Though I Walk Through the Valley (7/38)
Though I Walk through the Valley
Title:Though I Walk through the Valley (7/38)Series: Still Waters (Run Deep) (Part II of IV)
Author: melody_in_time
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Through S1 only
Disclaimer: I wish, I wish upon a star... but until that works, not mine and sadly no money made.
Author's Notes: As promised, your second chapter for the day!
Warnings: None other than the repercussions of over consumption of alcohol
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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Discomfort lingered at the edges of his thoughts, not quite pressing enough to wake him, but enough to start the slow process of rousing him from oblivion. It wasn’t much to start with, just a faint awareness of his body which was trying to send some very unpleasant signals through to his brain. They were muted at first, but as he was dragged further and further back to himself they morphed into discrete complaints.
His bladder was full, he noted fuzzily. Very full, but somehow not pressing. His tongue felt heavy, but so did the rest of his face and arms, though one of them chose to inform him he had pins and needles. His eyes felt dry and crusty, but there was no way he was moving one of those painfully heavy limbs to wipe them. His head was muzzy, and a dull weight was slowly becoming more prominent between his eyes.
He wasn’t sure how long he lay there, letting sensations run through his body. No thoughts. Thoughts were too much effort, too active for his current passive state.
He thought he may have passed out again. Certainly the next thing he was aware of was a series of conflicting signals, his bladder demanding he move now and his head informing him fervently that that was not possible. Moving anything was not possible. He had automatically screwed up his lids as the dull throb behind his left eye made itself known, but that had triggered a sharp penetrating pain behind his right. Twitching his fingers produced similar results and the elegant “guh” that left his mouth in pain shot through his brain like hot lead.
The pain didn’t dull the need to pee and Greg reluctantly forced one eye open. White excruciating light lanced through his brain causing an instantaneous reaction. Greg had just enough mental presence to lean over the edge of the bed rather than vomit over his sheets and himself.
Each retching movement had a corresponding throb or bolt of pain in his poor, poor head. By the fifth time his stomach rebelled he was throwing up pure bile, but then the convulsions finally stopped. He hung there, upper body off the side of the bed, blood rushing to his brain and waited. Waited for his head to stop swirling, his jaw to stop tingling and his stomach to stop protesting. Unfortunately his bladder refused to let him wait long.
With the greatest of reluctance Greg slowly tried opening one heavy eyelid again. This time only his head reacted and the throbbing at least didn’t provoke his other bodily functions the way the sharper pain had. He slowly raised his head, suddenly very aware that his mouth felt like a cat had died in it.
A glass of water stood watch over him on the bedside table with two small pills. Greg was in no state to do anything more than down them and the water hoping they were painkillers and not something he’d regret taking at a later date.
This made his bladder an even greater issue and Greg resigned himself to movement or wetting himself like a toddler. He rolled carefully across his bed in the least jarring manner possible and let his feet fall awkwardly over the edge. Actually standing required a strange movement where he partially rolled off the bed and caught himself on the bedside table before making it shakily to standing. He stumbled gracelessly towards the door, going slightly too far and crashing into the book case, which did at least support him the rest of the way to the door frame.
Navigating the hallway mostly involved bouncing from wall to wall until he at last managed to launch himself shakily at the toilet door. His bladder was so full that relieving himself was almost painful. Certainly his head was in varying levels of extreme discomfort, to put it lightly, as it sloshed around in his skull. He remained there, arm extended against the wall over the toilet to keep him up-right and head resting on arm, much longer than he need to waiting for the movement in his head to stop.
What next? Everything in him cried out for bed, but bed was down the corridor and his mouth was really getting to him. Running his tongued along his teeth left him convulsing through dry heaves, as apparently he’d also run out of bile.
So teeth? Maybe a shower while he was here, and then he’d crawl back down the corridor to pass out again in his bed and sleep through the rest of the pain.
Greg reached clumsily for his toothbrush, smearing his hand through the toothpaste as he did. He stopped and blinked. Toothpaste? Of course there was toothpaste on his toothbrush, he was going to brush his teeth. Had he? He didn’t remember....his head throbbed again to remind him exactly why he wasn’t thinking and remembering definitely came under thinking. Instead he picked up his toothbrush and applied it to his teeth with a not often felt dedication.
It was unpleasant, jolting his head around as he reached for the darkest corners of his mouth to chase the disgusting fuzzy coating, but he persisted because now that he was starting to come back to himself he couldn’t stand the thought of it being otherwise. His clothes were shed with similar enthusiasm, though haste was still beyond him.
He ignored the mirror as he stepped into the shower. He hadn’t looked in one any less than fully clothed for over two months and today was not the day to change that. He had no doubt that he really didn’t want to see his appearance.
The water sluiced over his head, drowning the creaks of the pipes though the occasional squeaking squeals still penetrated to play havoc with his head. He was gentle as he ran his fingers through his hair to distribute the shampoo. It took a lot longer than his usual vigorous rubbing, but it also meant he didn’t end up whimpering in the bottom of the bathtub. Never had he been more grateful for his 2-in-1 shampoo and conditioner. It meant he was out of the shower in ten minutes, pulling his robe against the winter weather, but not bothering to spare the time to dry.
Instead he limped straight back down the hall with the wall as his guiding support. The expanse between the nice, solid door frame and his bed seemed insurmountable, but with Herculean effort Greg forced himself that little bit further to collapse on the soft expanse.
He’d just rest here a moment, then he’d pull back the covers… and find that damn beeping that was adding to the mess in his head. In just a moment. Just a momen-
Greg’s return to consciousness was shorter, but more gentle the second time around. He lay there, face buried in the pillow, wondering what had woken him.
Oh right, the beeping. He should deal with that.
And the smell. Greg wrinkled his nose and buried his face deeper in the pillow.
He lay there a few more moments taking stock. His head still throbbed, but it no longer felt like each beat of his heart was being mimicked by a sledge hammer in his head. His stomach rumbled to remind him he hadn’t eaten all day, but the very thought of eating made him feel nauseous again. So no food yet.
Greg swallowed and decided maybe he’d clean his teeth again. His mouth still felt... unhygienic.
This time around Greg possessed enough presence of mind to turn his head just the slightest to read his alarm clock. He had to squint slightly to read the numbers, but eventually he did manage to make out the glowing red 5:06 without moving from the opposite side of the bed. 5:06. He doubted somehow that was am, not unless he’d been out for over 24 hours. He had however, managed to sleep the whole day away.
With a slight moan as he moved his very stiff neck he sat up. He was not as young as he used to be and falling asleep on his front, twice, was not advisable.
Right, teeth.
Making it to the bathroom with only one stumble into the wall probably didn’t class as an achievement on the grand scale of things, but it felt enough like one to make Greg smile. Cleaning his teeth was invigorating and Greg couldn’t resist pushing the dressing gown off and standing back under the shower spray. With the less insistent headache he was finally able to appreciate the ritual and stepped out feeling, if not refreshed, at least mostly human.
Hanging his robe on the back of the door in favour of a towel, Greg ambled slowly back to his room. Slowly because his head really was still killing him, but at least now he was enough himself to know it wouldn’t actually put him in the ground. If he was careful and didn’t slam anything, that was.
He coughed as he walked back into his room and the smell assaulted his senses and his head. What the - oh. Greg sighed as he pulled on pants. Right, he’d need to clear that up. And find and stop that incessant beeping.
Track pants and a t-shirt followed. Greg briefly contemplated socks, but honestly, the chances of clean ones were astronomical and the flat was plenty warm. He must have left the heat on before he headed out to work.
He shuddered to think of the gas bill.
Right, food then -
No, clean the floor, then food. He couldn’t handle food yet, despite the gnawing feeling in his abdomen, and he really didn’t want to have to clean up his puke on a full stomach. He’d probably just add to it.
With a fortifying breath he moved unsteadily around the bed to see the damage.
It was surprisingly small. There was a massive metal mixing bowl, pressed on Greg by his culinary cousins, next to the bed and by the utmost luck and good fortune he had almost entirely vomited into it. Certainly all that was required for the rest was a quick and simple wipe with a damp cloth, quickly retrieved for that purpose from the kitchen. Greg took a bit longer to decide what to do with the bowl. He rinsed it out, but then... dishwasher? Did he really want it in with the rest of his dishes?
In the end he decided it was as good a place for it as anywhere. That was what dishwashers were for after all.
It was at this point that two things finally penetrated Greg’s brain: firstly, why was there a bowl next to his bed? Secondly, why was his mobile, his beeping mobile, plugged into charge next to a glass of water and two more pills now positively identified as painkillers?
His head chose to pulse briefly with the rest of the blood in his system so Greg decided to take care of the important matters first and popped the two pills, chasing them down with the water.
He had two missed calls on his phone and a text message. In a bizarre twist of fate, the calls were from Sherlock and the text from Mycroft.
Greg didn’t open it.
Sherlock had called him at four and then again not fifteen minutes ago. Greg frowned. That was unusual. It wasn’t that Sherlock never called, he just usually texted first and if he did call he badgered and badgered until Greg picked up. So why would he be...
Oh.
Greg gently placed his phone on the counter before he dropped it and sank into one of his kitchen chairs.
Oh great and merciful God.
He hadn’t.
Swallowing frantically Greg tried to piece everything together. He had called Sherlock and Sherlock had shown up at the pub. Yes, he remembered the pub. He remembered sitting outside and the taste of cigarette smoke on his lips.
Well that certainly explained why his mouth had tasted like an ash tray.
Then...and then he’d talked about... work that was right. Greg let out a sigh of relief. Bitching about the Yard, he would work with that. It might make Sherlock even more of an arrogant git at crime scenes knowing his opinions were shared, but at least Greg hadn’t gone on about-
A vision of Sherlock, terrible and proud, towering above him seared across Greg’s brain. What had he done to provoke that?
Well, he would just have to apologise to Sherlock for whatever it was and hope Mycroft never saw the security footage.
Greg’s eyes flew open.
Oh no. Oh no no no. He wouldn’t. Mycroft wouldn’t.
No, he forced himself to breathe. Mycroft wouldn’t. Not anymore. As long as Sherlock kept his mouth shut about Greg’s little break down then everything would be fine.
Christ, Sherlock had seen, hadn’t he? Greg had gone on about Mycroft like some pathetic mooning Sub, just as he was trying his hardest to convince Mycroft that he could do it. No, no, no.
Relax, it would be fine. Sherlock loved his brother, but didn’t really seem to like him and they were hardly the sort to share. Information and data coming so easily to them, the Holmes brothers preferred to use whatever possibly unique and hidden information they acquired as artillery, carefully horded for the most strategic striking point. As long as it was in Sherlock’s best interests, he would keep it to himself.
Greg wondered how many really good cases he could find in the cold cases files and how quickly.
Then he remembered he wasn’t likely to have time to pull them out of storage anyway. He’d probably be unemployed by the end of the week.
Greg hung his head in his hands and groaned. Could his life get any worse?
His phone beeped a reminder - text message from Mycroft.
What if it was about last night? What if he had seen?
Fuck.
Fine food first. He needed to eat. Then he’d read the text that he was not avoiding.
One glance in the fridge revealed exactly how little time he’d spent at home lately. The cheese was actually green and the milk was.... well on its way to being cheese. The cupboard wasn’t much better, but the freezer at least provided a frozen loaf of bread. Greg pulled out the toaster and an ancient jar of marmite.
Marmite never went off. Greg suspected they’d find fossilised marmite jars in a thousand years and their contents would still be edible.
His phone beeped again, but Greg resolutely ignored it and walked the bathroom once he’d started the toaster. He’d clean up, collect his clothes, wash his sheets, his towels, his socks. He could at least put a load on and he certainly didn’t have the money to go out and drink tonight so he’d be stuck at home for a while. Better if it was clean.
He wondered whether Sherlock had collected his credit card on the way out of the bar. The detective had obviously brought him home and Greg was oddly touched by all the thoughtful little gestures Sherlock had made to ease Greg’s way when he woke.
Or had Sherlock called John? Greg slumped against the wall, arms full of clothing and wished his head was whole so he could bash it into the wall. Repeatedly. If Sherlock had told John, and little things like leaving out painkillers certainly smacked of John, Greg’s life was about to become hell.
He liked John. No, really, he did, but John was going to dedicate himself to reforming Greg, which in and of itself would probably drive a man to drink. John was just too good at times, or at least he had the ability to appear it. Greg knew the Alpha had vices, knew he had occasionally strayed close to and even over the strict line of the law, but when he turned around and looked at you with guilt-inducing puppy dog eyes like some kind of saint in a woolly jumper, you forgot all that and just felt shame.
It was no wonder really that his sister hated him. Growing up with a perfect brother, who you knew wasn’t perfect, but no one else was willing to agree with you, must have been comparable to Dante’s seventh circle. As far as Harriet was concerned, John hadn’t even had the grace to be shocked/offended/affronted/angry/etc when she’d come out as gay, but had been completely accepting and tried to introduce her to several Female Doms he thought she’d like. This meant Harry couldn’t even complain that her family had turned her out because of her sexuality, completely ruining the sob story she had been working up to.
That had been an awkward argument to be caught at the bottom of the steps up to 221B for and eventually when the screaming showed no signs of abating Greg and Sherlock had decided maybe they could follow up a few more leads without John, who would hopefully be finished his fight with his sister by then.
Maybe that was why John worked so well with Sherlock who was unintentionally and deliberately oblivious, ignorant, belligerent and stubborn. Submissive Sherlock may have been, but he did not back down to John’s guilt trips merely because they occurred. Half the time he didn’t even notice them.
Hearing the toaster Greg pushed off the wall and dumped his armload in the machine. He wasn’t quite feeling up to measuring out quantities of detergent so he threw a couple of scoops in and declared things done. He wasn’t that fussy even without a headache and there was no reason to start when he had one, though the second round of painkillers was doing its job. He scraped marmite across the toast, wished for jam without mysterious white spots, and took a bite.
At least it was food? Dry food, so with no juice or milk for tea, he padded over to the cupboard for a glass and the tap for water. He turned the baleful face of his mobile over.
He didn’t want to read it, didn’t want to read the words Mycroft had so carefully chosen to tell Greg he was through with him, that Greg had failed to behave appropriately, had failed to live up to his word and be friends without wanting more, and after such a shameful display... No, he wasn’t ready to hear Mycroft tell him he no longer wanted to be associated with Greg.
Unfortunately, his phone chose that moment to ring, leaving Greg the unpleasant choice of answering and possibly having the issue forced on him or being a coward and letting it ring through to his message bank.
He was an Alpha. That didn’t preclude cowardice, but it certainly made the idea a lot harder to digest.
Fine. He would at least check the caller ID and if it was Mycroft... well, he’d deal with that then. Embarrassingly Greg realised he was holding his breath as he turned the electronic device over.
Sherlock Holmes
Oh thank Christ. With an exhale Greg picked up the call to find out exactly how many cases it was going to take to keep his secret.
“Sherlock.”
“Ah, Lestrade, you’re finally conscious.”
Greg winced. “Ah, yeah, look um, thanks, for ... you know, the bowl and the water and-”
“The toothbrush and the heat. Yes, yes you’re quite welcome.”
There was a beat of silence as Greg shuffled his feet, glad Sherlock couldn’t see him. The thought that Sherlock had seen him in such a state...
“How did we-” “Has my-”
They both stopped.
Right, yes.
“Sorry, you were saying?” Greg took another bite of toast.
“Has my brother called you today?”
Greg coughed and spluttered as the toast suddenly became a Bad Idea and tried to go down the wrong way.
“Sorry?” He eventually gasped out.
“Has Mycroft called you today?” Sherlock’s voice was very tight over the phone.
“Um, no,” There was a muffled curse from the other end of the line, “but,” Greg hurried on before Sherlock started yelling, “there is a text from him... if that’s a good thing?”
“A text?” Sherlock sounded suspicious.
“Yeah, a text. I, uh, haven’t read it yet. Look if this is about last night, cause I really, really would prefer he never found out about that.”
“No, this is not about last night, which you clearly have no or only a limited memory of.”
“Uh, yeah, listen, I didn’t do... anything did I?”
“Anything?”
“Anything...stupid.” Greg winced even as he asked the question.
“You attempted to work your way into the advanced stages of alcohol poisoning by imbuing vast quantities of a substandard spirit, had a complete emotional,” definite verbal disdain flavoured that word, “breakdown and spent a substantial amount of time crying on my shoulder, so do not continue to be an idiot and ask obvious questions - you were drunk. Of course you did stupid things, the most idiotic of which was getting yourself into that state to begin with.”
Greg hung his head in his hand, other forced to keep holding the phone. Christ why had he ever...
“I have your credit card. You may collect it when I am sure you will not abuse it in such a worthless and unoriginal fashion again.”
“Thanks.” Sherlock’s voice was brisk and business like, while Greg’s was flavoured with mortification of the highest level.
There was a brief moment of breathing.
“You’re embarrassed.” Not a question, not from Sherlock. “There is no need to be. Your actions were less than intelligent as befits most of the populations, though unusual for you, but they were... understandable.”
Greg slipped down slightly in his chair and didn’t say anything.
“Lestrade,” Sherlock hesitated before ploughing on, “you have seen me in less than savoury states on no few occasions and I believe it appropriate and not worthy of shame that I was there to help you. Certainly I have been worse.”
Now that was certainly true. It had been more than half a decade since Greg had last walked in on Sherlock’s drug battered body in an alleyway, his flat, Greg’s flat, or any other possible location, and no small number of those scenes had been rather disgusting in nature. Some of them had been downright terrifying, like when he’d arrived just in time to catch the final spasms of Sherlock’s body as he overdosed and had to perform CPR while waiting for an ambulance, praying the whole time that Sherlock would live to annoy him another day.
That had happened twice. A third time and Greg had sworn to Sherlock he’d check him into rehab himself and arrest him if he snuck out again, as he had every time Mycroft had committed him. He’d also sworn there would be no more cases until he was clean.
There was no third time.
From drugs, anyway.
If the majority of scenes during Sherlock’s drug addict days had been horrid for the squalor, the vomit and the blood, the ones during his detox were worse. Not only did Sherlock vomit everywhere, often too weak to make it to the bathroom or kitchen when a fit came upon him, but there was a much greater emotional toll as Greg watched him lose non-existent weight, develop dark circles because he couldn’t sleep, and grow fragile in a way he had never appeared even during the midst of an overdose. It had been scary to realise how much he cared for Sherlock at that time, watching him fade to nothing, voice too hoarse from screaming to speak, eyes too dead to live.
Greg never found out exactly what Sherlock had been injecting, but it became quite obvious quite fast that it had been a lot more than just cocaine and heroin like he’d thought. The last straw had been coming home to find Sherlock on Greg’s floor, eyes wide and unseeing, jaw slack, barely breathing, pulse fluttering wildly and then disappearing before lurching back for a couple more arrhythmic beats.
Greg checked Sherlock into rehab himself as soon as he was released from hospital, fully expecting him to never speak to Greg again given his hostile reaction to similar attempts by Mycroft, but knowing that whatever Sherlock had addicted himself to it required medical supervision as it left his body.
Six months later Sherlock Holmes had swanned onto his crime scene, called all his team idiots, ousted Sally and Anderson’s affair, and located a murderer hiding in the attic before strutting off without a word actually addressed directly to Greg, but a new address slipped into his wallet when Greg wasn’t looking.
It had never been mentioned again.
Until now.
“Well, yeah, true, and thank you for-”
“Lestrade, cease with the awkward apologies and thank me by never orchestrating such a tedious set of circumstances again.”
Greg’s lips twitched in a small smile. He’d said something similar to Sherlock after receiving a sarcastic Sherlockian expression of gratitude in the form of “I suppose I’m meant to say thank you” when Sherlock woke up from his first overdose after meeting Greg.
Like Sherlock at the time he didn’t respond with a promise or even an agreement to do so, something Sherlock would undoubtedly have noticed. Tonight he’d just do it at home instead - cheaper and he could pass out anywhere without worry.
“Mycroft’s text.” Sherlock broke through Greg’s musing recollections. “If it’s not a request to meet and talk, go and do so anyway.”
Greg snorted.
“I’m serious, Greg.”
Greg paused halfway through opening his mouth to make a sarcastic comment. Apparently Sherlock really was serious.
“And if he doesn’t tell you, call me.”
“Tell me what?” Greg asked confused.
Sherlock’s reply was a beat off, lagging behind the pace of the conversation as it he wanted to say something else, but was sticking to a predetermined script. “If he tells you, you’ll know.”
The dial tone sounded in Greg’s ear as Sherlock disconnected the call literally as he finished annunciating the final syllables.
Tell him what?
Did he want to know?
Unfortunately that question could only be answered by finding out.
He procrastinated a bit longer, finishing his toast, moving the laundry to the dryer, cleaning out the fridge, all under the guise of dealing with essential household chores he’d been neglecting for too long, but had to concede when he found himself contemplating scrubbing the bathroom grout that it really was just a delaying tactic, and once he’d been forced to acknowledge that his Alpha pride wouldn’t let him avoid it any longer.
The phone was a familiar, comfortable weight in his hand. It was an old model, one he’d owned for years. Serviceable, but outdated. Just like him.
1 new text message from Mycroft Holmes
Greg took a steadying breath and prepared to have his heart ripped out.
Gregory, would it be possible to have a moment of your time this afternoon? Whenever is convenient. ~ MH
‘Well,’ Greg chided himself, ‘you read it and the world hasn’t ended. Maybe it’s time to remember that everything Mycroft Holmes does is not about you.’
But what did Mycroft want? What could Mycroft want? Had Sherlock done something? No, that didn’t fit with Sherlock saying he needed to talk to Mycroft. A case or something to do with the Yard? No, surely Mycroft would say. Unless he wanted to discuss Greg’s position at the Yard, offer to help him keep it out of an obliged sense of friendship? Except Mycroft didn’t usually ask first; it was his trait, whether personality or dynamic based, that angered Sherlock the most.
Greg chewed his lip in thought. The only thing he could think was that Mycroft was ready to Talk, but that didn’t fit in with Sherlock’s insistence of a thing Greg had to find out.
Is an hour too late? GL
He had never used to sign his initials on his texts. It was something he’d picked up from the Holmeses.
An hour is acceptable ~MH
That was a quick response even for Mycroft. He must have been sitting there holding his phone. Was that good or bad?
An hour.
He wondered back to the bathroom, deep in thought, and was halfway through soaping his body before he realised what he was doing and that it was his third shower for the day. He finished soaping himself anyway.
Back in the bedroom he pulled on pants and jeans. Not the tight black ones gathering dust at the back of his wardrobe that almost ended up in the fire after the last time he’d worn them, but some perfectly serviceable dark blue ones he’d bought to replace them. A plain white shirt followed and he reluctantly turned to face the free standing mirror.
He’d grown out of the obsessive need to primp and pose that afflicted teenagers, Alpha teenagers in particular, years ago, but had left the mirror, a remnant of Josephine’s presence, because he’d discovered how useful it was to be able to check his suit jacket didn’t have anything down the back, that there weren’t rips or tears or stains from scenes, and yes, that the colours didn’t clash.
He had to pull a jacket, discarded casually on purpose so it fell over the mirror’s face, off to see. Even with his clothes on his mind’s eye provided a detailed view of the red lines, love bites, and faint bruises across his skin. They had long faded away and healed without even the faintest of scars, though a dark corner of Greg’s heart had hoped they would stay. It would have created even greater problems in his life, to be carrying a Sub’s scars, but he would have worn them gladly, a constant reminder of the precious Omega who had put them there.
Greg forced the thoughts back into the shadowy parts of his heart and mind. If he was going to meet Mycroft the last things he could be thinking about were marks and claims he had no right to or chance of.
He didn’t need physical reminders to see them. He’d never be able to forget.
Right, clothing, the reason he was standing here. Jeans - nice, not to nice; new, not too new; casual, dressy enough to look decent. Shirt - flattering, but plain; collared, but not formal without a suit; classy, but not like he was trying.
Greg sighed and let the jacket fall back to cover the mirror. Evaluating his clothing choice to ensure he didn’t look too good lest he be mistaken for trying to impress Mycroft, rather than just not look like a bum next to him, was a new addition to his Thursday routine on the days he made it home from the office to change before meeting.
Running a hand along his jaw, Greg decided shaving wouldn’t be over the top.
The laundry, sheets, shirts, socks and underwear, was thrown haphazardly onto the bed in a bundle and Greg rooted through for matching socks. Black and navy? Close enough. He’d learnt that his socks really were irrelevant last time.
Boots, maroon jumper, taking care to tuck the collar tabs under the neck, and a black overcoat later and Greg turned the key in the lock and started walking. 40 mins. Maybe he’d better get a taxi.
The ride to Mycroft’s house was spent trying not to over imagine the situation. He had no evidence he was riding towards something good or bad. There wasn’t even evidence that this was something. There was every chance that this was nothing more than it used to be, friends with nothing better to do meeting up to do something.
Mostly that had been movie nights as Greg forced the banality of pop culture down Mycroft’s throat over Chinese, Indian or pizza. Occasionally the subject matter had been more refined - foreign films in foreign languages that Mycroft appeared to speak, but Greg had to read the subtitles for over bottles of expensive wine and five star takeaway from restaurants that didn’t usually do takeaway, but made an exception for Mycroft Holmes. They’d hardly ended up cuddling on the couch or anything even close, both of them still in denial that maybe there was anything more there than friendship, but by the end of the second bottle when Mycroft had undone his tie and opened his shirt collar, toed off his shoes, and was sitting cross legged with toes intermittently bumping Greg’s as they talked, the evenings had always acquired a much more priceless intimacy than anything so obvious and vulgar could ever have done.
Or they’d walk. Once Mycroft had kidnapped Greg, kidnapped as he’d had no warning and had been meant to meet an attractive Sub for a dinner date set up by a friend at said friend’s insistence, and they’d spent the evening in sole occupation of the London Zoo. Then there was the opera, or theatre, or dancing - proper dancing: swing, rock and ballroom where Mycroft looked so graceful and Greg attempted to not fall over his own feet as he tried copy Mycroft and lead his partner around the dance floor - or Karaoke, or cooking or so many other things.
Greg wanted to believe so much that that was all that this was, but he couldn’t, not when they hadn’t ‘hung out’ and done things just for laughs and making each other smile in months. Not knowing that none of those things had ever happened at Mycroft’s house where he was headed now.
He started playing games with the licence plates instead, creating words and phrases using the letters as acronyms. Anything, anything at all, to drag his mind away from his thoughts.
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I'll post the next one on Wednesday. x
Previous - Next
Title:Though I Walk through the Valley (7/38)Series: Still Waters (Run Deep) (Part II of IV)
Author: melody_in_time
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Through S1 only
Disclaimer: I wish, I wish upon a star... but until that works, not mine and sadly no money made.
Author's Notes: As promised, your second chapter for the day!
Warnings: None other than the repercussions of over consumption of alcohol
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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Discomfort lingered at the edges of his thoughts, not quite pressing enough to wake him, but enough to start the slow process of rousing him from oblivion. It wasn’t much to start with, just a faint awareness of his body which was trying to send some very unpleasant signals through to his brain. They were muted at first, but as he was dragged further and further back to himself they morphed into discrete complaints.
His bladder was full, he noted fuzzily. Very full, but somehow not pressing. His tongue felt heavy, but so did the rest of his face and arms, though one of them chose to inform him he had pins and needles. His eyes felt dry and crusty, but there was no way he was moving one of those painfully heavy limbs to wipe them. His head was muzzy, and a dull weight was slowly becoming more prominent between his eyes.
He wasn’t sure how long he lay there, letting sensations run through his body. No thoughts. Thoughts were too much effort, too active for his current passive state.
He thought he may have passed out again. Certainly the next thing he was aware of was a series of conflicting signals, his bladder demanding he move now and his head informing him fervently that that was not possible. Moving anything was not possible. He had automatically screwed up his lids as the dull throb behind his left eye made itself known, but that had triggered a sharp penetrating pain behind his right. Twitching his fingers produced similar results and the elegant “guh” that left his mouth in pain shot through his brain like hot lead.
The pain didn’t dull the need to pee and Greg reluctantly forced one eye open. White excruciating light lanced through his brain causing an instantaneous reaction. Greg had just enough mental presence to lean over the edge of the bed rather than vomit over his sheets and himself.
Each retching movement had a corresponding throb or bolt of pain in his poor, poor head. By the fifth time his stomach rebelled he was throwing up pure bile, but then the convulsions finally stopped. He hung there, upper body off the side of the bed, blood rushing to his brain and waited. Waited for his head to stop swirling, his jaw to stop tingling and his stomach to stop protesting. Unfortunately his bladder refused to let him wait long.
With the greatest of reluctance Greg slowly tried opening one heavy eyelid again. This time only his head reacted and the throbbing at least didn’t provoke his other bodily functions the way the sharper pain had. He slowly raised his head, suddenly very aware that his mouth felt like a cat had died in it.
A glass of water stood watch over him on the bedside table with two small pills. Greg was in no state to do anything more than down them and the water hoping they were painkillers and not something he’d regret taking at a later date.
This made his bladder an even greater issue and Greg resigned himself to movement or wetting himself like a toddler. He rolled carefully across his bed in the least jarring manner possible and let his feet fall awkwardly over the edge. Actually standing required a strange movement where he partially rolled off the bed and caught himself on the bedside table before making it shakily to standing. He stumbled gracelessly towards the door, going slightly too far and crashing into the book case, which did at least support him the rest of the way to the door frame.
Navigating the hallway mostly involved bouncing from wall to wall until he at last managed to launch himself shakily at the toilet door. His bladder was so full that relieving himself was almost painful. Certainly his head was in varying levels of extreme discomfort, to put it lightly, as it sloshed around in his skull. He remained there, arm extended against the wall over the toilet to keep him up-right and head resting on arm, much longer than he need to waiting for the movement in his head to stop.
What next? Everything in him cried out for bed, but bed was down the corridor and his mouth was really getting to him. Running his tongued along his teeth left him convulsing through dry heaves, as apparently he’d also run out of bile.
So teeth? Maybe a shower while he was here, and then he’d crawl back down the corridor to pass out again in his bed and sleep through the rest of the pain.
Greg reached clumsily for his toothbrush, smearing his hand through the toothpaste as he did. He stopped and blinked. Toothpaste? Of course there was toothpaste on his toothbrush, he was going to brush his teeth. Had he? He didn’t remember....his head throbbed again to remind him exactly why he wasn’t thinking and remembering definitely came under thinking. Instead he picked up his toothbrush and applied it to his teeth with a not often felt dedication.
It was unpleasant, jolting his head around as he reached for the darkest corners of his mouth to chase the disgusting fuzzy coating, but he persisted because now that he was starting to come back to himself he couldn’t stand the thought of it being otherwise. His clothes were shed with similar enthusiasm, though haste was still beyond him.
He ignored the mirror as he stepped into the shower. He hadn’t looked in one any less than fully clothed for over two months and today was not the day to change that. He had no doubt that he really didn’t want to see his appearance.
The water sluiced over his head, drowning the creaks of the pipes though the occasional squeaking squeals still penetrated to play havoc with his head. He was gentle as he ran his fingers through his hair to distribute the shampoo. It took a lot longer than his usual vigorous rubbing, but it also meant he didn’t end up whimpering in the bottom of the bathtub. Never had he been more grateful for his 2-in-1 shampoo and conditioner. It meant he was out of the shower in ten minutes, pulling his robe against the winter weather, but not bothering to spare the time to dry.
Instead he limped straight back down the hall with the wall as his guiding support. The expanse between the nice, solid door frame and his bed seemed insurmountable, but with Herculean effort Greg forced himself that little bit further to collapse on the soft expanse.
He’d just rest here a moment, then he’d pull back the covers… and find that damn beeping that was adding to the mess in his head. In just a moment. Just a momen-
Greg’s return to consciousness was shorter, but more gentle the second time around. He lay there, face buried in the pillow, wondering what had woken him.
Oh right, the beeping. He should deal with that.
And the smell. Greg wrinkled his nose and buried his face deeper in the pillow.
He lay there a few more moments taking stock. His head still throbbed, but it no longer felt like each beat of his heart was being mimicked by a sledge hammer in his head. His stomach rumbled to remind him he hadn’t eaten all day, but the very thought of eating made him feel nauseous again. So no food yet.
Greg swallowed and decided maybe he’d clean his teeth again. His mouth still felt... unhygienic.
This time around Greg possessed enough presence of mind to turn his head just the slightest to read his alarm clock. He had to squint slightly to read the numbers, but eventually he did manage to make out the glowing red 5:06 without moving from the opposite side of the bed. 5:06. He doubted somehow that was am, not unless he’d been out for over 24 hours. He had however, managed to sleep the whole day away.
With a slight moan as he moved his very stiff neck he sat up. He was not as young as he used to be and falling asleep on his front, twice, was not advisable.
Right, teeth.
Making it to the bathroom with only one stumble into the wall probably didn’t class as an achievement on the grand scale of things, but it felt enough like one to make Greg smile. Cleaning his teeth was invigorating and Greg couldn’t resist pushing the dressing gown off and standing back under the shower spray. With the less insistent headache he was finally able to appreciate the ritual and stepped out feeling, if not refreshed, at least mostly human.
Hanging his robe on the back of the door in favour of a towel, Greg ambled slowly back to his room. Slowly because his head really was still killing him, but at least now he was enough himself to know it wouldn’t actually put him in the ground. If he was careful and didn’t slam anything, that was.
He coughed as he walked back into his room and the smell assaulted his senses and his head. What the - oh. Greg sighed as he pulled on pants. Right, he’d need to clear that up. And find and stop that incessant beeping.
Track pants and a t-shirt followed. Greg briefly contemplated socks, but honestly, the chances of clean ones were astronomical and the flat was plenty warm. He must have left the heat on before he headed out to work.
He shuddered to think of the gas bill.
Right, food then -
No, clean the floor, then food. He couldn’t handle food yet, despite the gnawing feeling in his abdomen, and he really didn’t want to have to clean up his puke on a full stomach. He’d probably just add to it.
With a fortifying breath he moved unsteadily around the bed to see the damage.
It was surprisingly small. There was a massive metal mixing bowl, pressed on Greg by his culinary cousins, next to the bed and by the utmost luck and good fortune he had almost entirely vomited into it. Certainly all that was required for the rest was a quick and simple wipe with a damp cloth, quickly retrieved for that purpose from the kitchen. Greg took a bit longer to decide what to do with the bowl. He rinsed it out, but then... dishwasher? Did he really want it in with the rest of his dishes?
In the end he decided it was as good a place for it as anywhere. That was what dishwashers were for after all.
It was at this point that two things finally penetrated Greg’s brain: firstly, why was there a bowl next to his bed? Secondly, why was his mobile, his beeping mobile, plugged into charge next to a glass of water and two more pills now positively identified as painkillers?
His head chose to pulse briefly with the rest of the blood in his system so Greg decided to take care of the important matters first and popped the two pills, chasing them down with the water.
He had two missed calls on his phone and a text message. In a bizarre twist of fate, the calls were from Sherlock and the text from Mycroft.
Greg didn’t open it.
Sherlock had called him at four and then again not fifteen minutes ago. Greg frowned. That was unusual. It wasn’t that Sherlock never called, he just usually texted first and if he did call he badgered and badgered until Greg picked up. So why would he be...
Oh.
Greg gently placed his phone on the counter before he dropped it and sank into one of his kitchen chairs.
Oh great and merciful God.
He hadn’t.
Swallowing frantically Greg tried to piece everything together. He had called Sherlock and Sherlock had shown up at the pub. Yes, he remembered the pub. He remembered sitting outside and the taste of cigarette smoke on his lips.
Well that certainly explained why his mouth had tasted like an ash tray.
Then...and then he’d talked about... work that was right. Greg let out a sigh of relief. Bitching about the Yard, he would work with that. It might make Sherlock even more of an arrogant git at crime scenes knowing his opinions were shared, but at least Greg hadn’t gone on about-
A vision of Sherlock, terrible and proud, towering above him seared across Greg’s brain. What had he done to provoke that?
Well, he would just have to apologise to Sherlock for whatever it was and hope Mycroft never saw the security footage.
Greg’s eyes flew open.
Oh no. Oh no no no. He wouldn’t. Mycroft wouldn’t.
No, he forced himself to breathe. Mycroft wouldn’t. Not anymore. As long as Sherlock kept his mouth shut about Greg’s little break down then everything would be fine.
Christ, Sherlock had seen, hadn’t he? Greg had gone on about Mycroft like some pathetic mooning Sub, just as he was trying his hardest to convince Mycroft that he could do it. No, no, no.
Relax, it would be fine. Sherlock loved his brother, but didn’t really seem to like him and they were hardly the sort to share. Information and data coming so easily to them, the Holmes brothers preferred to use whatever possibly unique and hidden information they acquired as artillery, carefully horded for the most strategic striking point. As long as it was in Sherlock’s best interests, he would keep it to himself.
Greg wondered how many really good cases he could find in the cold cases files and how quickly.
Then he remembered he wasn’t likely to have time to pull them out of storage anyway. He’d probably be unemployed by the end of the week.
Greg hung his head in his hands and groaned. Could his life get any worse?
His phone beeped a reminder - text message from Mycroft.
What if it was about last night? What if he had seen?
Fuck.
Fine food first. He needed to eat. Then he’d read the text that he was not avoiding.
One glance in the fridge revealed exactly how little time he’d spent at home lately. The cheese was actually green and the milk was.... well on its way to being cheese. The cupboard wasn’t much better, but the freezer at least provided a frozen loaf of bread. Greg pulled out the toaster and an ancient jar of marmite.
Marmite never went off. Greg suspected they’d find fossilised marmite jars in a thousand years and their contents would still be edible.
His phone beeped again, but Greg resolutely ignored it and walked the bathroom once he’d started the toaster. He’d clean up, collect his clothes, wash his sheets, his towels, his socks. He could at least put a load on and he certainly didn’t have the money to go out and drink tonight so he’d be stuck at home for a while. Better if it was clean.
He wondered whether Sherlock had collected his credit card on the way out of the bar. The detective had obviously brought him home and Greg was oddly touched by all the thoughtful little gestures Sherlock had made to ease Greg’s way when he woke.
Or had Sherlock called John? Greg slumped against the wall, arms full of clothing and wished his head was whole so he could bash it into the wall. Repeatedly. If Sherlock had told John, and little things like leaving out painkillers certainly smacked of John, Greg’s life was about to become hell.
He liked John. No, really, he did, but John was going to dedicate himself to reforming Greg, which in and of itself would probably drive a man to drink. John was just too good at times, or at least he had the ability to appear it. Greg knew the Alpha had vices, knew he had occasionally strayed close to and even over the strict line of the law, but when he turned around and looked at you with guilt-inducing puppy dog eyes like some kind of saint in a woolly jumper, you forgot all that and just felt shame.
It was no wonder really that his sister hated him. Growing up with a perfect brother, who you knew wasn’t perfect, but no one else was willing to agree with you, must have been comparable to Dante’s seventh circle. As far as Harriet was concerned, John hadn’t even had the grace to be shocked/offended/affronted/angry/etc when she’d come out as gay, but had been completely accepting and tried to introduce her to several Female Doms he thought she’d like. This meant Harry couldn’t even complain that her family had turned her out because of her sexuality, completely ruining the sob story she had been working up to.
That had been an awkward argument to be caught at the bottom of the steps up to 221B for and eventually when the screaming showed no signs of abating Greg and Sherlock had decided maybe they could follow up a few more leads without John, who would hopefully be finished his fight with his sister by then.
Maybe that was why John worked so well with Sherlock who was unintentionally and deliberately oblivious, ignorant, belligerent and stubborn. Submissive Sherlock may have been, but he did not back down to John’s guilt trips merely because they occurred. Half the time he didn’t even notice them.
Hearing the toaster Greg pushed off the wall and dumped his armload in the machine. He wasn’t quite feeling up to measuring out quantities of detergent so he threw a couple of scoops in and declared things done. He wasn’t that fussy even without a headache and there was no reason to start when he had one, though the second round of painkillers was doing its job. He scraped marmite across the toast, wished for jam without mysterious white spots, and took a bite.
At least it was food? Dry food, so with no juice or milk for tea, he padded over to the cupboard for a glass and the tap for water. He turned the baleful face of his mobile over.
He didn’t want to read it, didn’t want to read the words Mycroft had so carefully chosen to tell Greg he was through with him, that Greg had failed to behave appropriately, had failed to live up to his word and be friends without wanting more, and after such a shameful display... No, he wasn’t ready to hear Mycroft tell him he no longer wanted to be associated with Greg.
Unfortunately, his phone chose that moment to ring, leaving Greg the unpleasant choice of answering and possibly having the issue forced on him or being a coward and letting it ring through to his message bank.
He was an Alpha. That didn’t preclude cowardice, but it certainly made the idea a lot harder to digest.
Fine. He would at least check the caller ID and if it was Mycroft... well, he’d deal with that then. Embarrassingly Greg realised he was holding his breath as he turned the electronic device over.
Sherlock Holmes
Oh thank Christ. With an exhale Greg picked up the call to find out exactly how many cases it was going to take to keep his secret.
“Sherlock.”
“Ah, Lestrade, you’re finally conscious.”
Greg winced. “Ah, yeah, look um, thanks, for ... you know, the bowl and the water and-”
“The toothbrush and the heat. Yes, yes you’re quite welcome.”
There was a beat of silence as Greg shuffled his feet, glad Sherlock couldn’t see him. The thought that Sherlock had seen him in such a state...
“How did we-” “Has my-”
They both stopped.
Right, yes.
“Sorry, you were saying?” Greg took another bite of toast.
“Has my brother called you today?”
Greg coughed and spluttered as the toast suddenly became a Bad Idea and tried to go down the wrong way.
“Sorry?” He eventually gasped out.
“Has Mycroft called you today?” Sherlock’s voice was very tight over the phone.
“Um, no,” There was a muffled curse from the other end of the line, “but,” Greg hurried on before Sherlock started yelling, “there is a text from him... if that’s a good thing?”
“A text?” Sherlock sounded suspicious.
“Yeah, a text. I, uh, haven’t read it yet. Look if this is about last night, cause I really, really would prefer he never found out about that.”
“No, this is not about last night, which you clearly have no or only a limited memory of.”
“Uh, yeah, listen, I didn’t do... anything did I?”
“Anything?”
“Anything...stupid.” Greg winced even as he asked the question.
“You attempted to work your way into the advanced stages of alcohol poisoning by imbuing vast quantities of a substandard spirit, had a complete emotional,” definite verbal disdain flavoured that word, “breakdown and spent a substantial amount of time crying on my shoulder, so do not continue to be an idiot and ask obvious questions - you were drunk. Of course you did stupid things, the most idiotic of which was getting yourself into that state to begin with.”
Greg hung his head in his hand, other forced to keep holding the phone. Christ why had he ever...
“I have your credit card. You may collect it when I am sure you will not abuse it in such a worthless and unoriginal fashion again.”
“Thanks.” Sherlock’s voice was brisk and business like, while Greg’s was flavoured with mortification of the highest level.
There was a brief moment of breathing.
“You’re embarrassed.” Not a question, not from Sherlock. “There is no need to be. Your actions were less than intelligent as befits most of the populations, though unusual for you, but they were... understandable.”
Greg slipped down slightly in his chair and didn’t say anything.
“Lestrade,” Sherlock hesitated before ploughing on, “you have seen me in less than savoury states on no few occasions and I believe it appropriate and not worthy of shame that I was there to help you. Certainly I have been worse.”
Now that was certainly true. It had been more than half a decade since Greg had last walked in on Sherlock’s drug battered body in an alleyway, his flat, Greg’s flat, or any other possible location, and no small number of those scenes had been rather disgusting in nature. Some of them had been downright terrifying, like when he’d arrived just in time to catch the final spasms of Sherlock’s body as he overdosed and had to perform CPR while waiting for an ambulance, praying the whole time that Sherlock would live to annoy him another day.
That had happened twice. A third time and Greg had sworn to Sherlock he’d check him into rehab himself and arrest him if he snuck out again, as he had every time Mycroft had committed him. He’d also sworn there would be no more cases until he was clean.
There was no third time.
From drugs, anyway.
If the majority of scenes during Sherlock’s drug addict days had been horrid for the squalor, the vomit and the blood, the ones during his detox were worse. Not only did Sherlock vomit everywhere, often too weak to make it to the bathroom or kitchen when a fit came upon him, but there was a much greater emotional toll as Greg watched him lose non-existent weight, develop dark circles because he couldn’t sleep, and grow fragile in a way he had never appeared even during the midst of an overdose. It had been scary to realise how much he cared for Sherlock at that time, watching him fade to nothing, voice too hoarse from screaming to speak, eyes too dead to live.
Greg never found out exactly what Sherlock had been injecting, but it became quite obvious quite fast that it had been a lot more than just cocaine and heroin like he’d thought. The last straw had been coming home to find Sherlock on Greg’s floor, eyes wide and unseeing, jaw slack, barely breathing, pulse fluttering wildly and then disappearing before lurching back for a couple more arrhythmic beats.
Greg checked Sherlock into rehab himself as soon as he was released from hospital, fully expecting him to never speak to Greg again given his hostile reaction to similar attempts by Mycroft, but knowing that whatever Sherlock had addicted himself to it required medical supervision as it left his body.
Six months later Sherlock Holmes had swanned onto his crime scene, called all his team idiots, ousted Sally and Anderson’s affair, and located a murderer hiding in the attic before strutting off without a word actually addressed directly to Greg, but a new address slipped into his wallet when Greg wasn’t looking.
It had never been mentioned again.
Until now.
“Well, yeah, true, and thank you for-”
“Lestrade, cease with the awkward apologies and thank me by never orchestrating such a tedious set of circumstances again.”
Greg’s lips twitched in a small smile. He’d said something similar to Sherlock after receiving a sarcastic Sherlockian expression of gratitude in the form of “I suppose I’m meant to say thank you” when Sherlock woke up from his first overdose after meeting Greg.
Like Sherlock at the time he didn’t respond with a promise or even an agreement to do so, something Sherlock would undoubtedly have noticed. Tonight he’d just do it at home instead - cheaper and he could pass out anywhere without worry.
“Mycroft’s text.” Sherlock broke through Greg’s musing recollections. “If it’s not a request to meet and talk, go and do so anyway.”
Greg snorted.
“I’m serious, Greg.”
Greg paused halfway through opening his mouth to make a sarcastic comment. Apparently Sherlock really was serious.
“And if he doesn’t tell you, call me.”
“Tell me what?” Greg asked confused.
Sherlock’s reply was a beat off, lagging behind the pace of the conversation as it he wanted to say something else, but was sticking to a predetermined script. “If he tells you, you’ll know.”
The dial tone sounded in Greg’s ear as Sherlock disconnected the call literally as he finished annunciating the final syllables.
Tell him what?
Did he want to know?
Unfortunately that question could only be answered by finding out.
He procrastinated a bit longer, finishing his toast, moving the laundry to the dryer, cleaning out the fridge, all under the guise of dealing with essential household chores he’d been neglecting for too long, but had to concede when he found himself contemplating scrubbing the bathroom grout that it really was just a delaying tactic, and once he’d been forced to acknowledge that his Alpha pride wouldn’t let him avoid it any longer.
The phone was a familiar, comfortable weight in his hand. It was an old model, one he’d owned for years. Serviceable, but outdated. Just like him.
1 new text message from Mycroft Holmes
Greg took a steadying breath and prepared to have his heart ripped out.
Gregory, would it be possible to have a moment of your time this afternoon? Whenever is convenient. ~ MH
‘Well,’ Greg chided himself, ‘you read it and the world hasn’t ended. Maybe it’s time to remember that everything Mycroft Holmes does is not about you.’
But what did Mycroft want? What could Mycroft want? Had Sherlock done something? No, that didn’t fit with Sherlock saying he needed to talk to Mycroft. A case or something to do with the Yard? No, surely Mycroft would say. Unless he wanted to discuss Greg’s position at the Yard, offer to help him keep it out of an obliged sense of friendship? Except Mycroft didn’t usually ask first; it was his trait, whether personality or dynamic based, that angered Sherlock the most.
Greg chewed his lip in thought. The only thing he could think was that Mycroft was ready to Talk, but that didn’t fit in with Sherlock’s insistence of a thing Greg had to find out.
Is an hour too late? GL
He had never used to sign his initials on his texts. It was something he’d picked up from the Holmeses.
An hour is acceptable ~MH
That was a quick response even for Mycroft. He must have been sitting there holding his phone. Was that good or bad?
An hour.
He wondered back to the bathroom, deep in thought, and was halfway through soaping his body before he realised what he was doing and that it was his third shower for the day. He finished soaping himself anyway.
Back in the bedroom he pulled on pants and jeans. Not the tight black ones gathering dust at the back of his wardrobe that almost ended up in the fire after the last time he’d worn them, but some perfectly serviceable dark blue ones he’d bought to replace them. A plain white shirt followed and he reluctantly turned to face the free standing mirror.
He’d grown out of the obsessive need to primp and pose that afflicted teenagers, Alpha teenagers in particular, years ago, but had left the mirror, a remnant of Josephine’s presence, because he’d discovered how useful it was to be able to check his suit jacket didn’t have anything down the back, that there weren’t rips or tears or stains from scenes, and yes, that the colours didn’t clash.
He had to pull a jacket, discarded casually on purpose so it fell over the mirror’s face, off to see. Even with his clothes on his mind’s eye provided a detailed view of the red lines, love bites, and faint bruises across his skin. They had long faded away and healed without even the faintest of scars, though a dark corner of Greg’s heart had hoped they would stay. It would have created even greater problems in his life, to be carrying a Sub’s scars, but he would have worn them gladly, a constant reminder of the precious Omega who had put them there.
Greg forced the thoughts back into the shadowy parts of his heart and mind. If he was going to meet Mycroft the last things he could be thinking about were marks and claims he had no right to or chance of.
He didn’t need physical reminders to see them. He’d never be able to forget.
Right, clothing, the reason he was standing here. Jeans - nice, not to nice; new, not too new; casual, dressy enough to look decent. Shirt - flattering, but plain; collared, but not formal without a suit; classy, but not like he was trying.
Greg sighed and let the jacket fall back to cover the mirror. Evaluating his clothing choice to ensure he didn’t look too good lest he be mistaken for trying to impress Mycroft, rather than just not look like a bum next to him, was a new addition to his Thursday routine on the days he made it home from the office to change before meeting.
Running a hand along his jaw, Greg decided shaving wouldn’t be over the top.
The laundry, sheets, shirts, socks and underwear, was thrown haphazardly onto the bed in a bundle and Greg rooted through for matching socks. Black and navy? Close enough. He’d learnt that his socks really were irrelevant last time.
Boots, maroon jumper, taking care to tuck the collar tabs under the neck, and a black overcoat later and Greg turned the key in the lock and started walking. 40 mins. Maybe he’d better get a taxi.
The ride to Mycroft’s house was spent trying not to over imagine the situation. He had no evidence he was riding towards something good or bad. There wasn’t even evidence that this was something. There was every chance that this was nothing more than it used to be, friends with nothing better to do meeting up to do something.
Mostly that had been movie nights as Greg forced the banality of pop culture down Mycroft’s throat over Chinese, Indian or pizza. Occasionally the subject matter had been more refined - foreign films in foreign languages that Mycroft appeared to speak, but Greg had to read the subtitles for over bottles of expensive wine and five star takeaway from restaurants that didn’t usually do takeaway, but made an exception for Mycroft Holmes. They’d hardly ended up cuddling on the couch or anything even close, both of them still in denial that maybe there was anything more there than friendship, but by the end of the second bottle when Mycroft had undone his tie and opened his shirt collar, toed off his shoes, and was sitting cross legged with toes intermittently bumping Greg’s as they talked, the evenings had always acquired a much more priceless intimacy than anything so obvious and vulgar could ever have done.
Or they’d walk. Once Mycroft had kidnapped Greg, kidnapped as he’d had no warning and had been meant to meet an attractive Sub for a dinner date set up by a friend at said friend’s insistence, and they’d spent the evening in sole occupation of the London Zoo. Then there was the opera, or theatre, or dancing - proper dancing: swing, rock and ballroom where Mycroft looked so graceful and Greg attempted to not fall over his own feet as he tried copy Mycroft and lead his partner around the dance floor - or Karaoke, or cooking or so many other things.
Greg wanted to believe so much that that was all that this was, but he couldn’t, not when they hadn’t ‘hung out’ and done things just for laughs and making each other smile in months. Not knowing that none of those things had ever happened at Mycroft’s house where he was headed now.
He started playing games with the licence plates instead, creating words and phrases using the letters as acronyms. Anything, anything at all, to drag his mind away from his thoughts.
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I'll post the next one on Wednesday. x
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