about this, have you?”
No, of course not. The matter had been sufficiently clear. There was no need to dissect every detail as if they were gossiping Submissives.
“There is nothing to discuss.”
“I think he may decide otherwise when you call him. I believe the phrase is ‘game changer’.”
Mycroft splayed his hand in the air, and examined each nail, before looking up and firmly drawing their gazes together. “I will not be calling him.”
Point made, he returned to studying his hand, pale at the end of the black and red silks.
Sherlock started. “You need to call him.”
“There is no need.”
“This is his child too, Mycroft-”
“There is no need, Sherlock.” Mycroft turned his head to the side, eyes lingering on the sink and the broken china tea cup. “I have four days leave ,which should be a sufficient recovery period for-”
Mycroft jumped as Sherlock slammed his hands down on the table. He swung back to face his brother to find the Submissive on his feet, hunched over the table, arms and elbows trembling.
“You bastard.” Sherlock mumbled. “You total and utter bastard.” Slowly his eyes rose, frosty black surrounded by burning grey rings. “How dare you, how fucking dare you! You -”
“What? Rid myself of an undesired inconvenience incompatible with my lifestyle? Why wouldn’t I?”
“This is not all about you!”
“This is my choice.”
“It’s not only your choice.”
“It is my choice, no one else’s.”
“Lestrade-”
“Has nothing to do with my life.”
“Because you won’t let him! This is his child, Mycroft!”
“I am not destroying the work of generations for this parasite!”
The water glass flew past Mycroft’s left ear and shattered against the wall, raining water drops and crystal shards on the skirting board and floors.
“Sit Down!” Mycroft roared, deliberately surrounding his words with Dominant force.
Sherlock’s elbows trembled with the strain of disobeying, lip caught between clenched teeth. His head bowed with the effort, but not before Mycroft saw the slightest hint of crimson welling at the interface of teeth and skin.
“For God’s sake, Sherlock, stop being such a child and sit down.”
With a strangled yelp Sherlock collapsed into the chair. “Bastard.”
“This has to stop, Sherlock. You’re not a rebellious child anymore. You’re Bonded and need to accept your role and dynamic-”
“I need to accept! I need to accept! I’m not the one who fucking needs to accept, Mycroft!”
“You know your acting out only ever upset Mummy.”
“This is not about me! This is about you and your inability to accept yourself and what it’s doing to the people around you!”
Mycroft levelled a glare at Sherlock capable of spearing bugs to a wall. “I have accept-”
“No, you haven’t!” Sherlock leapt to his feet again, leaning forward over the table, obviously in order to give himself the greatest psychological advantage, a tactic which would not work on Mycroft. “You have never accepted it! You’ve ignored it, and that is not the same thing.”
“I am a Dominant, Sherlock.”
“And an Omega.”
“A characteristic which has had no influence on my life until this point.”
“Because you can’t handle it! Do you think I can’t remember, Mycroft? Do you honestly believe that I can’t remember you breaking down and crying yourself to sleep every night? I used to sneak into your room to comfort you, I know you haven’t accepted it!”
Anger spiked in Mycroft’s chest at the mention of those terrifying years after his very sense of self had been ripped away, where everything had gone from being perfect to him being ‘the problem child’ everyone regarded with long, guarded looks and spoke about in hushed tones.
“I am a Dominant!” He snarled.
“And you’ve excluded the thought of being anything else!” Sherlock snarled back. “Everything has to be about Dynamic with you. I’m a Dominant, I’m a Dominant, I’m a perfect fucking Dominant heir who’s going to rule the world because I’m Dominant and I can and there’s no room for anything else in my life!”
“There is nothing else, Sherlock. Everything else is meaningless.”
“No, it’s not, you’re just too fucking scared to try it. You’ve run terrified from the thought of being an Omega since you found out. You have pushed everyone away, you have never given anything a chance because you’re too scared to take a chance and your situation has allowed you to hide!”
“I am not scared!” Mycroft roared, surging to his feet.
“Yes, you are! You always have been! Every relationship you’ve ever had you’ve destroyed when there was any sort of possibility of it being meaningful! Because you’re a coward who can’t stand the thought of being hurt!”
“No one could know!” Mycroft slammed his own palm down on the table, squaring off with Sherlock across its narrow width.
“You never let anyone get close enough that was even a risk, and now you have someone who knows, someone who loves you, someone who is perfect for you, and you’re deliberately and purposefully destroying everything between you because you are petrified that you care!”
“I do not care about Gregory!”
“Yes, you fucking do!”
A sharp noise reverberated through the kitchen as Sherlock’s head swung to the side. Mycroft’s elbow collapsed, shoulder sluggishly lowering the arm back to his chest. Sherlock’s cheek was red, and Mycroft could feel a throbbing strip on the back of his hand where it had made contact with his cheekbone.
“Stop projecting your issues with your dynamic onto me.” He spat venomously, feeling disconnected from everything. He was speaking, but his mind was entirely in his hand, beating in time with every throb.
Slowly Sherlock’s head straightened and he raised his eyes to meet Mycroft’s. People’s eyes did not change colour with emotions, for all that they danced or shone with them, but Mycroft would have sworn in front of the highest court in the land that Sherlock’s eyes were completely, 100% black at that moment.
“Call Gregory.” He dropped his eyes and slowly and calmly started piling his scarf and gloves into his arms. He had never reached the point of removing his coat.
“Or what?” Mycroft spat at a loss. The situation was spiralling out of his control, and he didn’t know what to do to reassert his will over it.
Sherlock glanced up, eyes still unfathomably dark and empty. “Or I will.” He moved to the kitchen door in precise, controlled movements and paused without looking back. “By tonight, Mycroft.”
He walked out without another backwards glance, leaving Mycroft standing desperately alone and careening out of control in his kitchen.
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So yeah, 'Mexican stomach bug'....
Next chapter going up now!
Previous - Next
Title:Though I Walk through the Valley (6/38)Series: Still Waters (Run Deep) (Part II of IV)
Author: melody_in_time
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Through S1 only
Disclaimer: I wish, I wish upon a star... but until that works, not mine and sadly no money made.
Author's Notes: Evening All! So the general consensus seems to be that people want two chapters today. Not the worst combination you could have chosen for cliffhangers, though some of you may disagree. I don't think this chapter is going to make any of you like Mycroft any more than you already do, but give him a chance... not that he's earned it yet, but when he does let him have it.
I think you'll find this chapter less angsty? Probably more frustrating, but less angsty.
Warnings: all the discussions and attitudes usually found when someone doesn't want to be pregnant and is; dominance abuse;
If you've wondered here by mistake, you may wish to start at Part I of the series, Rarest of the Rare: Chapter 1.
Prologue - Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8 - Chapter 9 - Chapter 10
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Even on the weekend Mycroft Holmes did not sleep in.
Most commonly this was because he was at the office by nine; the late start to reflect that it was the weekend, but on the international stage the weekend was an artificial construct, having Thursday-Friday and Friday-Saturday variants in the Middle East alone for example, so somewhere in the world, even without the time zones, one of his counterparts was working, which meant Mycroft was too. That didn’t mean he didn’t have days off where he worked from his home office and reviewed his finances and the Estate’s figures - fully contactable on home phone, mobile phone, pager and email - or that he never went on holiday, most commonly extended weekends at the Family Estate to visit Mummy - contactable on mobile phone, pager and email - it just meant he was always awake, dressed and working, or preparing for work, in some capacity or another by eight o’clock.
So for Mycroft Holmes to be sitting at his kitchen table in pyjamas and a dressing gown determinably not staring at the wall after ten in the morning was, to say the least, a highly unusual state of affairs, even for a Saturday.
Of course, he wouldn’t be there at all if not for his traitorous PA.
In defiance of Arum’s order Mycroft had in fact turned up to work yesterday and had successfully avoided her for three hours by ensuring he was ensconced in high profile meetings, none of which had originally been on his schedule as they were of more face than substantive value. Mycroft found the posturing tedious so attended only as frequently as required to maintain his influence. This saved both his patience and the illusion of free reign; it would never be suitable for his role in affairs to become publically obvious.
He’d sat, interjecting only at the utmost need, while mentally recording details to be documented later. It was a challenging task, it had been quite some time since he’d had to mentally minute a meeting as well as keep a record of his own observations, but it would never do for him to be seen writing things down. The slim notebook that normally resided in his jacket pocket was a prop, not a true memory aid.
Arum had slipped into the meeting room at the three hour mark and sat elegantly in the seat next to him, as appropriate for a PA. As appropriate for his PA, her presence was accepted without a word despite no one else’s assistants being present.
Mycroft defiantly continued to minute the meeting and his own observations in his head, despite Arum beginning her own written record in impeccable shorthand. Not a single word, expression or flicker of muscle was anything less than perfectly implacable as she acted utterly unconcerned about her late arrival. The others would have assumed it was because she had been performing other duties.
Which she had been: clearing Mycroft’s schedule for his unrequested day off.
So when the Prime Minister had mentioned he had to leave at the four hour mark for a Customs and Excise meeting and asked whether Mycroft was also attending...well, he was merely a simple bureaucrat whose presence was being requested by the head of the government so of course he would attend.
Arum’s revenge was swift and subtle.
Mycroft’s one regular indulgence with his eating regime was bread. He hated whole grain, preferring fresh crusty white rolls, steaming Turkish breads and flavoursome sourdoughs. So naturally the lunch delivered to the meeting arrived with an introductory corollary about the new government health initiatives that were being implemented, including salad instead of roast vegetables, lean chicken instead of lamb roast with gravy, and, relevant to this particular lunch, wholemeal bread sandwiches and bran muffins instead of white bread and pastries, all perfectly nutritionally balanced for the lone female, and obviously pregnant, member of the meeting.... well Mycroft only wished Sherlock was half as understated and effective. The things they could do...
He was a fair Dominant. He could admire her efforts even while planning three different ways even she could disappear. He was allowed to dream, and while chocking down the sandwiches and his water, she had served everyone else tea or coffee and it wasn’t worth the even miniscule negative impression to correct her (which she knew), oh he could dream!
By the time the meeting, and honestly to call it such was laughable, finally ended Mycroft could vaguely empathise with Sherlock’s fondness for John’s fire arm during periods of extreme boredom. Only he wasn’t sure he would have been going to aim at the wall.
Arum had coolly informed him his four o’clock meeting with the head of the French Secret Service, unofficial of course (both the meeting and the position) was still on. Obviously, Mycroft had thought, this was one she hadn’t managed to cancel before discovering him. Good, the day wouldn’t be a total waste and he might get some real work done despite everything to the contrary.
He had allowed a tight smirk in light of this victory, which was quickly derailed as they passed Q in the corridor who had grasped Mycroft’s hand and offered his sincere condolences; it truly was too awful, wasn’t it, and of course everyone understood why he’d taken the next four days leave, and not to worry, they’d handle everything. Really, it was a testament to Mycroft’s dedication he’d come in that day, even for such important meetings, but naturally after such a tragic event...
In fact, Mycroft should take longer. Four days was hardly enough time to organise things and to reconnect with family at such an important and moving time. Yes, he’d let everyone know Mycroft would be completely unavailable and uncontactable for anything and may take further time. Really, everyone understood, and Q wished him and his all the best.
Mycroft hadn’t been able to prevent himself clenching his jaw through Q’s enthusiastic spiel, which was unfortunately taken by Q as further evidence of Mycroft’s distress. Distress over what Mycroft wasn’t quite sure, but he had grimaced through the little speech knowing he’d find out eventually. Q finally continued walking, a last firm handshake and another enthusiastic round of condolences, and Mycroft had turned to Arum, not bothering to hide his fury.
“Explain.” He had hissed through clenched teeth, drawing himself instinctively to his full icy height.
Arum had merely met his eye and tilted her head the slightest bit left and down, acknowledging his Dominance without conceding her position.
“Your request for leave due to family circumstances was approved. It was necessary to inform Q and your other conflicting engagements of this change of events.” She couldn’t quite hide the smile in her voice. “Q being such an inveterate gossip I’m sure the message will have been passed onto all relevant people within MI6, and probably most of the other offices and associated Government organisations as well soon, so you can be assured of leave with absolutely no interruptions. Sir.”
“And what,” Mycroft’s voice had trembled slightly with the force of his anger as he attempted to keep his voice to an acceptable volume, “did you tell them?”
“That due to an unforeseen set of circumstances you were required to take four days personal leave for your family.” Her hair had been twirled into an elaborate French twist, otherwise Mycroft was sure that she would have tossed it back over her shoulder with that pronouncement.
It was a clever line - entirely true, utterly un-sinister, and yet given Mycroft’s work ethic and history of never taking a sick day, every high ranked official who had received her notice would be providing their own imaginative and undoubtedly tragic spin.
Now, in the secluded world of his kitchen, Mycroft could acknowledge the masterful stroke that it was. The rumours would fly wild and extreme, and even if on the unlikely far-fetched chance anyone did hit on the correct explanation for his leave, the theory would be denounced as another example of crazy hearsay. She had obviously discovered his presence much earlier than he’d realised and organised this method of forcing his removal from the office in enough time to arrive at the meeting within his calculated period of discovery. She had even distracted him with a skilfully executed diversionary move, relaxing his guard while her scheme brewed to fruition.
He’d become complacent and underestimated her. It would not happen again.
At the time, however, Mycroft’s mind had latched onto two words and two words only, blocking out the rest of the world. “Four days.”
“I am sorry Sir. I would have arranged longer for you, but you have the meeting with the Prime Minister of Japan and his trip to England has been scheduled for months. Everything else has been rearranged as required.” She hadn’t said requested, but anyone who overheard that statement would instantly assume Mycroft had required this reorganisation and was demanding more, not less, time.
Mycroft had begun running through his mental list of meetings and plans over the next four days to work out exactly what might be compromised: Q for technology update, security briefing, security briefing, budget meeting, meeting with possible future Prime Ministerial candidate, security briefing, the Queen-
She had not cancelled his meeting with the Queen.
“Her Majesty has sent her condolences and best wishes. She will be available at your convenience upon your return. Harry will confirm the exact date with you soon.”
At that moment, Mycroft had honestly felt he could have hurt her, have turned his full Dominance on her and driven her to her knees right there in the public corridor. Until then her actions had been somewhat endearing, a kitten playing in Lion’s territory, but now she had interfered with very important matters. One did not simply reschedule the Queen of England, especially when one had no wish to do so.
She knew. She had known every thought that crossed his mind, known that should he choose he could have Dominated her through pain she had never imagined before whether she wanted it or not, and yet she had stood in front of him defiant and unrepentant.
As angry as he’d been with her, in that split second he had never cared for her more as she showed all her hidden depths. The thought of what the predator in him might have been tempted to do if she had showed any weakness was... terrifying.
There were few people on this Earth who would dare defy him. It was strangely comforting to know he had one of them so close.
They had stayed there, a frozen tableau, while Mycroft wrestled instinct and emotion into its proper box and firmly closed the lid. Years and years of discipline would not be thrown away, let alone in public. She had waited until he was done, firmly, though reluctantly, in control of himself.
“Four days, Sir.” She didn’t need to continue.
Four days. Only four days. It wasn’t that long away from work. It wasn’t that long to be forced to sit idle. It wasn’t that long in which to investigate and adapt to his circumstances, whatever they may be.
He had not replied, but had walked in brisk steps towards his next meeting, only five minutes late. She had not followed him, but when he entered his office for the first time all day, his briefcase was ready and waiting and she was noticeably absent.
So now he sat here, at the table, listening to the minute sounds that whispered through the house. There was traffic from outside, the occasional bird singing, a dog barking at a passer-by, all mingling with the distant clatter as Mrs Potts, the housekeeper, performed her latest inspection before returning to the Estate.
Mrs Potts was an institution in the Holmes family. She’d been Housekeeper for the Holmes Estate for as long as Mycroft could remember, and through all those years had looked the same: grey haired, round, and cheery. He could remember asking as a very young child, before Sherlock was born, why she was the housekeeper if her name was Mrs Potts. Surely she should have been the cook? She had smiled and stroked his hair, a gesture that had always been allowed from her though never anyone else, and told him that she was married to Mr Potts, the Beta Dominant gardener, and that’s why she was Mrs Potts. Mycroft had thought, decided that Potts was a satisfactory name for a gardener, and accepted her role in the household without further question. It was appropriate after all to his young mind that the housekeeper be married to the gardener.
He’d had nannies, of course he’d had nannies, and minders and by the time he was thirteen he’d had a valet, admittedly one he’d had to share with Sherlock, but he always gone to Mrs Potts when he actually needed something - a band aid because Sherlock’s experiment had gone wrong, a midnight snack because he was hungry and scared of Cook, a pat on the head because Mummy and Daddy were busy and Father was gone and he’d just achieved the best result in the year again on a test. Mrs Potts just was: a childhood relic that seemed more at home in fairy tales than real life.
Because she just was, she’d followed him down to London. Oh not permanently. She came down twice a week on the train, he’d offered a driver after she insisted on making the trip and was continually refused, because she had to make sure her boys were living properly. She no longer checked in on Sherlock, satisfied that Martha Hudson had him well in hand, though she routinely joined Mrs Hudson for scones and a gossip about the youngest Holmes and other topics, but she was still here, twice a week, doing his cleaning since he had failed to settle down to her satisfaction. There was never too much to do, a deliberate move on Mycroft’s behalf in deference to her age. He’d suggested retirement once, only once, and her response had been that she would retire when a suitable replacement had been trained.
So far a ‘suitable replacement’ hadn’t even been found, let alone begun what would undoubtedly be an extensive training period.
Mycroft took a sip of his tea and grimaced. Camomile tea. He would have preferred Earl Grey or English Breakfast, but apparently Arum’s unrepentant rampage through his life had included his kitchen. It was now stocked with a variety of herbal and green teas and no conventional caffeinated tea or coffee. The alcohol cabinet had also acquired a lock, something which had never existed before and obviously more of a suggestion than an order as Arum was well aware Mycroft was capable of using lock picks, he had taught Sherlock as a child, and if she’d truly thought she needed to prevent him drinking she would have ordered the alcohol removed from the premises. All in all, meaningless gestures, but gestures with a very strong implication Mycroft chose to ignore.
He took another sip of the tea. He wouldn’t have had it at all, if he’d had his own way. A glass of juice would have been more than sufficient as his morning beverage and could easily replace tea until he organised for more to be procured, but he’d made the mistake of remaining abed longer than he ought to have, knowing he didn’t have to, couldn’t, go into the office, and the sight of him in his pyjamas had sent Mrs Potts into Fuss Mode, resulting in a Full English breakfast being prepared despite his protestations. The smell of the eggs had sent him running, gagging for the bathroom, and when he returned plain toast and the tea was waiting for him with a stern evaluating eye.
She didn’t say anything, but Mycroft suspected that even if one of his preferred teas had been available he would have only been given the herbal variety anyway. Certainly Mrs Potts had then rampaged through his kitchen in the manner only a privileged family Submissive could and had disposed of anything Arum had missed that she no longer deemed ...appropriate for his diet.
Mycroft half wondered whether she had been talking to Arum, but then Mrs Potts had always been one of those old ladies who knew. She didn’t deduce, she just knew.
The silk of his scarlet pyjama pants whispered across his skin as he shuffled his slippered feet. One finger idly stroked the black silk of the dressing gown near his elbow, a habit he only indulged in when alone and even then rarely. He did not deny he was a sensualist, his clothing was of the highest quality, his sheets were silk or impossibly high thread count cotton, and he savoured every bite of food for its texture as much as its taste, but it would never do to show the world that weakness through distinctive wear patterns.
He was Mycroft Holmes. He did not have weaknesses. He did not make mistakes.
He ignored the slim white object next to his tea cup that suggested otherwise.
He remained where he was, absently stroking his dressing gown and staring at the wall, through the sounds of scraping at the front door and Mrs Potts throwing it open to confront the poor fool attempting to pick the lock in broad daylight. Her voice rose in a melodic and fervent scolding, growing closer as they progressed down the passage way.
He hadn’t expected Sherlock for half an hour, but at least his brother had deigned to come at all.
Sherlock was released at the doorway with a parting admonishment regarding doorbells, a hug, and a warning to pass on her best wishes to Martha Hudson or else. With a cheery smile Mrs Potts informed them both that she was going to pop down the store for some supplies, Mycroft grimaced, and she’d make them some lunch when she got back.
Mycroft didn’t bother to request tea or coffee. The pointed glance at his plate and the accompanying maternal eyebrow suggested until he could prove they were otherwise acceptable foodstuffs, he wasn’t getting either. He nonchalantly took a bite of toast as Sherlock dropped into the chair opposite, gangly limbs flying everywhere.
It was one of life’s great mysteries how Sherlock could be both incredibly elegant and at the same time resemble a teenager who hadn’t yet grown into his body. Every movement was precise and graceful, but the overall effect still resembled a sprawling heap of body and limbs.
Sherlock eyed the kitchen, observing all the little details only another Holmes would notice as he pulled his gloves off and deposited them on the table. His scarf joined them, the black collar gleaming dully around his neck. The silver Omega embellishment had been recently cleaned, Mycroft noticed absently, and the leather freshly oiled and buffed. The relationship was still going well then.
That was good. Being Bonded no more guaranteed a successful relationship than anything else, and despite John Watson being a good Alpha, things could still go wrong with far more disastrous results than the collapse of a normal relationship, because when something went wrong in a Bonded relationship, there was no exit strategy left. If there was anything that could go wrong, Sherlock’s self-destructive tendencies would almost guarantee it would.
Mycroft did worry so about him.
Finally finished with his sweep, Sherlock turned to regard his brother with his grey-blue eyes. “She was quite thorough in her clean out.”
Mycroft wasn’t sure which she Sherlock was referring to, Arum or Mrs Potts. He would never let Sherlock know this though.
“She felt it necessary.”
“I’m sure they both did.”
There was silence while Mycroft sipped his tea and attempted not to grimace. Fetching something else to drink felt like surrender, but it was awful. Sherlock’s eyes flickered from Mycroft’s face to the tea cup, and back to his face. Mycroft wondered what he was reading from the situation.
“I apologise for not responding last night. I was... unavailable.” Sherlock looked away out the window.
Unavailable could mean so many things. Sherlock could have been on a case, he could have been tied up at John’s enthusiastic mercy, he could have been deep in the throes of ennui. Mycroft didn’t like the fact he didn’t know which it was. He was so used to knowing, and Sherlock always made it hard to deduce.
“This morning is more convenient.”
Last night Mycroft had wanted Sherlock’s attention right then as he struggled to cope, to the point of bowing to his brother’s preference for text communication over calls, but then last night Mycroft had been more emotional than he was fond of admitting and it was fortuitous Sherlock had been otherwise occupied. He wasn’t sure if he really would have wanted anyone, even, or perhaps especially, his brother to see him in such a state.
“I’m sure.”
Mycroft wasn’t certain what to make of that response. Certainly Sherlock was limiting his visual cues with tightly controlled body language. It wasn’t a purposeful behaviour, Sherlock was unlikely to be hiding anything from him at that time, but growing up with each other they both instinctively controlled their non-verbal communications to a more precise degree than most politicians or actors. It had served Mycroft well in government and Sherlock undercover, but it did make conversations between them more tense and reserved. It was hard to be open with your words when the person across from you was so rigidly blank with their body.
He took a sip of tea and allowed the silence to fall, almost wishing the tick of the old fashioned grandfather clock could be heard from here. There was nothing unusual about the conversation so far, but Mycroft was already feeling disquieted. This was not a topic he had ever wanted to have to discuss after all.
“Would it be easier if I ask?” Sherlock almost sounded bored. “Or I can deduce for you. I have recently been made aware that this is occasionally a favoured means of having these conversations.”
“These conversations?” Mycroft inquired politely.
“The awkward ones.”
“Ah. Indeed.”
It was an opening. If nothing else it was an opportunity to enquire into Sherlock’s life and exactly when he had been in such a situation, Sherlock hardly being most people’s choice of conversation partner for said troublesome discussions. Instead Mycroft took a sip of his tea. Now that Sherlock was here, he found he was reluctant to broach the subject and make it real.
Sherlock sighed. It was over the top, exaggerated, and completely his brother.
“Fine.” Sherlock swung around to face Mycroft straight on, no more slumping sideways. It was always unnerving to have Sherlock’s full attention, even if you were Mycroft Holmes, and Sherlock never failed to use that when he felt the need. “I’ll ask then. Tell me about Lestrade and the fact you slept together.”
Mycroft started. Well of course Sherlock would have worked it out, Gregory would hardly have been able to hide his end of the affair, but that didn’t necessarily mean that he was the one who... maybe there had been some trace of him on Gregory when Sherlock had-
“Please, Mycroft. Do occasionally consider the obvious.”
“The obvious?”
Sherlock smirked. “Greg told me.”
There was a sharp crunch that drew both their eyes downward to where Mycroft’s fingers had tightened around the delicate, and no longer attached, handle on his tea cup.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Interesting. Was it that he told me or that I called him Greg?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Mycroft calmly stood and poured his tea down the sink to cover the fact that he did honestly have no idea why he had reacted that way.
He returned to the table in two forceful, but reluctant strides, every move documented by Sherlock’s questing eyes. Surprisingly his brother chose not to say anything as Mycroft settled himself back at the table. In fact, he continued to not say anything as Mycroft fussed with his dressing gown and retied the belt, and still not to say anything as Mycroft straightened and faced him, tilting his chin to look down his nose imperiously at Sherlock.
“There is nothing to discuss regarding Detective Inspector Lestrade.”
“Really.” Sherlock drawled. “Because that’s not the impression I got from Greg.”
Mycroft refused to react, having already inadvertently succumbed to Sherlock’s pointed strikes once. “I am surprised the Detective Inspector was open to discussions on the subject.”
Sherlock leant back in his chain, fingers steepling under his chin as he prepared his next move. “For a significant portion of time he wasn’t, but the physical evidence was still... sufficient for those not blind idiots to determine events. Recently he has been quite enthusiastic in volunteering information.”
“Indeed.”
There certainly had been plenty of physical traces of their time. Mycroft’s memory of the weekend may have been hazy thanks to the hormones his body had been swamping him with, but he could remember the feel of the riding crop in his hand as it impacted with Gregory’s buttocks and the glorious sight he had presented, skin flushed and cross crossed with warm red lines.
He clenched his jaw, reminding himself that even if these were the physical traces Sherlock had seen, he had seen them in an entirely innocent context because Sherlock was Bonded and would never, ever cheat on John.
Not that it mattered. Gregory was free to sleep and play with whomever he wished.
In fact he should.
And soon.
Repeatedly.
So that both of them could move on.
Sherlock’s lip twitched and Mycroft wondered exactly what tell the detective was using to follow his thought pattern. Unfortunately each of them knew each other so well the smallest slip was easily pulled apart for details, and if forced Mycroft would have had to concede that he was still more than slightly emotionally compromised, making it more challenging to maintain the carefully crafted exterior he normally chose to present.
Being brothers those details were almost incontrovertibly utilised to pressure weak points and exploit insecurities.
Mycroft knew Sherlock loved him, but was also well aware that his younger brother had never forgiven him for being what he never could be, had never managed to overcome the resentment that had sprung up between them when Sherlock hit his teenage years and puberty as a Submissive. Sherlock could, and would, use every piece of evidence against Mycroft.
“So Mycroft, which was it, the fact that Greg told me about your little Heat, or the fact that your friend Greg came to me to talk about something not you?” There was a strong mocking emphasis on the word friend, as if Sherlock were aware that maybe things weren’t so simple between the two of them anymore.
“I will not get involved in your childish contest, Sherlock. The Detective Inspector is not a toy, and this is not kindergarten. I will not fight over him.” Mycroft took a small bite of his very cold toast, and then walked calmly to the fridge for juice. There was no way he would give Sherlock the satisfaction of seeing him tense every time his brother uncharacteristically used Gregory’s given name.
“Indeed?”
“Indeed.” Mycroft knew his voice was slightly tighter than normal, but all this talk of Gregory was playing havoc with his mind. He was still unsettled after the... incident on Thursday night.
“Alright then.” Sherlock smiled from behind his fingers as Mycroft returned to his seat with two glasses of water. “So if we’re not going to talk about Gregory,” he made sure to draw out every syllable of the name, “what am I here to talk about?”
Mycroft took a breath, then took a drink of water. He absolutely did not fiddle with the glass of water.
Sherlock gave an annoyed huff. “Mycroft, I am here because you requested my presence. I assure you I had better things to be doing this morning and as several of my experiments are time sensitive I do not have an unlimited supply of-”
“I’m pregnant.” Sherlock’s mouth closed with a snap. “But then surely,” Mycroft continued, built up anxiety translating to a distinctive sneer, “you could have deduced that from the obvious, or were you trying not to see?”
Sherlock broke eye contact first, swallowing heavily. He had suspected then, but hadn’t wanted to acknowledge the evidence. Mycroft had wondered whether he’d noticed the test Arum had retrieved from the bin and packed in his briefcase on the table between them, now hidden from Sherlock’s view by his scarf, or whether his deduction had been based on the tea and Mycroft’s minute weight gain alone. It would have been just like his brother to look past something in such plain view in favour of more diminutive clues. Especially when it wasn’t something he wanted to see. Sometimes he could be so unobservant.
“Lestrade’s?”
Back to surname basis, Mcyroft noted. Sherlock was serious now.
“Of course.”
“He doesn’t know.”
“Don’t be absurd, of course he doesn’t.” Mycroft took a sip of his water.
“I am well aware that he is not informed of the situation, Mycroft.” There was a pause. “How long have you known? Oh, of course. Last night. That’s why you texted me.”
“Yes.” There was no point denying it.
“I suppose that explains your unusual attire at this hour. Been forcibly removed from the office have we?”
Sherlock hadn’t looked back his way, choosing to keep his gaze somewhere around the bottom of the cabinets. Mycroft was appreciative of this as his own gaze was fused to the table beyond his water glass. His inability to focus elsewhere felt less involuntary when he wasn’t required to meet his brother’s gaze.
“I have taken several days leave.”
Sherlock snorted. “She kicked you out, didn’t she? Good.”
Mycroft declined to answer and they sat there for several long minutes in silence.
“Have you seen Lestrade lately?” Sherlock’s fingers danced idly over the edge of the table and eventually settled for twining through the ends of his scarf like a cat.
“Naturally. Last Thursday we had dinner together. You are aware of our custom, I believe.”
“Not this week then.”
“No, he was unavailable due to a meeting at New Scotland Yard.”
“Is that so? You may wish to wait until after three this afternoon to call him. It is highly unlikely he will be able to answer before then.”
Mycroft chose not to correct to Sherlock’s rather erroneous assumption. “Yes, I imagine he’s busy working.”
Sherlock’s fingers paused briefly in their movements before withdrawing from their occupation. “No, he’s not.”
How unusual. Gregory was as dedicated to his profession as Mycroft was to his.
A weight settled on Mycroft’s forehead and he slowly lifted his gaze to meet Sherlock’s considering regard.
“Yes?” He asked politely, re-crossing his legs and the knee and settling casually back in his chair. The rustling sweep of material was less enjoyable in the circumstances than it might have been.
“You’re very calm about your relationship with him.” Sherlock’s voice was questioning even if his statement was not.
“There is nothing to be emotional about. Gregory and I have reached an understanding.”
“An understanding?” Sherlock leant forward onto his elbows. “Mycroft, he’s falling to pieces.”
“Nonsense. There are some lingering issues I admit, but he is well on the path to overcoming these emotional deficiencies.”
Most people wouldn’t be able to tell the facial expression currently adorning Sherlock’s visage was complete shock. Mycroft wondered whether John could or whether this was still an ability unique to him alone. He jealously hoped for the latter. He’d had to give enough of Sherlock to the world. This much of his little brother he could keep.
“Do you honestly believe that?” Sherlock was subdued.
“Of course. He was incredulous at my suggestion of potential partner, but I suspect it has never occurred to him to regard Sergeant Donovan in such a way so I am confident in time he will-”
“You told him that you were sleeping with your PA so he should sleep with the closest equivalent he has?”
Intriguing. Mycroft hadn’t considered the fact that Sally Donovan played a similar role in Gregory’s life to the one Arum played in his. Both were strong, female, Dominant seconds, more than competent in a variety of extreme situations. Indeed, the more challenging the respective environments the more the women seemed to thrive, and neither of them was particularly fond of Sherlock.
Many people weren’t particularly fond of Sherlock.
“She would be eminently suitable for him, once she dispenses with her extreme dislike of you.”
“He won’t do it.”
Clearly Sherlock knew nothing about the situation at hand. Gregory was slowly throwing off the shackles of Estrus induced emotion, was comfortably handling Mycroft’s own sexual liaisons, and with the slightest of on-going suggestions Mycroft was sure he would accept the idea in his own time.
“Gregory is handling the situation perfectly, Sherlock.”
“Gregory,” Sherlock mimicked, “is absolutely not handling the situation perfectly, Mycroft.”
“I assure you-”
“Mycroft, he’s one step away from being fired. He’s frequenting bars and shady clubs in order to attempt to pick up prostitutes to get over you. Attempting and failing, I might add. He’s barely sleeping, his diet consists mainly of the swill the Yard label coffee, and he’s emotionally unstable to the point of being one small step away from a mental breakdown.”
Mycroft carefully cleaned under a fingernail.
“He is not coping, Mycroft.” Sherlock’s voice was sharp.
“He will with time, Sherlock. I assure you his job is safe until such time as he recovers fully from this emotional lapse.”
“Emotional lapse.”
“Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock. You and I both learnt this lesson, perhaps it is time the Detective Inspector did too.”’
“You’re wrong.” Sherlock was quiet in his refusal. “We both were.”
Mycroft flicked his eyes up, but didn’t bother to move his head from his cocked position. “Oh I see. Bonded and now we’re all sentimental.”
Sherlock straightened imperceptivity, his hands curling into fists on the table. “I’m not ashamed to admit I care for John. Not anymore.”
“How sweet.” Mycroft turned dismissively back to his fingernail.
“Is it so hard for you to admit you might care?”
Mycroft resisted the urge to roll his eyes and pushed his shuddering heart aside. “Your insinuation is not unnoticed, little brother, but there is nothing to admit with reference to Gregory Lestrade and I will not reiterate my stance with respect of yourself.”
“You used to smile at him.”
“I smile a lot.” Mycroft smiled his politician’s smile at Sherlock, just to prove it.
“You were happy with him Mycroft.”
“I am a civil servant, Sherlock, I frequently enjoy the situations I find myself in, and if not, everyone believes I do anyway.”
“So you refuse to even consider a relationship with him?”
“Gregory and I are already in an established relationship, Sherlock. We are friends.”
“Friends don’t destroy their friends.”
“Are you suggesting I have destroyed Gregory? Because I assure you that is not scientifically possible, and of the two of us I would be the one to suffer political destruction, not him.”
“You’ve shredded his soul, Mycroft. At least feel a little guilty.” Sherlock spat the words at him over the table. John had been rubbing off on him, but then, Sherlock had always taken harm to the few people he cared about as personal attacks, even if he never admitted it.
Mycroft refused to feel the guilt that regularly surfaced at the thought of Gregory’s tired face and wane appearance. It would be resolved in time. Gregory would move on and things would be normal again.
Was that too much to ask for?
“You haven’t even talked to him about this, have you?”
No, of course not. The matter had been sufficiently clear. There was no need to dissect every detail as if they were gossiping Submissives.
“There is nothing to discuss.”
“I think he may decide otherwise when you call him. I believe the phrase is ‘game changer’.”
Mycroft splayed his hand in the air, and examined each nail, before looking up and firmly drawing their gazes together. “I will not be calling him.”
Point made, he returned to studying his hand, pale at the end of the black and red silks.
Sherlock started. “You need to call him.”
“There is no need.”
“This is his child too, Mycroft-”
“There is no need, Sherlock.” Mycroft turned his head to the side, eyes lingering on the sink and the broken china tea cup. “I have four days leave ,which should be a sufficient recovery period for-”
Mycroft jumped as Sherlock slammed his hands down on the table. He swung back to face his brother to find the Submissive on his feet, hunched over the table, arms and elbows trembling.
“You bastard.” Sherlock mumbled. “You total and utter bastard.” Slowly his eyes rose, frosty black surrounded by burning grey rings. “How dare you, how fucking dare you! You -”
“What? Rid myself of an undesired inconvenience incompatible with my lifestyle? Why wouldn’t I?”
“This is not all about you!”
“This is my choice.”
“It’s not only your choice.”
“It is my choice, no one else’s.”
“Lestrade-”
“Has nothing to do with my life.”
“Because you won’t let him! This is his child, Mycroft!”
“I am not destroying the work of generations for this parasite!”
The water glass flew past Mycroft’s left ear and shattered against the wall, raining water drops and crystal shards on the skirting board and floors.
“Sit Down!” Mycroft roared, deliberately surrounding his words with Dominant force.
Sherlock’s elbows trembled with the strain of disobeying, lip caught between clenched teeth. His head bowed with the effort, but not before Mycroft saw the slightest hint of crimson welling at the interface of teeth and skin.
“For God’s sake, Sherlock, stop being such a child and sit down.”
With a strangled yelp Sherlock collapsed into the chair. “Bastard.”
“This has to stop, Sherlock. You’re not a rebellious child anymore. You’re Bonded and need to accept your role and dynamic-”
“I need to accept! I need to accept! I’m not the one who fucking needs to accept, Mycroft!”
“You know your acting out only ever upset Mummy.”
“This is not about me! This is about you and your inability to accept yourself and what it’s doing to the people around you!”
Mycroft levelled a glare at Sherlock capable of spearing bugs to a wall. “I have accept-”
“No, you haven’t!” Sherlock leapt to his feet again, leaning forward over the table, obviously in order to give himself the greatest psychological advantage, a tactic which would not work on Mycroft. “You have never accepted it! You’ve ignored it, and that is not the same thing.”
“I am a Dominant, Sherlock.”
“And an Omega.”
“A characteristic which has had no influence on my life until this point.”
“Because you can’t handle it! Do you think I can’t remember, Mycroft? Do you honestly believe that I can’t remember you breaking down and crying yourself to sleep every night? I used to sneak into your room to comfort you, I know you haven’t accepted it!”
Anger spiked in Mycroft’s chest at the mention of those terrifying years after his very sense of self had been ripped away, where everything had gone from being perfect to him being ‘the problem child’ everyone regarded with long, guarded looks and spoke about in hushed tones.
“I am a Dominant!” He snarled.
“And you’ve excluded the thought of being anything else!” Sherlock snarled back. “Everything has to be about Dynamic with you. I’m a Dominant, I’m a Dominant, I’m a perfect fucking Dominant heir who’s going to rule the world because I’m Dominant and I can and there’s no room for anything else in my life!”
“There is nothing else, Sherlock. Everything else is meaningless.”
“No, it’s not, you’re just too fucking scared to try it. You’ve run terrified from the thought of being an Omega since you found out. You have pushed everyone away, you have never given anything a chance because you’re too scared to take a chance and your situation has allowed you to hide!”
“I am not scared!” Mycroft roared, surging to his feet.
“Yes, you are! You always have been! Every relationship you’ve ever had you’ve destroyed when there was any sort of possibility of it being meaningful! Because you’re a coward who can’t stand the thought of being hurt!”
“No one could know!” Mycroft slammed his own palm down on the table, squaring off with Sherlock across its narrow width.
“You never let anyone get close enough that was even a risk, and now you have someone who knows, someone who loves you, someone who is perfect for you, and you’re deliberately and purposefully destroying everything between you because you are petrified that you care!”
“I do not care about Gregory!”
“Yes, you fucking do!”
A sharp noise reverberated through the kitchen as Sherlock’s head swung to the side. Mycroft’s elbow collapsed, shoulder sluggishly lowering the arm back to his chest. Sherlock’s cheek was red, and Mycroft could feel a throbbing strip on the back of his hand where it had made contact with his cheekbone.
“Stop projecting your issues with your dynamic onto me.” He spat venomously, feeling disconnected from everything. He was speaking, but his mind was entirely in his hand, beating in time with every throb.
Slowly Sherlock’s head straightened and he raised his eyes to meet Mycroft’s. People’s eyes did not change colour with emotions, for all that they danced or shone with them, but Mycroft would have sworn in front of the highest court in the land that Sherlock’s eyes were completely, 100% black at that moment.
“Call Gregory.” He dropped his eyes and slowly and calmly started piling his scarf and gloves into his arms. He had never reached the point of removing his coat.
“Or what?” Mycroft spat at a loss. The situation was spiralling out of his control, and he didn’t know what to do to reassert his will over it.
Sherlock glanced up, eyes still unfathomably dark and empty. “Or I will.” He moved to the kitchen door in precise, controlled movements and paused without looking back. “By tonight, Mycroft.”
He walked out without another backwards glance, leaving Mycroft standing desperately alone and careening out of control in his kitchen.
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So yeah, 'Mexican stomach bug'....
Next chapter going up now!
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