Though I Walk Through the Valley (18/38)
Though I Walk through the Valley
Title:Though I Walk through the Valley (18/38)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: Merry Christmas!
Does it surprise anyone that my excuse for being late is the Silly Season? I really must appologise, but it's rather hard to get people to leave a dinner party on the preface that you need to go and update your online work of fiction, normally because that leads to "Oh, you write? What about? What genre?" and given the topics in this story... yeah not one to answer, that's for sure.
There are two chapters for you, because I am late (Sorry again). I will try to update on Wednesday, but I'm at a relative's for Christmas, so it might be Boxing Day. I won't make you wait until next Sunday though.
Warnings: No real warnings, though vague descriptions of another character approaching subdrop-ish, and a lot more information about Doms on general and John in particular.
If you've wondered here by mistake, you may wish to start at Part I of the series, Rarest of the Rare: Chapter 1.
Prologue - Chapter 10 - Chapter 11 - Chapter 12 - Chapter 13 - Chapter 14 - Chapter 15 - Chapter 16 - Chapter 17 - Chapter 18 - Chapter 19 - Chapter 20
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As far as Greg was concerned taking a taxi home from the Yard was a waste of both time and money. Time because unless you were Sherlock Holmes, with his mystical ability to instantly summon a cab at any time no matter where he was, then generally speaking the London Cab service was inevitably busy whenever Greg wanted to get home because, generally speaking, everyone else had the same idea and wanted to go home too.
It was a waste of money because the tube station was easily accessible at either end. It wasn’t that much of a hardship to change trains, twice, because the Yard and Knightsbridge were on different lines. If Greg really minded, there was a bus he could have taken, but he preferred the tube.
After that first occasion when his progress had been a total mental blur, walking the entire way from the Yard to Mycroft’s, their, house wasn’t Greg’s preferred method of transport home. When he’d looked it up on Google maps and realised how far it actually was, he had to wonder how he’d managed to stumble that far in a daze without getting hit by a car.
The distance from the tube to the house was still a reasonable walk, nothing compared to his old commute, but enough to let him stretch his legs at the end of the day. Having said that, he was not looking forward to his pleasant little walk in the middle of true winter. The days may have been getting longer, but he was still walking home in the dark as it was.
The air was just slightly biting for his walk home that night. He’d forgotten his gloves in his desk drawer, again, so his hands were tucked deep into pockets against the chill. It wouldn’t have been so noticeable except that the day had actually dared to verge on warm, so the sudden drop of temperature with the sunset seemed more drastic than it really was. The cold also settled into his stiff muscles, amplifying the overall impression that it was close to freezing.
Greg would be lying if he’d tried to claim there were no lasting effects from the previous night. Minor though most of it was, he did have a general level of muscle ache and stiffness, especially across his back, and his right shoulder was more than minor if he were forced to be honest. Rolling it around produced a twinge halfway through the motion, but he wasn’t young and if all he’d got out of being trussed up like a pig was a slight shoulder twinge he considered it a good deal.
Those yoga classes though looked like a really good idea. He’d used his lunch break to slip into a bookstore and peruse the adults only section, trying to get an idea of what else Mycroft would do and had learnt two things:
More immediately worrying was the fact Mycroft hadn’t come to bed last night. Greg assumed he’d slept, but he hadn’t returned by the time Greg’s eyes had given in and closed despite his efforts to the contrary, and the bedside lamp was still on when Greg was woken by the alarm with no sign of the bed’s usual occupant.
Mycroft had in fact been downstairs in the kitchen about to leave as Greg stumbled down in his jogging gear. Greg didn’t think Mycroft would manufacture an international emergency three days after Anthea had laid down the law just to avoid Greg, but he certainly might treat one as more serious than it was in reality. Either way, Mycroft had been gone long before he should have been that morning. Greg hoped it came with a corresponding shortening of hours at the other end and Mycroft found himself being sent home early. It would serve him right.
Burying his fingers even deeper in his pockets in search of warmth, Greg could only admire the differences in his walk home. He hadn’t lived in a bad area by any means, but it was an area dominated by flats and semi-detached buildings, the occasional graffiti tag and people: old grannies with their trolley bags toting the groceries home, teenagers attempting to be cool and rad and rebellious while unknowingly walking in their parent’s footprints, families coming home from school or the park.
He saw none of them here. Here there were sleek cars ranging from silent black to the obnoxiously obvious red, orange and yellow favoured by sports car owners. Here there were tourists marvelling at magnificently maintained facades, strolling through manicured public parks, hoping to catch a glimpse of someone they would recognise from the tabloids. There were no twitching curtains, not overt ones anyway, no graffiti tags, and the teenaged rebellion, common across all walks of life, took a completely different form and flavour to the punked out kids of Greg’s youth. These kids dressed better, had more money, and ultimately spent it on a better grade of exactly the same stuff.
What had Mycroft’s rebellious years looked like? It was easy to imagine Sherlock as one of those teenagers who went out partying until all hours and arrived home drunk and high on who knows what because Greg had seen him when he was using, high on everything under the sun and drunk on crime. Admittedly Greg couldn’t see the ‘partying’ part because he couldn’t imagine teenaged Sherlock with friends to go out with, but he could imagine him coming home off his face.
Had Sherlock ever dealt? He had enough scientific know how that he could have manufactured his own supplies, but Greg would rather not follow that thought through.
It was impossible to imagine the oh-so-proper Mycroft coming home late smelling of booze and sex. It was hard to imagine him staying out past curfew (had they had a curfew?) and if he had it was probably because debating club or choir ran late.
Sighing Greg shook his head. Mycroft hadn’t been born in those three piece suits, but sometimes it was so hard to remember that.
He rounded the last corner and paused to let a taxi fly past. Taxis weren’t quite as uncommon in the area as he’d first believed. Saturday night, or Sunday morning to be accurate, there were plenty of them, all filled with the afore mentioned scantily clad and out of their mind teenagers and young adults. This taxi caught his attention though as it slid to an abrupt halt outside Mycroft’s front door.
Curious Greg began to cross the road, but he hadn’t made it off the pavement before Sherlock barrelled out of the cab. Before Greg had finished crossing, Sherlock had the door open and had bolted inside, leaving the door swinging and the taxi driver leaning on his horn, expecting payment.
Greg poked his head in the taxi and smiled his best ‘I’m a policeman, you can trust me’ smile. “Hang on mate. I live here; I’ll just go and get him.”
The cab driver looked sceptical, but he did at least lay off the horn.
With another sigh lurking around the edges of his lips, Greg trundled up the stairs and stepped into the house. It wasn’t hard to find Sherlock.
Judging by the book and cup of tea, Mycroft had indeed been sent home from work early and had settled down in the library to read. That same book was now lying haphazardly on the carpet, splayed open in such a way that could not be good for the deep red leather binding, and Mycroft’s lap was full instead with his trembling brother. Sherlock’s face was buried in Mycroft’s chest, obscured by the ever present suit jacket, but he was clearly on the verge of crying if he wasn’t already doing so.
Greg’s general plan, berate Sherlock into giving up his wallet and going and paying the cabbie, evaporated faster than it had formed. Instead he went back outside, shutting and locking the door behind him, and clambered into the cab.
“The Beehive, Crawford Street. Just keep the meter going.” Greg added when the cabbie looked like he was going to argue.
The Beehive was a pub near 221B John favoured. If Greg was right, Sherlock wasn’t the only one who needed company right now.
The first time John’s mobile rang out. Greg stubbornly pressed redial, and then redial again.
When John did pick up, Greg didn’t give him a chance to speak. “The Beehive, 30 minutes.”
“Greg I really don’t-”
“The Beehive, 30 minutes. You can come on your own two feet or I can force you down the stairs and into the cab myself. Your choice.”
There was silence on the other end of the line. Greg had just opened his mouth to redirect the cab to Baker Street when John finally spoke.
“30 minutes.”
The dial tone sounded in Greg’s ear.
Not willing to be caught short, Greg quickly dialled Mrs Hudson, recently returned from wherever she’d stayed during Sherlock’s Heat, and requested she let him know when, and if, John Watson left the house. The text message that he had in fact gone arrived when Greg was about five minutes away.
Those last five minutes were spent contemplating the situation and warily watching the meter. He was, after all, only carrying a finite level of cash and while he could undoubtedly get more inside the Pub, he doubted this particular driver would be greatly amenable to that suggestion. Luckily the total was below his supply of ready cash when they pulled up and Greg even left a reasonably substantial tip in an effort to smooth over Sherlock’s earlier emotional behaviour. From the way the cabbie pulled off, reasonably substantial was not substantial enough.
The Beehive was relatively quiet, being a Tuesday night. The dark green exterior was complemented by flowers, riotous in colour now that spring had official sprung. Old fashioned lamps hung between the white paned windows. Even in the city the contrast between the street and the interior was stark enough to make the windows glow with warmth.
Inside had mostly been converted to tables and eating areas, but there were still barstools pulled up around the antique bar. Greg walked to the far end away from the door, and chose what would hopefully remain a relatively private spot. There was no one currently outside on the benches, but it was still cold enough Greg wanted to avoid being outside if possible.
The menu was an entirely fancy affair and Greg threw it aside with a grunt. The food here was good, but he wasn’t looking for a meal. What he wanted was a bowel of chips to cushion the alcohol John was undoubtedly about to consume. Bruschetta just didn’t quite serve the same role.
John walked slowly past the windows towards the doorway and Greg took the time to order two pints of John’s favoured dark ale. The drinks arrived just as John’s depressed heavy footsteps reached the bar.
“John.” Greg greeted him solemnly, holding out the pint.
“Greg, I’m really not in the mood.” John didn’t take the offered drink. “I’ll just-”
“Sit.” Greg ordered him, firmly nodding at the bar stool. John slid into it with a reluctant sigh.
“What’s Mycroft done?” John asked in a resigned tone.
“Nothing,” Greg offered the pint again, “unless you count comforting your distraught Sub.”
John took the pint, but didn’t say anything.
“John,” Greg prompted gently.
John’s hands tightened around the glass and his eyes remained fixed on the bar surface.
“John,” Greg tried again.
“The test came back negative.” John’s voice was smothered in grief.
“Shit.” Greg closed his eyes. He’d suspected since Sherlock had shown up and thrown himself at Mycroft, but the confirmation was brutal. “I’m sorry, mate.”
John didn’t reply, just took several large slow mouthfuls of ale.
“I just hoped, you know.” He eventually blurted out. “It would...after...it seemed like it would fix things.”
Greg winced, knowing John was referring to the tear in the Bond between him and Sherlock that Greg had indirectly been at least partially responsible for.
“Heat didn’t...?” He tentatively asked.
John’s body slumped. “No. It feels like it’s scarred over, and it hurts less, but it’s not healed. I don’t know if it’ll ever be healed properly.”
“I’m-”
“It’s not your fault, Greg. It’s not even really Mycroft’s or Sherlock’s. I guess sometimes shit just happens.” John sounded resigned to the point of lifeless. He’d also finished his ale.
Greg silently ordered another and refrained from saying more until it was in front of John and half gone. He sent the bartender a look, who nodded in return. He understood - keep ‘em coming.
It was the remainder of that pint and half another before Greg spoke again.
“How’re you handling it?” He flattered himself his tone was genuine, even if it was the least original question with a terribly obvious answer, but it had to be asked.
“It’s probably a good thing.” John mumbled into his pint. “I mean there is no way in hell we’re qualified to be good parents. A baby would never fit into our lives. This is better.”
His swig had a certain finality about it; John trying to convince himself of what he said.
“That’s not true. You and Sherlock would be great parents. Much better than... other people.” Greg finished, trusting John to understand the reference. “Unusual, but I’m sure you’d be good at it.”
John gave a disbelieving snort. “We’d menace the poor kid. He’d be in therapy for the whole of his life. We’d have to take him in before he could talk.”
Greg launched into another round of denial, but more as a matter of form than an actual attempt to convince John of anything as it was clear from his preoccupied gaze John wasn’t listening. He wasn’t even drinking, pint loosely held off the bar by one limp wrist.
“It’s for the best.” He murmured, breaking through Greg’s token stream of words, eyes still focused beyond the bottles displayed over the bar. “Sherlock doesn’t want one and I couldn’t be trusted with one anyway.”
“John,” Greg laid a hand gently on John’s wrist, making sure to get his attention, “you’re wrong on both accounts.”
John’s eyes looked blankly through him without even a spark of curiosity or fire. “No I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.” Greg promised. “Sherlock would love a baby and of course you’d be a good dad.”
John let out a strangled laugh and turned his gaze back to the bar.
‘Lost him.’ Greg thought sadly.
“I think I’ve well and truly proven I am totally unsuitable to be entrusted with a baby.” The bitter tone said more than the words themselves.
“John, that’s ridic-”
“You have no idea.” John didn’t actually yell the words, but they were sharp enough he may as well have. “You have no idea what it’s like.” John trailed off and the brief flame in his eyes extinguished, leaving them flat and dull.
“No,” his voice almost as dead as his eyes, “no, you really wouldn’t, would you.”
“John,” Greg’s mouth was dry.
Surely John hadn’t had nearly enough to have this conversation, in public, right now.
“Almost no one does.” John’s gaze stayed on his pint glass. “No idea at all.”
“Explain it to me then.”
This wasn’t about Greg being a Sub. It wasn’t even about Greg as a father-to-be, so Greg sat and waited for John to continue. It seemed like he would.
The bartender replaced John’s glass, but he didn’t take a sip. Instead he absently ran his finger around and around the rim of the glass, collecting foam on the edge of his nail.
“They pray for us.” John said eventually. “They hope and wish and make deals with the universe: let my child be a Dom, let my child be a strong powerful Dom. Society loves and rewards the extremely Dominant; we’re considered the ultimate of aspirations, told we’re everything people should try to be.” John pulled a face, “but when we are ourselves, when those traits that come along with being Alpha Dominant like society craves interfere with their modern little lives, we’re told to go, get lost, put it away. As if it’s that easy.”
John took a swig of ale and continued. “Society encourages Dominance, it literally breeds the traits it recoils from into Alphas, and then looks surprised when we don’t fit in their modern cosmopolitan society. Dominants are territorial, it’s all tribal instinct and anthropological imperatives, and we’re just meant to ignore it because it doesn’t fit with the modern ideas of freewill and free thought.”
“Doms aren’t particularly territorial.” Greg corrected gently. “That’s an Alpha trait, and not all Doms are Alphas.”
John waved him off dismissively. “Not all Alphas are strong Doms, but all strong Doms are Alphas.”
“I’m not,” he continued seeing Greg open his mouth, “talking about your average Joe off the street Greg. It’s not...”
John trailed off, searching for words. Greg let him think and finished his ale while he waited.
“Alpha Doms are protective because once upon a time it served a purpose.” John finally said. “It comes from the same instinctive root as racial prejudice. It’s an instinctive way to recognise outsiders who might harm the family group. Does it serve a purpose now, no. Is it correct, no,” John sighed, “but it’s one thing to consciously overcome inbuilt prejudices, and it’s another thing all together to suddenly be told not to protect your family group, and if you try...”
It was this kind of debate Greg always avoided because he couldn’t get into it without revealing himself, but John already knew and Greg had asked knowing from experience John was a rambling philosopher once he’d had alcohol. Besides, Greg was willing to do a lot if it got rid of the flat distant tone in John’s voice. Given the technical edge John was giving the subject matter you’d at least hope for a level of boredom or disdain, but an emeritus professor standing in front of first year students for the 500th time had more life in him than John. There was more life in a morgue than John.
“But like I said John,” Greg began carefully, “protectiveness is an Alpha trait not a Dominant one so you can’t be any worse than any other Alpha out there.”
“You’re the one who talked about how Dominant traits complement Alpha ones and enhanced them.” John countered.
Greg had to concede that. He’d never really followed his thought process through, other than to idly note which traits he had as an Alpha, which he was missing, and how they countered his Submissive ones the same way Dominant traits would have complemented. The logical follow on was that the stronger the Dom, the more the Alpha-ness was enhanced.
John was a very strong Dom. Did that make him ‘more’ Alpha than Greg?
“You don’t like that idea,” John took a mouthful.
No, Greg had to admit he didn’t. The idea that he was less of an Alpha just because he was a Sub wasn’t something his very Alpha pride liked. He could handle being mistaken for a pathetically weak Dom, but the idea that made him less who he was, and that other Alphas might look down on him for it as Alphas not as Doms, wasn’t comfortable.
“Mycroft mentioned something yesterday,” he started. “Well, he didn’t really mention it. It was more that it came up in conversation and he said, it was more of an attitude, but it seems sort of like you’re...apparently he sees normal Doms as below his notice and out of control.”
“Of course he does.” John snorted into his ale. “Mycroft’s an extraordinarily strong Dominant. Why would he waste his attention on ordinary people?”
Greg wasn’t sure if John’s comment was sarcastic, rhetorical or genuine. This must have shown on his face because John rolled his eyes and continued, voice flavouring with exasperation that Greg tried to remind himself was better than how he’d sounded previously. It wasn’t easy with the exasperation aimed at him.
“Greg, you are in an entirely unique position to understand this. Try and think about it.”
John, Greg decided was at least still politer than his Omega when calling Greg an unobservant idiot.
“I don’t-”
“Think about the Yard.” John said firmly. “Think about who fights the most, the conflicts that go on.”
Greg’s first reaction was ‘Sherlock and everyone’, followed quickly by ‘why am I doing this’ and then ‘Sally and Anderson’. There were more than a few DCs, DS and DIs that regularly sniped and a couple of Constables who had been transferred after they proved unable to tolerate each other. That was a very black mark on your record though, that you had that little control, so most people kept it more subtle than the all-out fist fights that had severely crippled the hapless Constables’ careers.
“It’s just a normal work place,” Greg protested. “A bit more high stress than most maybe, but normal. It’s not like we get people throwing punches.”
“I don’t mean fist fights, Greg. Conflicts don’t have to be physical.”
“No,” Greg admitted. “Sally and Anderson keep falling out, but there’s a lot of stress there, especially as he’s being an idiot. Georgez and Mason keep having minor tussles, but so does Tucker and a whole bunch of other people.”
Greg sipped his ale and rolled his shoulders, ignoring the twinge in the right.
“If you’re trying to get me to note they’re all Doms, well, Doms are more aggressive and there are plenty of Subs who-”
John shook his head.
“I’m trying,” he stressed the word, “to get you to note the pattern: Doms of a similar Dominance level fighting for standing in the pack structure because neither clearly outranks the other; Alphas who are weaker Doms than their challengers constantly trying to reaffirm their rank. Civilised society.” John spat out the last words as if they were poison.
“So what you’re saying is that the reason Doms have so much trouble working together is because they’re all locked into some primitive struggle for places in the pecking order?”
“It’s why in the military a commanding officer is always clearly more dominant than any of the Doms they’re over, yes.”
“But-”
“Dominance is primitive, Greg. It doesn’t fit in anymore, but they keep breeding it into us and polarising things: the strong Doms get stronger, the weak Doms get weaker until you have Alphas like you on one end and Mycroft on the other.”
“This is why you’re so unassuming isn’t it?” Greg made an intuitive leap.
John shrugged. “I have no need to challenge them. I’m clearly above them, so why bother. There isn’t a Dom in the Yard I couldn’t floor, and now they know that too. There’s no need to reaffirm it. No one could challenge me, so why bother with them?”
“So weaker Doms squabble more and stronger Doms don’t feel the need?” Greg was intrigued despite himself. He knew John was deliberately driving them further off topic, but it was a fascinating insight into both John and Mycroft.
“Not quite,” John hedged. “There’s no driver to challenge a significantly weaker Dom. It’d be like a lion challenging a domestic kitten.”
“But two lions...” Greg tailed off.
“Pretty much. Look at it this way,” John actually swung his stool to face Greg. There was still a shadow hanging over his face, but he’d done a good job thrusting it all away into his own store-and-ignore box. “You’ve known Sherlock six or so years, yeah? How long have you known Mycroft? Three?”
“And a half.” Greg mumbled self-consciously into his glass.
“And a half.” John allowed. “It’s not like he pounced on you straight up though. I’d go so far as to say he didn’t approach you ‘til something happened, enough to force him to need to use you.”
“I’m not a-” Greg scowled. John raised an eyebrow and Greg stopped. “Just after Sherlock’s second escape from rehab. He appeared on my couch.”
“You became useful,” John remarked dryly. “Bet he never bothered to Dom you either.”
“He tried to intimidate me.” Greg growled. “It’ve been against all good manners to have tried to Dom me.”
“And a foregone conclusion so there was no need.”
“Oh so he tried to Dom you then did he?” Greg snarled.
John wasn’t trying to be insulting and hurtful, Greg didn’t think, but that didn’t mean his insinuations weren’t pulling at Greg’s rather tender sense of self.
“Yes.” John replied bluntly.
“What, really?”
“Really. Course I tried to do the same back. Nothing as obvious as using active verbal Dominance of course, but there were certainly boundaries tested. I’d known Sherlock less than a day.”
“Uh...” Greg wanted to ask, but wasn’t sure how.
“He’s stronger, but without actively trying to overpower each other I’d like to think we came out even. It’s not,” John hesitated. “A lot of Doms think it’s just about the active Dominance you assert. It’s not, it’s in everything - posture, words, gait, body language, reactions. Passive. I can’t explain more than that.”
“It sounds like a different language.”
“It’s not really, people have just forgotten how to speak it. They can still hear it and recognise most of the stronger Doms, but they’re like children babbling with their attempts to copy it all. The average Dom’s body language gives me a headache because it’s almost right, but not. It’s like ...a really thick accent and they can’t annunciate.”
Greg absently traced a finger around the droplets of water on the bar. “You mean they can’t channel their Dominance through their body language.” He could still remember his shock when Mycroft had Dommed him purely with his eyes. “Why isn’t this more widely known?”
“Two-tiered society.” John replied promptly. “It’s our nature, but it’s no longer considered polite so people hide it. My bearer must have been one of the old family Omegas for me to be as strong as I am. It certainly wasn’t inherited from my Sire. I guarantee the Holmeses know all this, but it’s been bred almost out of people in general.”
“To be a Holmes is to know all.” Greg snorted.
John laughed into his ale, a strained, but genuine, sound. “Bout time you figured that out.”
“Well, us lesser beings take time.” Greg teased.
“More time than our Lords and Masters generally appreciate.”
Greg and John clinked glasses and chugged back the remains of their drinks in unison. It was a fairly even race: John had been in the army, but Greg was a police officer.
It was good. John seemed much better, much lighter. There was even some colour in his cheeks and his good humour was back, the John Watson Greg knew not the sour despondent Alpha who’d walked in. Sadly, Greg thought he’d avoided the subject long enough.
“Not that that wasn’t interesting, but why does that make you untrustworthy as a father?” Greg pressed.
John’s face shuttered and he turned his bar stool back to the bar. “It just does.”
“John.”
“Greg.”
“John.”
“Greg.”
“John, I’m serious.”
“So am I!” John’s fingers clanged on the bar surface. “Don’t you get it? Jesus, Greg.”
“Well, sorry I’m not a super Alpha like you.” Greg snapped. “But-”
“Sherlock was thirty when I met him. Thirty and his brother had a security team following him, tracking his every move and threatening anyone who might get close to him who might be a challenge. I’m still trying to find out the price of letting me move in, but I suspect Mummy was involved. When I found out Sherlock was an Omega, I approved of Mycroft’s actions, I was angry that I was allowed to live there because that meant Mycroft had stopped protecting him as much as he should have. An unbonded Omega and Mycroft had let me, an unbonded Alpha, move in!
“My sister is almost forty now and I can’t stay out of her life despite the fact it makes her hate me. She’s been married and divorced and I can barely limit my need to take control of everything and run her life for her.
“You, do you know how hard it was not to drag you back to Baker Street and force you to quit your addiction, to sit there over you and watch everything. Take away your bank card, and your accounts, and put you on an allowance until you were better.
“None of you are weak people. You’re an Alpha, she’s a Dom, Sherlock is Sherlock, who has the most forceful personality of anyone I’ve ever met. It doesn’t stop this need to wrap you all in cotton wool and take care of you, never let anyone near any of you. A baby?” John’s voice choked up. “I’d destroy his life before he had a chance to live it. Assuming I didn’t chase Sherlock off first.”
“Sherlock would never leave you.” It was the only thing Greg could say, his head still reeling from John’s angry confession.
“Yes, he would. I’d cage him and he’d rebel against it. How could he not? He’s an independent minded adult, he has his own life, needs it to keep going, and I’d be hard pressed not to put a padlock on his door. It’s already so hard, so hard not to reduce him to so much less than he is. If he were pregnant? I’d be a monster, Greg and sooner or later he’d start sneaking around behind my back doing things, lying about it, and I’d come home and...” John’s head was in his hands, fingers clenched around the army short strands.
“He’s your Omega, John your Sub.”
“Do not say it’d be fine.” John broke in fiercely. “Being his Dom doesn’t give me control over his whole life. Being a Sub doesn’t mean he’ll put up with it. There’s a difference between dynamic and personality, and enjoying the freedom from control and thought at times doesn’t mean he’s the kind of person to roll over and accept my attempts to destroy him.”
Greg felt like he was treading water while being circled by sharks and was slowly sinking under the water.
“You don’t know-”
“Yes, I do.” John whispered. He sounded desolate. Mourning the relationship he hadn’t lost yet? “It’s happened before.”
With Sherlock Greg would have pulled him over and taken his hand in support. With John, he merely rested a fist on his shoulder briefly and then let it drop.
“Tell me.” He kept his voice calm and firm, the voice he used for interrogations when he was dealing with distraught witnesses, victims or occasionally perpetrators.
“There’s nothing to-”
“John.”
John swallowed.
“Did I ever tell you I’d been engaged?” He spoke, but didn’t lift his head off his hands.
“No.”
Greg had thought John had been relatively ambivalent to relationships his whole life. There had certainly never been any comments or hints that he’d been in such a long term committed relationship before Sherlock, and his fling with Sarah had never seemed particularly serious despite everything.
“While I was studying. We’d been to school together and then both came down to London to study. We weren’t together then, but we were by our second year.” John drained the rest of his ale.
Greg briefly considered ordering scotch instead, but decided at the rate John was going through his pints that wouldn’t be a good idea. The replacement pint was delivered and John kept going.
“Her name was Mary. She was beautiful; blonde and graceful. I’d pulled her pigtails in grade school. She threw mud at me in revenge. Blue eyes like the summer sky we see on the movies and never get, you could lose yourself in them for hours. She was studying history, planning on being a teacher when she was done given there’s not much more you could do with a history degree. I was going to be a Doctor, a Surgeon, specialise in something relating to children. That one was her idea. Cardiac surgeon specialising in children. She liked that.
“Everything was great. I proposed in my last year. She’d already finished her History degree and was almost finished with her degree in education. She said yes, we moved in together.”
The pint occupied John’s hands as he stared straight ahead. He wasn’t even looking as far as the back of the bar, just into thin air as the ale moved mechanically up and down, drinking while he talked.
“I thought it was perfect. I thought we were charmed, that things would work, that I could relax a little of that control. So I did, more and more I was me around her. She was my fiancée, if anyone could handle the Alpha it’d be her right?
“It was gradual. I thought part of it was the stress of the wedding, all the planning. She started getting evasive about where she’d been, probably in reaction to me being more demanding about it. I preferred her friends to come over to our place than her go meet them somewhere else. I never stopped her going, but she could tell I wasn’t happy about it. It kept creeping: she’d avoid so I’d be more possessive, so she’d evade me more. It’s so obvious … well, hindsight’s 20/20 and all.
“I didn’t see it at the time. I thought she was fine, handling it, that we were fine. I started looking into flats and schools for her to work at that were close to Barts so I could visit her at lunch. Walk her there in the mornings, walk her home at night. I would arrange my shifts around her, of course.” John’s eyes clouded over.
“It was a Wednesday. I remember that, still. It was a Wednesday and it was sunny. I got home early because of that. I thought we could go for a walk while the weather was nice. She loved the park.” John trailed off and sat there, remembering.
“John?” Greg asked gently.
“I got home early.” John’s voice was automatic and mechanical. “She was packing. There was another Alpha there, in our flat, helping her, moving things, touching her. I don’t know what was said, things must have been said. I remember the feeling of his nose shattering under my fist and how it felt to pummel him into oblivion. I remember what he looked like on our floor as the police dragged me off him and Mary kneeling next to him crying, trying to stop the bleeding.
“I was in the holding cells overnight. Mary came and visited me. I thought she was there to bail me out, but all she did was stand on the other side and yell about how she couldn’t deal with me anymore. I was destroying her life, and how could anyone put up with my issues, my possessiveness, my need to control everything. How could anyone put up with me? What had I expected would happen when I turned into such a primitive nutjob? No one could live with that. No one would want to.
“They didn’t lay charges. The police considered it a row between two Alphas over a Sub and he didn’t press either. He was strong enough to know, strong enough to be a challenger, so he knew, I can remember that. He must have lived, or they’d have charged me with that though.
“It was strongly recommended I get anger management help, join an organisation to give me structure. They were hardly subtle: the army brochures were given to me with my effects. Battlefield medicine sounded more like me than children’s cardiac surgeon any day, so I signed up within the week. It was only a month until graduation. I missed the ceremony.” The pint glass landed with a thud on the bar. "There, happy now?"
John’s trust issues, his extreme reaction to Sherlock’s failing to tell him about Greg and Mycroft, his forbearance when it came to giving orders, let alone actively Dominanting anyone, doubly remarkable for someone with a military background, it all was so simply and tragically explained.
“I can’t lose Sherlock that way, Greg.” A lone tear trailed down John’s cheek. “Mary was hard, but not that bad. Not in the long term, not really. Sherlock, it would kill me if he left. Even knowing I’d made him feel that way, I-I...”
“Hey, hey.” Greg clumsily patted John’s shoulder, slightly panicked. He’d never actually seen John cry, though he’d been close last time they talked about kids in this pub.
“I love him, Greg. It’s not just that we’re Bonded, he saved me and I love him. It terrifies me how much. I look at him sometimes and I want to tear everything off him and wrap him in my clothes so there’s no doubt he’s mine. I want to tattoo my name all over him, mark him indelibly as mine, and the only reason I can hold back is the fact he’s wearing my collar. I want to see him with our child, but I want it so much it can’t be safe for either of them.
“Especially,” John’s voice broke, “as Sherlock doesn’t want that. I can’t force him into it, I just can’t.”
“Now that is not true.” Greg couldn’t let that one stand. “Sherlock wants it as much as you do.”
“It’d get in the way too much.” John refused to listen. “He wouldn’t be able to take cases while he was pregnant and afterwards there’d be a baby, and he’s been so stressed this past fortnight worrying he was pregnant and-”
“John!” Greg forced John’s stool around to face him. “Shut up and listen to me. Sherlock wasn’t acting out because he was worried he was pregnant, he was worried he wasn’t. Sherlock wants a baby too. More than anything. I’m here because he ran into the house without even seeing me and threw himself at Mycroft for comfort in floods of tears. He wants a baby, and it’s hurting him as much as it’s hurting you.”
“That’s not-”
“Mycroft told me.” Greg interrupted and continued. “I think we can both say he would know, and the Omega I saw tonight was beyond devastated.” He let his voice gentle. “The two of you need to talk. Both of you have been stressed about this and because you won’t just talk it’s harder than it needs to be on both of you.”
John didn’t look convinced, but his gaze did at least look regretful. “I’ve been neglecting him, I know, but I just couldn’t risk-”
“He doesn’t know that. I bet you’ve never told him about Mary. He’s probably feeling even worse because you’ve withdrawn from him and he doesn’t know why.”
John had the grace to look ashamed.
“Here’s what we’re going to do,” Greg said waving for the bill. “We’re going to get a cab and go back to mine. Then you are going to comfort and look after your Sub, not his brother, and you two are going to talk and get back on the same page since at some point you stopped reading in unison. Okay?”
John looked like he was going to protest, but shook his head and merely said “okay” in a subdued voice.
Greg hid his wince at the tab. Good thing he wasn’t actually broke.
The trip from the Pub back to Mycroft’s was spent in silence, Greg eyeing the meter hesitantly and John tucked up in to a ball doing what sounded like breathing exercises.
Greg wondered how much of their conversation applied to Mycroft: Dom and Omega.
John clenched and unclenched his hands.
The cold clear air as Greg dove out of the cab on arrival was such a relief after the tense atmosphere inside. John followed more slowly and to Greg’s relief paid the cab fare.
The light was still on in the library, shining out behind the curtains. Greg unlocked the door and stepped inside, closing it behind himself and John. Concentrating on the lock he could hear John take a couple of bewildered steps before they froze. When Greg looked up John was staring into the library with such a pained expression on his face it made Greg’s heart hurt.
“Sherlock...” The name was an agonised whimper more than a word.
“Go to him.” Greg pushed on John’s shoulder, urging him forward.
Mycroft had managed to get the two of them slightly more comfortably situated on the couch while Greg had been gone, but the book still lay on the carpet and tea on the side table. Sherlock still lay there as well, curled into a ball, pale skin barely visible between black hair and black coat, pressed as deeply into the shelter of Mycroft’s arms as was possible.
The elder Holmes didn’t even bother to look up as John rushed in and fell to his knees next to the couch, Greg hanging back in the doorway. The younger didn’t look capable of doing so. He looked like he was bordering on Subdrop, a thought not helped by the way Mycroft was protectively position around him, the text book image of a Dom comforting a dropping Submissive family member.
“Sherlock, oh love, Sherlock.” John’s trembling fingers pushed damp curls off Sherlock’s cheeks where tears had stuck them to his skin. “Oh God, what have I done.”
Shaking fingers brushed back over the newly revealed skin.
“John?” Greg couldn’t see Sherlock’s eyes, but his voice was hoarse and thready.
“Yes, yes I’m here.” John’s hand smoothed over Sherlock’s hair, unable to keep from touching his Sub. “I’m here.”
Neither Greg or John expected Sherlock to shrink away from the touch and bury himself deeper into Mycroft’s jacket with an anguished cry.
“Sherlock...” John was close to tears himself. “Sherlock, please, look at me. Please.”
Sherlock buried himself deeper between Mycroft and the couch.
“Look at me, please, look at me.” John’s fingers hovered off Sherlock’s shoulder, unsure whether he was allowed to touch.
Slowly Sherlock pulled back and lifted his face. His eyes were swollen and red, porcelain complexion blotchy and tear streaked.
“I’m sorry.” He whispered brokenly. “I’m so sorry.”
“Sorry? Oh love, you have nothing to be sorry for.” John leant his forehead against Sherlock’s.
Sherlock pulled away roughly. “Yes, I, I couldn’t even...” His voice faltered and a fresh wave of tears rolled down his cheeks. “You can have it back if you want.”
“Have what back?” John looked bewildered, still reaching for Sherlock. “Come here, please come here.”
“The ... collar.” Sherlock choked back.
John froze.
“Are,” he licked his lips, “are you giving it back?”
“If, if you w-want it. “
Greg tried to unwrap his hand from around the door frame, but couldn’t. He wasn’t watching this, he couldn’t possibly be watching the end of the best relationship he knew. Could he?
What hope did the rest of them have?
“If you want me to.” John’s voice was stable, completely the opposite of his body.
“I-I...”
“Why? Please Sherlock, tell me why. I know I’ve been neglecting you lately, I know things have been bad, but, but, w-hy?” John lost his control and was forced to lean on the edge of the couch.
“Because you want children. I k-know you do, I see the way you look at me, and I...” Sherlock buried his face back into Mycroft.
“You don’t?” Maybe John had believed Greg more than Greg thought, because there was genuine heartbreak and loss of hope in that question.
Sherlock’s head shot up. “Of course I do.”
“Then what’s the problem? Why are you...” John couldn’t finish, couldn’t say ‘leaving me’.
“Because I, ... again...”
John seized Sherlock and dragged him closer, almost pulling him off the couch. “I want our children Sherlock. Not children in general. Our children.”
Sherlock’s hand tentatively wrapped around the collar of John’s jacket. “But what if I... if I can’t...”
“Then I have you. That will always be enough.” John whispered fiercely. “I love you, and I never want to be without you.”
Sherlock tumbled off the couch in what was possibly a planned manoeuvre, but looked more like frantic scrambling as he buried himself in John’s arms instead.
“You are amazing.” John whispered. “You are amazing and you are mine and we will keep trying and trying, but if it doesn’t happen then it’s just not meant to be and I still have the most important thing.”
“I’m a failure.” Sherlock choked out from John’s neck.
“You are a brilliant detective who catches the worst criminals England can summon for a living. You’re an athlete, a scientist and a great person. You are not a failure.”
Mycroft slid off the couch and carefully moved around the two huddled on the floor, rescuing the book on the way. Following Mycroft’s lead, Greg let himself be drawn away from the door.
“Why are you like this, Sherlock? You don’t care -”
“I …you’d leave...”
The voices faded as Greg and Mycroft moved towards the stairs.
“Do you think they’ll stay?” Greg looked back towards the library, pausing at the bottom of the stairs.
A couple of steps above him, Mycroft shook his head.
“John will feel more comfortable with Sherlock back inside his own territory, as will Sherlock. I imagine they’ll head home when they’re able.”
Greg nodded and chewed his lip. “I never... Sherlock has never... why would he think John would leave because he wasn’t pregnant?”
Mycroft’s footsteps froze suspiciously on the stairs. When Greg looked up his lover was more reminiscent of a statue than a living breathing person.
“My?” He walked carefully up to him and stroked the sleeve of his jacket.
“It’s our role isn’t it?” Mycroft’s voice was distant. “It’s all Omegas are good for, breeding.”
“That’s not true.” Greg kept his voice soft. “Not anymore.”
“Not everyone believes that.” Mycroft turned brusquely and continued up the stairs.
Greg followed, feeling the urge to go in and smash everything in the Green Room.
“Can I just hold you tonight?” He asked impulsively.
He felt too wrung out to go through a session tonight, and more than a little tipsy from the ale without dinner, despite drinking nowhere near the number John had.
The stillness that settled over Mycroft’s figure wasn’t the icy freeze Greg’s earlier comment had elicited, but it wasn’t the posture of someone comfortable with the discussion.
“If that’s what you wish.” Mycroft’s voice was carefully controlled.
“Hey,” Greg grabbed at Mycroft’s sleeve and waited until he faced him. “If you still need space, it’s okay, I understand. I can sleep in my room tonight.”
He didn’t want Mycroft to say yes, but he’d rather that if it meant Mycroft actually slept in a bed rather than on a couch somewhere.
“That might be best.” Mycroft took the final step, walked down the hallway and into his room, letting the door fall shut with a soft click, clearly audible from Greg’s position on the stairs.
Feeling old, Greg walked up the last few steps himself and paused in front of Mycroft’s door. So much for his hopes that Mycroft might be okay after last night.
“Good night, My. I’ll see you in the morning.” He gently ran a finger down the door before turning and walking into his room.
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Anyone surprised that Mycroft is freaking out on the inside? Anyone? No? But it's sssuuuccchhhh a surprise!
Previous - Next
Title:Though I Walk through the Valley (18/38)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: Merry Christmas!
Does it surprise anyone that my excuse for being late is the Silly Season? I really must appologise, but it's rather hard to get people to leave a dinner party on the preface that you need to go and update your online work of fiction, normally because that leads to "Oh, you write? What about? What genre?" and given the topics in this story... yeah not one to answer, that's for sure.
There are two chapters for you, because I am late (Sorry again). I will try to update on Wednesday, but I'm at a relative's for Christmas, so it might be Boxing Day. I won't make you wait until next Sunday though.
Warnings: No real warnings, though vague descriptions of another character approaching subdrop-ish, and a lot more information about Doms on general and John in particular.
If you've wondered here by mistake, you may wish to start at Part I of the series, Rarest of the Rare: Chapter 1.
Prologue - Chapter 10 - Chapter 11 - Chapter 12 - Chapter 13 - Chapter 14 - Chapter 15 - Chapter 16 - Chapter 17 - Chapter 18 - Chapter 19 - Chapter 20
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As far as Greg was concerned taking a taxi home from the Yard was a waste of both time and money. Time because unless you were Sherlock Holmes, with his mystical ability to instantly summon a cab at any time no matter where he was, then generally speaking the London Cab service was inevitably busy whenever Greg wanted to get home because, generally speaking, everyone else had the same idea and wanted to go home too.
It was a waste of money because the tube station was easily accessible at either end. It wasn’t that much of a hardship to change trains, twice, because the Yard and Knightsbridge were on different lines. If Greg really minded, there was a bus he could have taken, but he preferred the tube.
After that first occasion when his progress had been a total mental blur, walking the entire way from the Yard to Mycroft’s, their, house wasn’t Greg’s preferred method of transport home. When he’d looked it up on Google maps and realised how far it actually was, he had to wonder how he’d managed to stumble that far in a daze without getting hit by a car.
The distance from the tube to the house was still a reasonable walk, nothing compared to his old commute, but enough to let him stretch his legs at the end of the day. Having said that, he was not looking forward to his pleasant little walk in the middle of true winter. The days may have been getting longer, but he was still walking home in the dark as it was.
The air was just slightly biting for his walk home that night. He’d forgotten his gloves in his desk drawer, again, so his hands were tucked deep into pockets against the chill. It wouldn’t have been so noticeable except that the day had actually dared to verge on warm, so the sudden drop of temperature with the sunset seemed more drastic than it really was. The cold also settled into his stiff muscles, amplifying the overall impression that it was close to freezing.
Greg would be lying if he’d tried to claim there were no lasting effects from the previous night. Minor though most of it was, he did have a general level of muscle ache and stiffness, especially across his back, and his right shoulder was more than minor if he were forced to be honest. Rolling it around produced a twinge halfway through the motion, but he wasn’t young and if all he’d got out of being trussed up like a pig was a slight shoulder twinge he considered it a good deal.
Those yoga classes though looked like a really good idea. He’d used his lunch break to slip into a bookstore and peruse the adults only section, trying to get an idea of what else Mycroft would do and had learnt two things:
- There were some very creative ways those ropes could be tied; and
- In deference to his physical condition, Mycroft hadn’t tied him as far into those positions as he could have.
More immediately worrying was the fact Mycroft hadn’t come to bed last night. Greg assumed he’d slept, but he hadn’t returned by the time Greg’s eyes had given in and closed despite his efforts to the contrary, and the bedside lamp was still on when Greg was woken by the alarm with no sign of the bed’s usual occupant.
Mycroft had in fact been downstairs in the kitchen about to leave as Greg stumbled down in his jogging gear. Greg didn’t think Mycroft would manufacture an international emergency three days after Anthea had laid down the law just to avoid Greg, but he certainly might treat one as more serious than it was in reality. Either way, Mycroft had been gone long before he should have been that morning. Greg hoped it came with a corresponding shortening of hours at the other end and Mycroft found himself being sent home early. It would serve him right.
Burying his fingers even deeper in his pockets in search of warmth, Greg could only admire the differences in his walk home. He hadn’t lived in a bad area by any means, but it was an area dominated by flats and semi-detached buildings, the occasional graffiti tag and people: old grannies with their trolley bags toting the groceries home, teenagers attempting to be cool and rad and rebellious while unknowingly walking in their parent’s footprints, families coming home from school or the park.
He saw none of them here. Here there were sleek cars ranging from silent black to the obnoxiously obvious red, orange and yellow favoured by sports car owners. Here there were tourists marvelling at magnificently maintained facades, strolling through manicured public parks, hoping to catch a glimpse of someone they would recognise from the tabloids. There were no twitching curtains, not overt ones anyway, no graffiti tags, and the teenaged rebellion, common across all walks of life, took a completely different form and flavour to the punked out kids of Greg’s youth. These kids dressed better, had more money, and ultimately spent it on a better grade of exactly the same stuff.
What had Mycroft’s rebellious years looked like? It was easy to imagine Sherlock as one of those teenagers who went out partying until all hours and arrived home drunk and high on who knows what because Greg had seen him when he was using, high on everything under the sun and drunk on crime. Admittedly Greg couldn’t see the ‘partying’ part because he couldn’t imagine teenaged Sherlock with friends to go out with, but he could imagine him coming home off his face.
Had Sherlock ever dealt? He had enough scientific know how that he could have manufactured his own supplies, but Greg would rather not follow that thought through.
It was impossible to imagine the oh-so-proper Mycroft coming home late smelling of booze and sex. It was hard to imagine him staying out past curfew (had they had a curfew?) and if he had it was probably because debating club or choir ran late.
Sighing Greg shook his head. Mycroft hadn’t been born in those three piece suits, but sometimes it was so hard to remember that.
He rounded the last corner and paused to let a taxi fly past. Taxis weren’t quite as uncommon in the area as he’d first believed. Saturday night, or Sunday morning to be accurate, there were plenty of them, all filled with the afore mentioned scantily clad and out of their mind teenagers and young adults. This taxi caught his attention though as it slid to an abrupt halt outside Mycroft’s front door.
Curious Greg began to cross the road, but he hadn’t made it off the pavement before Sherlock barrelled out of the cab. Before Greg had finished crossing, Sherlock had the door open and had bolted inside, leaving the door swinging and the taxi driver leaning on his horn, expecting payment.
Greg poked his head in the taxi and smiled his best ‘I’m a policeman, you can trust me’ smile. “Hang on mate. I live here; I’ll just go and get him.”
The cab driver looked sceptical, but he did at least lay off the horn.
With another sigh lurking around the edges of his lips, Greg trundled up the stairs and stepped into the house. It wasn’t hard to find Sherlock.
Judging by the book and cup of tea, Mycroft had indeed been sent home from work early and had settled down in the library to read. That same book was now lying haphazardly on the carpet, splayed open in such a way that could not be good for the deep red leather binding, and Mycroft’s lap was full instead with his trembling brother. Sherlock’s face was buried in Mycroft’s chest, obscured by the ever present suit jacket, but he was clearly on the verge of crying if he wasn’t already doing so.
Greg’s general plan, berate Sherlock into giving up his wallet and going and paying the cabbie, evaporated faster than it had formed. Instead he went back outside, shutting and locking the door behind him, and clambered into the cab.
“The Beehive, Crawford Street. Just keep the meter going.” Greg added when the cabbie looked like he was going to argue.
The Beehive was a pub near 221B John favoured. If Greg was right, Sherlock wasn’t the only one who needed company right now.
The first time John’s mobile rang out. Greg stubbornly pressed redial, and then redial again.
When John did pick up, Greg didn’t give him a chance to speak. “The Beehive, 30 minutes.”
“Greg I really don’t-”
“The Beehive, 30 minutes. You can come on your own two feet or I can force you down the stairs and into the cab myself. Your choice.”
There was silence on the other end of the line. Greg had just opened his mouth to redirect the cab to Baker Street when John finally spoke.
“30 minutes.”
The dial tone sounded in Greg’s ear.
Not willing to be caught short, Greg quickly dialled Mrs Hudson, recently returned from wherever she’d stayed during Sherlock’s Heat, and requested she let him know when, and if, John Watson left the house. The text message that he had in fact gone arrived when Greg was about five minutes away.
Those last five minutes were spent contemplating the situation and warily watching the meter. He was, after all, only carrying a finite level of cash and while he could undoubtedly get more inside the Pub, he doubted this particular driver would be greatly amenable to that suggestion. Luckily the total was below his supply of ready cash when they pulled up and Greg even left a reasonably substantial tip in an effort to smooth over Sherlock’s earlier emotional behaviour. From the way the cabbie pulled off, reasonably substantial was not substantial enough.
The Beehive was relatively quiet, being a Tuesday night. The dark green exterior was complemented by flowers, riotous in colour now that spring had official sprung. Old fashioned lamps hung between the white paned windows. Even in the city the contrast between the street and the interior was stark enough to make the windows glow with warmth.
Inside had mostly been converted to tables and eating areas, but there were still barstools pulled up around the antique bar. Greg walked to the far end away from the door, and chose what would hopefully remain a relatively private spot. There was no one currently outside on the benches, but it was still cold enough Greg wanted to avoid being outside if possible.
The menu was an entirely fancy affair and Greg threw it aside with a grunt. The food here was good, but he wasn’t looking for a meal. What he wanted was a bowel of chips to cushion the alcohol John was undoubtedly about to consume. Bruschetta just didn’t quite serve the same role.
John walked slowly past the windows towards the doorway and Greg took the time to order two pints of John’s favoured dark ale. The drinks arrived just as John’s depressed heavy footsteps reached the bar.
“John.” Greg greeted him solemnly, holding out the pint.
“Greg, I’m really not in the mood.” John didn’t take the offered drink. “I’ll just-”
“Sit.” Greg ordered him, firmly nodding at the bar stool. John slid into it with a reluctant sigh.
“What’s Mycroft done?” John asked in a resigned tone.
“Nothing,” Greg offered the pint again, “unless you count comforting your distraught Sub.”
John took the pint, but didn’t say anything.
“John,” Greg prompted gently.
John’s hands tightened around the glass and his eyes remained fixed on the bar surface.
“John,” Greg tried again.
“The test came back negative.” John’s voice was smothered in grief.
“Shit.” Greg closed his eyes. He’d suspected since Sherlock had shown up and thrown himself at Mycroft, but the confirmation was brutal. “I’m sorry, mate.”
John didn’t reply, just took several large slow mouthfuls of ale.
“I just hoped, you know.” He eventually blurted out. “It would...after...it seemed like it would fix things.”
Greg winced, knowing John was referring to the tear in the Bond between him and Sherlock that Greg had indirectly been at least partially responsible for.
“Heat didn’t...?” He tentatively asked.
John’s body slumped. “No. It feels like it’s scarred over, and it hurts less, but it’s not healed. I don’t know if it’ll ever be healed properly.”
“I’m-”
“It’s not your fault, Greg. It’s not even really Mycroft’s or Sherlock’s. I guess sometimes shit just happens.” John sounded resigned to the point of lifeless. He’d also finished his ale.
Greg silently ordered another and refrained from saying more until it was in front of John and half gone. He sent the bartender a look, who nodded in return. He understood - keep ‘em coming.
It was the remainder of that pint and half another before Greg spoke again.
“How’re you handling it?” He flattered himself his tone was genuine, even if it was the least original question with a terribly obvious answer, but it had to be asked.
“It’s probably a good thing.” John mumbled into his pint. “I mean there is no way in hell we’re qualified to be good parents. A baby would never fit into our lives. This is better.”
His swig had a certain finality about it; John trying to convince himself of what he said.
“That’s not true. You and Sherlock would be great parents. Much better than... other people.” Greg finished, trusting John to understand the reference. “Unusual, but I’m sure you’d be good at it.”
John gave a disbelieving snort. “We’d menace the poor kid. He’d be in therapy for the whole of his life. We’d have to take him in before he could talk.”
Greg launched into another round of denial, but more as a matter of form than an actual attempt to convince John of anything as it was clear from his preoccupied gaze John wasn’t listening. He wasn’t even drinking, pint loosely held off the bar by one limp wrist.
“It’s for the best.” He murmured, breaking through Greg’s token stream of words, eyes still focused beyond the bottles displayed over the bar. “Sherlock doesn’t want one and I couldn’t be trusted with one anyway.”
“John,” Greg laid a hand gently on John’s wrist, making sure to get his attention, “you’re wrong on both accounts.”
John’s eyes looked blankly through him without even a spark of curiosity or fire. “No I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.” Greg promised. “Sherlock would love a baby and of course you’d be a good dad.”
John let out a strangled laugh and turned his gaze back to the bar.
‘Lost him.’ Greg thought sadly.
“I think I’ve well and truly proven I am totally unsuitable to be entrusted with a baby.” The bitter tone said more than the words themselves.
“John, that’s ridic-”
“You have no idea.” John didn’t actually yell the words, but they were sharp enough he may as well have. “You have no idea what it’s like.” John trailed off and the brief flame in his eyes extinguished, leaving them flat and dull.
“No,” his voice almost as dead as his eyes, “no, you really wouldn’t, would you.”
“John,” Greg’s mouth was dry.
Surely John hadn’t had nearly enough to have this conversation, in public, right now.
“Almost no one does.” John’s gaze stayed on his pint glass. “No idea at all.”
“Explain it to me then.”
This wasn’t about Greg being a Sub. It wasn’t even about Greg as a father-to-be, so Greg sat and waited for John to continue. It seemed like he would.
The bartender replaced John’s glass, but he didn’t take a sip. Instead he absently ran his finger around and around the rim of the glass, collecting foam on the edge of his nail.
“They pray for us.” John said eventually. “They hope and wish and make deals with the universe: let my child be a Dom, let my child be a strong powerful Dom. Society loves and rewards the extremely Dominant; we’re considered the ultimate of aspirations, told we’re everything people should try to be.” John pulled a face, “but when we are ourselves, when those traits that come along with being Alpha Dominant like society craves interfere with their modern little lives, we’re told to go, get lost, put it away. As if it’s that easy.”
John took a swig of ale and continued. “Society encourages Dominance, it literally breeds the traits it recoils from into Alphas, and then looks surprised when we don’t fit in their modern cosmopolitan society. Dominants are territorial, it’s all tribal instinct and anthropological imperatives, and we’re just meant to ignore it because it doesn’t fit with the modern ideas of freewill and free thought.”
“Doms aren’t particularly territorial.” Greg corrected gently. “That’s an Alpha trait, and not all Doms are Alphas.”
John waved him off dismissively. “Not all Alphas are strong Doms, but all strong Doms are Alphas.”
“I’m not,” he continued seeing Greg open his mouth, “talking about your average Joe off the street Greg. It’s not...”
John trailed off, searching for words. Greg let him think and finished his ale while he waited.
“Alpha Doms are protective because once upon a time it served a purpose.” John finally said. “It comes from the same instinctive root as racial prejudice. It’s an instinctive way to recognise outsiders who might harm the family group. Does it serve a purpose now, no. Is it correct, no,” John sighed, “but it’s one thing to consciously overcome inbuilt prejudices, and it’s another thing all together to suddenly be told not to protect your family group, and if you try...”
It was this kind of debate Greg always avoided because he couldn’t get into it without revealing himself, but John already knew and Greg had asked knowing from experience John was a rambling philosopher once he’d had alcohol. Besides, Greg was willing to do a lot if it got rid of the flat distant tone in John’s voice. Given the technical edge John was giving the subject matter you’d at least hope for a level of boredom or disdain, but an emeritus professor standing in front of first year students for the 500th time had more life in him than John. There was more life in a morgue than John.
“But like I said John,” Greg began carefully, “protectiveness is an Alpha trait not a Dominant one so you can’t be any worse than any other Alpha out there.”
“You’re the one who talked about how Dominant traits complement Alpha ones and enhanced them.” John countered.
Greg had to concede that. He’d never really followed his thought process through, other than to idly note which traits he had as an Alpha, which he was missing, and how they countered his Submissive ones the same way Dominant traits would have complemented. The logical follow on was that the stronger the Dom, the more the Alpha-ness was enhanced.
John was a very strong Dom. Did that make him ‘more’ Alpha than Greg?
“You don’t like that idea,” John took a mouthful.
No, Greg had to admit he didn’t. The idea that he was less of an Alpha just because he was a Sub wasn’t something his very Alpha pride liked. He could handle being mistaken for a pathetically weak Dom, but the idea that made him less who he was, and that other Alphas might look down on him for it as Alphas not as Doms, wasn’t comfortable.
“Mycroft mentioned something yesterday,” he started. “Well, he didn’t really mention it. It was more that it came up in conversation and he said, it was more of an attitude, but it seems sort of like you’re...apparently he sees normal Doms as below his notice and out of control.”
“Of course he does.” John snorted into his ale. “Mycroft’s an extraordinarily strong Dominant. Why would he waste his attention on ordinary people?”
Greg wasn’t sure if John’s comment was sarcastic, rhetorical or genuine. This must have shown on his face because John rolled his eyes and continued, voice flavouring with exasperation that Greg tried to remind himself was better than how he’d sounded previously. It wasn’t easy with the exasperation aimed at him.
“Greg, you are in an entirely unique position to understand this. Try and think about it.”
John, Greg decided was at least still politer than his Omega when calling Greg an unobservant idiot.
“I don’t-”
“Think about the Yard.” John said firmly. “Think about who fights the most, the conflicts that go on.”
Greg’s first reaction was ‘Sherlock and everyone’, followed quickly by ‘why am I doing this’ and then ‘Sally and Anderson’. There were more than a few DCs, DS and DIs that regularly sniped and a couple of Constables who had been transferred after they proved unable to tolerate each other. That was a very black mark on your record though, that you had that little control, so most people kept it more subtle than the all-out fist fights that had severely crippled the hapless Constables’ careers.
“It’s just a normal work place,” Greg protested. “A bit more high stress than most maybe, but normal. It’s not like we get people throwing punches.”
“I don’t mean fist fights, Greg. Conflicts don’t have to be physical.”
“No,” Greg admitted. “Sally and Anderson keep falling out, but there’s a lot of stress there, especially as he’s being an idiot. Georgez and Mason keep having minor tussles, but so does Tucker and a whole bunch of other people.”
Greg sipped his ale and rolled his shoulders, ignoring the twinge in the right.
“If you’re trying to get me to note they’re all Doms, well, Doms are more aggressive and there are plenty of Subs who-”
John shook his head.
“I’m trying,” he stressed the word, “to get you to note the pattern: Doms of a similar Dominance level fighting for standing in the pack structure because neither clearly outranks the other; Alphas who are weaker Doms than their challengers constantly trying to reaffirm their rank. Civilised society.” John spat out the last words as if they were poison.
“So what you’re saying is that the reason Doms have so much trouble working together is because they’re all locked into some primitive struggle for places in the pecking order?”
“It’s why in the military a commanding officer is always clearly more dominant than any of the Doms they’re over, yes.”
“But-”
“Dominance is primitive, Greg. It doesn’t fit in anymore, but they keep breeding it into us and polarising things: the strong Doms get stronger, the weak Doms get weaker until you have Alphas like you on one end and Mycroft on the other.”
“This is why you’re so unassuming isn’t it?” Greg made an intuitive leap.
John shrugged. “I have no need to challenge them. I’m clearly above them, so why bother. There isn’t a Dom in the Yard I couldn’t floor, and now they know that too. There’s no need to reaffirm it. No one could challenge me, so why bother with them?”
“So weaker Doms squabble more and stronger Doms don’t feel the need?” Greg was intrigued despite himself. He knew John was deliberately driving them further off topic, but it was a fascinating insight into both John and Mycroft.
“Not quite,” John hedged. “There’s no driver to challenge a significantly weaker Dom. It’d be like a lion challenging a domestic kitten.”
“But two lions...” Greg tailed off.
“Pretty much. Look at it this way,” John actually swung his stool to face Greg. There was still a shadow hanging over his face, but he’d done a good job thrusting it all away into his own store-and-ignore box. “You’ve known Sherlock six or so years, yeah? How long have you known Mycroft? Three?”
“And a half.” Greg mumbled self-consciously into his glass.
“And a half.” John allowed. “It’s not like he pounced on you straight up though. I’d go so far as to say he didn’t approach you ‘til something happened, enough to force him to need to use you.”
“I’m not a-” Greg scowled. John raised an eyebrow and Greg stopped. “Just after Sherlock’s second escape from rehab. He appeared on my couch.”
“You became useful,” John remarked dryly. “Bet he never bothered to Dom you either.”
“He tried to intimidate me.” Greg growled. “It’ve been against all good manners to have tried to Dom me.”
“And a foregone conclusion so there was no need.”
“Oh so he tried to Dom you then did he?” Greg snarled.
John wasn’t trying to be insulting and hurtful, Greg didn’t think, but that didn’t mean his insinuations weren’t pulling at Greg’s rather tender sense of self.
“Yes.” John replied bluntly.
“What, really?”
“Really. Course I tried to do the same back. Nothing as obvious as using active verbal Dominance of course, but there were certainly boundaries tested. I’d known Sherlock less than a day.”
“Uh...” Greg wanted to ask, but wasn’t sure how.
“He’s stronger, but without actively trying to overpower each other I’d like to think we came out even. It’s not,” John hesitated. “A lot of Doms think it’s just about the active Dominance you assert. It’s not, it’s in everything - posture, words, gait, body language, reactions. Passive. I can’t explain more than that.”
“It sounds like a different language.”
“It’s not really, people have just forgotten how to speak it. They can still hear it and recognise most of the stronger Doms, but they’re like children babbling with their attempts to copy it all. The average Dom’s body language gives me a headache because it’s almost right, but not. It’s like ...a really thick accent and they can’t annunciate.”
Greg absently traced a finger around the droplets of water on the bar. “You mean they can’t channel their Dominance through their body language.” He could still remember his shock when Mycroft had Dommed him purely with his eyes. “Why isn’t this more widely known?”
“Two-tiered society.” John replied promptly. “It’s our nature, but it’s no longer considered polite so people hide it. My bearer must have been one of the old family Omegas for me to be as strong as I am. It certainly wasn’t inherited from my Sire. I guarantee the Holmeses know all this, but it’s been bred almost out of people in general.”
“To be a Holmes is to know all.” Greg snorted.
John laughed into his ale, a strained, but genuine, sound. “Bout time you figured that out.”
“Well, us lesser beings take time.” Greg teased.
“More time than our Lords and Masters generally appreciate.”
Greg and John clinked glasses and chugged back the remains of their drinks in unison. It was a fairly even race: John had been in the army, but Greg was a police officer.
It was good. John seemed much better, much lighter. There was even some colour in his cheeks and his good humour was back, the John Watson Greg knew not the sour despondent Alpha who’d walked in. Sadly, Greg thought he’d avoided the subject long enough.
“Not that that wasn’t interesting, but why does that make you untrustworthy as a father?” Greg pressed.
John’s face shuttered and he turned his bar stool back to the bar. “It just does.”
“John.”
“Greg.”
“John.”
“Greg.”
“John, I’m serious.”
“So am I!” John’s fingers clanged on the bar surface. “Don’t you get it? Jesus, Greg.”
“Well, sorry I’m not a super Alpha like you.” Greg snapped. “But-”
“Sherlock was thirty when I met him. Thirty and his brother had a security team following him, tracking his every move and threatening anyone who might get close to him who might be a challenge. I’m still trying to find out the price of letting me move in, but I suspect Mummy was involved. When I found out Sherlock was an Omega, I approved of Mycroft’s actions, I was angry that I was allowed to live there because that meant Mycroft had stopped protecting him as much as he should have. An unbonded Omega and Mycroft had let me, an unbonded Alpha, move in!
“My sister is almost forty now and I can’t stay out of her life despite the fact it makes her hate me. She’s been married and divorced and I can barely limit my need to take control of everything and run her life for her.
“You, do you know how hard it was not to drag you back to Baker Street and force you to quit your addiction, to sit there over you and watch everything. Take away your bank card, and your accounts, and put you on an allowance until you were better.
“None of you are weak people. You’re an Alpha, she’s a Dom, Sherlock is Sherlock, who has the most forceful personality of anyone I’ve ever met. It doesn’t stop this need to wrap you all in cotton wool and take care of you, never let anyone near any of you. A baby?” John’s voice choked up. “I’d destroy his life before he had a chance to live it. Assuming I didn’t chase Sherlock off first.”
“Sherlock would never leave you.” It was the only thing Greg could say, his head still reeling from John’s angry confession.
“Yes, he would. I’d cage him and he’d rebel against it. How could he not? He’s an independent minded adult, he has his own life, needs it to keep going, and I’d be hard pressed not to put a padlock on his door. It’s already so hard, so hard not to reduce him to so much less than he is. If he were pregnant? I’d be a monster, Greg and sooner or later he’d start sneaking around behind my back doing things, lying about it, and I’d come home and...” John’s head was in his hands, fingers clenched around the army short strands.
“He’s your Omega, John your Sub.”
“Do not say it’d be fine.” John broke in fiercely. “Being his Dom doesn’t give me control over his whole life. Being a Sub doesn’t mean he’ll put up with it. There’s a difference between dynamic and personality, and enjoying the freedom from control and thought at times doesn’t mean he’s the kind of person to roll over and accept my attempts to destroy him.”
Greg felt like he was treading water while being circled by sharks and was slowly sinking under the water.
“You don’t know-”
“Yes, I do.” John whispered. He sounded desolate. Mourning the relationship he hadn’t lost yet? “It’s happened before.”
With Sherlock Greg would have pulled him over and taken his hand in support. With John, he merely rested a fist on his shoulder briefly and then let it drop.
“Tell me.” He kept his voice calm and firm, the voice he used for interrogations when he was dealing with distraught witnesses, victims or occasionally perpetrators.
“There’s nothing to-”
“John.”
John swallowed.
“Did I ever tell you I’d been engaged?” He spoke, but didn’t lift his head off his hands.
“No.”
Greg had thought John had been relatively ambivalent to relationships his whole life. There had certainly never been any comments or hints that he’d been in such a long term committed relationship before Sherlock, and his fling with Sarah had never seemed particularly serious despite everything.
“While I was studying. We’d been to school together and then both came down to London to study. We weren’t together then, but we were by our second year.” John drained the rest of his ale.
Greg briefly considered ordering scotch instead, but decided at the rate John was going through his pints that wouldn’t be a good idea. The replacement pint was delivered and John kept going.
“Her name was Mary. She was beautiful; blonde and graceful. I’d pulled her pigtails in grade school. She threw mud at me in revenge. Blue eyes like the summer sky we see on the movies and never get, you could lose yourself in them for hours. She was studying history, planning on being a teacher when she was done given there’s not much more you could do with a history degree. I was going to be a Doctor, a Surgeon, specialise in something relating to children. That one was her idea. Cardiac surgeon specialising in children. She liked that.
“Everything was great. I proposed in my last year. She’d already finished her History degree and was almost finished with her degree in education. She said yes, we moved in together.”
The pint occupied John’s hands as he stared straight ahead. He wasn’t even looking as far as the back of the bar, just into thin air as the ale moved mechanically up and down, drinking while he talked.
“I thought it was perfect. I thought we were charmed, that things would work, that I could relax a little of that control. So I did, more and more I was me around her. She was my fiancée, if anyone could handle the Alpha it’d be her right?
“It was gradual. I thought part of it was the stress of the wedding, all the planning. She started getting evasive about where she’d been, probably in reaction to me being more demanding about it. I preferred her friends to come over to our place than her go meet them somewhere else. I never stopped her going, but she could tell I wasn’t happy about it. It kept creeping: she’d avoid so I’d be more possessive, so she’d evade me more. It’s so obvious … well, hindsight’s 20/20 and all.
“I didn’t see it at the time. I thought she was fine, handling it, that we were fine. I started looking into flats and schools for her to work at that were close to Barts so I could visit her at lunch. Walk her there in the mornings, walk her home at night. I would arrange my shifts around her, of course.” John’s eyes clouded over.
“It was a Wednesday. I remember that, still. It was a Wednesday and it was sunny. I got home early because of that. I thought we could go for a walk while the weather was nice. She loved the park.” John trailed off and sat there, remembering.
“John?” Greg asked gently.
“I got home early.” John’s voice was automatic and mechanical. “She was packing. There was another Alpha there, in our flat, helping her, moving things, touching her. I don’t know what was said, things must have been said. I remember the feeling of his nose shattering under my fist and how it felt to pummel him into oblivion. I remember what he looked like on our floor as the police dragged me off him and Mary kneeling next to him crying, trying to stop the bleeding.
“I was in the holding cells overnight. Mary came and visited me. I thought she was there to bail me out, but all she did was stand on the other side and yell about how she couldn’t deal with me anymore. I was destroying her life, and how could anyone put up with my issues, my possessiveness, my need to control everything. How could anyone put up with me? What had I expected would happen when I turned into such a primitive nutjob? No one could live with that. No one would want to.
“They didn’t lay charges. The police considered it a row between two Alphas over a Sub and he didn’t press either. He was strong enough to know, strong enough to be a challenger, so he knew, I can remember that. He must have lived, or they’d have charged me with that though.
“It was strongly recommended I get anger management help, join an organisation to give me structure. They were hardly subtle: the army brochures were given to me with my effects. Battlefield medicine sounded more like me than children’s cardiac surgeon any day, so I signed up within the week. It was only a month until graduation. I missed the ceremony.” The pint glass landed with a thud on the bar. "There, happy now?"
John’s trust issues, his extreme reaction to Sherlock’s failing to tell him about Greg and Mycroft, his forbearance when it came to giving orders, let alone actively Dominanting anyone, doubly remarkable for someone with a military background, it all was so simply and tragically explained.
“I can’t lose Sherlock that way, Greg.” A lone tear trailed down John’s cheek. “Mary was hard, but not that bad. Not in the long term, not really. Sherlock, it would kill me if he left. Even knowing I’d made him feel that way, I-I...”
“Hey, hey.” Greg clumsily patted John’s shoulder, slightly panicked. He’d never actually seen John cry, though he’d been close last time they talked about kids in this pub.
“I love him, Greg. It’s not just that we’re Bonded, he saved me and I love him. It terrifies me how much. I look at him sometimes and I want to tear everything off him and wrap him in my clothes so there’s no doubt he’s mine. I want to tattoo my name all over him, mark him indelibly as mine, and the only reason I can hold back is the fact he’s wearing my collar. I want to see him with our child, but I want it so much it can’t be safe for either of them.
“Especially,” John’s voice broke, “as Sherlock doesn’t want that. I can’t force him into it, I just can’t.”
“Now that is not true.” Greg couldn’t let that one stand. “Sherlock wants it as much as you do.”
“It’d get in the way too much.” John refused to listen. “He wouldn’t be able to take cases while he was pregnant and afterwards there’d be a baby, and he’s been so stressed this past fortnight worrying he was pregnant and-”
“John!” Greg forced John’s stool around to face him. “Shut up and listen to me. Sherlock wasn’t acting out because he was worried he was pregnant, he was worried he wasn’t. Sherlock wants a baby too. More than anything. I’m here because he ran into the house without even seeing me and threw himself at Mycroft for comfort in floods of tears. He wants a baby, and it’s hurting him as much as it’s hurting you.”
“That’s not-”
“Mycroft told me.” Greg interrupted and continued. “I think we can both say he would know, and the Omega I saw tonight was beyond devastated.” He let his voice gentle. “The two of you need to talk. Both of you have been stressed about this and because you won’t just talk it’s harder than it needs to be on both of you.”
John didn’t look convinced, but his gaze did at least look regretful. “I’ve been neglecting him, I know, but I just couldn’t risk-”
“He doesn’t know that. I bet you’ve never told him about Mary. He’s probably feeling even worse because you’ve withdrawn from him and he doesn’t know why.”
John had the grace to look ashamed.
“Here’s what we’re going to do,” Greg said waving for the bill. “We’re going to get a cab and go back to mine. Then you are going to comfort and look after your Sub, not his brother, and you two are going to talk and get back on the same page since at some point you stopped reading in unison. Okay?”
John looked like he was going to protest, but shook his head and merely said “okay” in a subdued voice.
Greg hid his wince at the tab. Good thing he wasn’t actually broke.
The trip from the Pub back to Mycroft’s was spent in silence, Greg eyeing the meter hesitantly and John tucked up in to a ball doing what sounded like breathing exercises.
Greg wondered how much of their conversation applied to Mycroft: Dom and Omega.
John clenched and unclenched his hands.
The cold clear air as Greg dove out of the cab on arrival was such a relief after the tense atmosphere inside. John followed more slowly and to Greg’s relief paid the cab fare.
The light was still on in the library, shining out behind the curtains. Greg unlocked the door and stepped inside, closing it behind himself and John. Concentrating on the lock he could hear John take a couple of bewildered steps before they froze. When Greg looked up John was staring into the library with such a pained expression on his face it made Greg’s heart hurt.
“Sherlock...” The name was an agonised whimper more than a word.
“Go to him.” Greg pushed on John’s shoulder, urging him forward.
Mycroft had managed to get the two of them slightly more comfortably situated on the couch while Greg had been gone, but the book still lay on the carpet and tea on the side table. Sherlock still lay there as well, curled into a ball, pale skin barely visible between black hair and black coat, pressed as deeply into the shelter of Mycroft’s arms as was possible.
The elder Holmes didn’t even bother to look up as John rushed in and fell to his knees next to the couch, Greg hanging back in the doorway. The younger didn’t look capable of doing so. He looked like he was bordering on Subdrop, a thought not helped by the way Mycroft was protectively position around him, the text book image of a Dom comforting a dropping Submissive family member.
“Sherlock, oh love, Sherlock.” John’s trembling fingers pushed damp curls off Sherlock’s cheeks where tears had stuck them to his skin. “Oh God, what have I done.”
Shaking fingers brushed back over the newly revealed skin.
“John?” Greg couldn’t see Sherlock’s eyes, but his voice was hoarse and thready.
“Yes, yes I’m here.” John’s hand smoothed over Sherlock’s hair, unable to keep from touching his Sub. “I’m here.”
Neither Greg or John expected Sherlock to shrink away from the touch and bury himself deeper into Mycroft’s jacket with an anguished cry.
“Sherlock...” John was close to tears himself. “Sherlock, please, look at me. Please.”
Sherlock buried himself deeper between Mycroft and the couch.
“Look at me, please, look at me.” John’s fingers hovered off Sherlock’s shoulder, unsure whether he was allowed to touch.
Slowly Sherlock pulled back and lifted his face. His eyes were swollen and red, porcelain complexion blotchy and tear streaked.
“I’m sorry.” He whispered brokenly. “I’m so sorry.”
“Sorry? Oh love, you have nothing to be sorry for.” John leant his forehead against Sherlock’s.
Sherlock pulled away roughly. “Yes, I, I couldn’t even...” His voice faltered and a fresh wave of tears rolled down his cheeks. “You can have it back if you want.”
“Have what back?” John looked bewildered, still reaching for Sherlock. “Come here, please come here.”
“The ... collar.” Sherlock choked back.
John froze.
“Are,” he licked his lips, “are you giving it back?”
“If, if you w-want it. “
Greg tried to unwrap his hand from around the door frame, but couldn’t. He wasn’t watching this, he couldn’t possibly be watching the end of the best relationship he knew. Could he?
What hope did the rest of them have?
“If you want me to.” John’s voice was stable, completely the opposite of his body.
“I-I...”
“Why? Please Sherlock, tell me why. I know I’ve been neglecting you lately, I know things have been bad, but, but, w-hy?” John lost his control and was forced to lean on the edge of the couch.
“Because you want children. I k-know you do, I see the way you look at me, and I...” Sherlock buried his face back into Mycroft.
“You don’t?” Maybe John had believed Greg more than Greg thought, because there was genuine heartbreak and loss of hope in that question.
Sherlock’s head shot up. “Of course I do.”
“Then what’s the problem? Why are you...” John couldn’t finish, couldn’t say ‘leaving me’.
“Because I, ... again...”
John seized Sherlock and dragged him closer, almost pulling him off the couch. “I want our children Sherlock. Not children in general. Our children.”
Sherlock’s hand tentatively wrapped around the collar of John’s jacket. “But what if I... if I can’t...”
“Then I have you. That will always be enough.” John whispered fiercely. “I love you, and I never want to be without you.”
Sherlock tumbled off the couch in what was possibly a planned manoeuvre, but looked more like frantic scrambling as he buried himself in John’s arms instead.
“You are amazing.” John whispered. “You are amazing and you are mine and we will keep trying and trying, but if it doesn’t happen then it’s just not meant to be and I still have the most important thing.”
“I’m a failure.” Sherlock choked out from John’s neck.
“You are a brilliant detective who catches the worst criminals England can summon for a living. You’re an athlete, a scientist and a great person. You are not a failure.”
Mycroft slid off the couch and carefully moved around the two huddled on the floor, rescuing the book on the way. Following Mycroft’s lead, Greg let himself be drawn away from the door.
“Why are you like this, Sherlock? You don’t care -”
“I …you’d leave...”
The voices faded as Greg and Mycroft moved towards the stairs.
“Do you think they’ll stay?” Greg looked back towards the library, pausing at the bottom of the stairs.
A couple of steps above him, Mycroft shook his head.
“John will feel more comfortable with Sherlock back inside his own territory, as will Sherlock. I imagine they’ll head home when they’re able.”
Greg nodded and chewed his lip. “I never... Sherlock has never... why would he think John would leave because he wasn’t pregnant?”
Mycroft’s footsteps froze suspiciously on the stairs. When Greg looked up his lover was more reminiscent of a statue than a living breathing person.
“My?” He walked carefully up to him and stroked the sleeve of his jacket.
“It’s our role isn’t it?” Mycroft’s voice was distant. “It’s all Omegas are good for, breeding.”
“That’s not true.” Greg kept his voice soft. “Not anymore.”
“Not everyone believes that.” Mycroft turned brusquely and continued up the stairs.
Greg followed, feeling the urge to go in and smash everything in the Green Room.
“Can I just hold you tonight?” He asked impulsively.
He felt too wrung out to go through a session tonight, and more than a little tipsy from the ale without dinner, despite drinking nowhere near the number John had.
The stillness that settled over Mycroft’s figure wasn’t the icy freeze Greg’s earlier comment had elicited, but it wasn’t the posture of someone comfortable with the discussion.
“If that’s what you wish.” Mycroft’s voice was carefully controlled.
“Hey,” Greg grabbed at Mycroft’s sleeve and waited until he faced him. “If you still need space, it’s okay, I understand. I can sleep in my room tonight.”
He didn’t want Mycroft to say yes, but he’d rather that if it meant Mycroft actually slept in a bed rather than on a couch somewhere.
“That might be best.” Mycroft took the final step, walked down the hallway and into his room, letting the door fall shut with a soft click, clearly audible from Greg’s position on the stairs.
Feeling old, Greg walked up the last few steps himself and paused in front of Mycroft’s door. So much for his hopes that Mycroft might be okay after last night.
“Good night, My. I’ll see you in the morning.” He gently ran a finger down the door before turning and walking into his room.
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Anyone surprised that Mycroft is freaking out on the inside? Anyone? No? But it's sssuuuccchhhh a surprise!
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