Though I Walk Through the Valley (19/38)
Though I Walk through the Valley
Title:Though I Walk through the Valley (19/38)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: Second chapter! This is the start of a more indepth look at some of Greg's cases, relationships, and general life at the Yard. Hopefully it'll end up an interesting bit of case that will help add a bit of colour and scope to the world for you.
Warnings: None for this chapter
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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The bed was far too big. Greg lay there in the centre, on the left, on the right, and turned over and over. He resisted the urge to sit up and punch his pillow back into shape. The pillow was new, never used, the filling perfectly distributed inside its fabric casing. There was no point giving in to his frustrations and taking it out on the hapless pillow, just because he couldn’t sleep.
He turned over onto his other side and tucked a hand under his cheek. Then he moved it under the pillow. Then in a fit of temper he hurled the pillow across the room and pulled another from the stack next to him. It wasn’t as though he was running short.
Everything about sleeping in this room, ‘his room’, bothered him. Not the fact that he was, he could understand that Mycroft still needed space, but physically he was having trouble sleeping despite the alcohol and emotional exhaustion.
The mattress was slightly firmer than his one back at his flat and a million times more comfortable without the worn down grooves from years of use. This was the first time Greg had used it, possibly the first time it had ever been used. He’d lived with Mycroft for weeks and he’d never even lain on ‘his’ bed.
That was the problem, Greg realised. He hadn’t spent any time in this room; it wasn’t ‘his’. He felt like he was sleeping in the guest room, which as far as he’d been viewing things wasn’t far off. The only use he’d made of it was effectively as a dressing room. Boxes still littered the floor, pushed neatly back against the wall, but still there. Other than his exercise gear and work clothes even the rest of his wardrobe was still boxed up waiting for attention.
He wasn’t sure what to put out in the way of photos and knickknacks from before, didn’t know whether he could put holes in the wall to hang pictures or not. The bookshelves were still empty though and he had no excuse there. The room was artificially neat and ordered. It wasn’t his room. It was just a room with a bed.
He hadn’t had any such trouble sleeping in the Master bedroom where he was arguably even more of a guest than in here. Was that because it was Mycroft’s room, was he having trouble sleeping because there wasn’t Mycroft here with him?
Greg rolled over again then got out of bed and strode over to the heavy curtains, yanking them open in defiance of the pull cord.
Light streamed through the gap he’d created leaving him silhouetted on the floor. The warm glow from the street lamps mingled with the stark moonlight and the occasional harsh beam of headlights as a car passed with a silent purr beneath him.
The Holmes’s townhouse faced other buildings rather than one of the parks. The lights were off and curtains drawn, all except one of the buildings where the faintest gleam still showed around the drapes.
A cat yowled and ran down the road. In the stillness Greg could hear the slight chiming of a bell. Someone’s purebred pet, undoubtedly worth thousands, had escaped and was making a dash for freedom.
The thought of opening the window entered and left Greg’s mind. There was nothing opening the window could do to relieve the restlessness he felt.
The lights from a taxi swept along the road, arching brightly into Greg’s window. The beam sharply illuminated the white wall of the building opposite, then fell to rest on the black bitumen, engine thrumming as the driver put it in neutral to wait.
The door for the house with the light opened and two young boys stepped through. The backpacks said they’d been studying, the giggling and pecking kisses the one was leaving over the other’s face suggested they’d been doing more than studying. The one higher on the steps, still within the bounds of the doorway, seemed to urge the other to leave, but was coaxed back twice for more kisses, one of them much more than innocent.
The spell that fell over them afterwards, gazing infatuatedly into each other’s eyes, was broken by the cabbie revving the cab. Giggling the Alpha, Greg assumed he was an Alpha, was pushed away by his Omega, forcing him down the steps to the pavement, feigning heartbreak at the separation. The Omega bit his lip, probably blushing, but Greg was too far away to see in the moonlight, as the other boy kissed his fingers like some courtly prince from a story and disappeared into the cab. The door shut and after a few moments the light disappeared as well.
‘Young love,’ Greg smiled wistfully. The kids would probably see each other in school in a few hours and counting, but at that age every second seemed to count. Another similarity between his world and Mycroft’s, though at home he would have assumed one if not both of the boys were Betas, and another teenage experience he suspected both of them had missed out on.
The pyjamas rustled around his legs as he returned to the bed, leaving the curtains open, the lights of London reminding him of another inconsistency about tonight and his life for the last few weeks. The nights in Mycroft’s bed had been spent at most in pants. Mycroft would always redress, sliding on silk or satin pyjama sets, but Greg had never moved any into Mycroft’s room and certainly never felt the need to leave and fetch night wear after their nightly seasons.
This was also the first night in months he was going to bed without being taken down to Subspace and sex. It really was no wonder he was too keyed up to sleep.
With an exhale he let himself fall backwards on the bed, arms outstretched, staring up at the shadowed ceiling. The light threw the ceiling rose into a mess of blurred contrasts and stark details. It was nothing like his plain white dingy ceiling in his old place. Here the shadows were intricate curls, not cobwebs that would never dare reside in any house maintained by Mrs Potts.
Greg rolled over again and tucked his feet in under the covers. Eventually he drew them over his body as well. Then he flipped over and stared the other way for a bit. Then he flopped back.
Somehow, eventually he slept.
Morning was both too soon and not soon enough. Routine woke Greg early enough for his run, all to the good as he hadn’t remembered to set an alarm, the usual one being in the other room. He debated not going and trying to snatch a few more minutes sleep, but the same restlessness that hadn’t let him sleep the night before wouldn’t let him fall back to sleep then either, so eventually he rolled out of bed and debated the merits of a shortened run or a long shower and starting work early, maybe cutting down some of the detritus already beginning to sneak into his in-tray.
The roll of thunder and pitter patter of rain weighed heavily for the latter.
Mycroft’s door was shut as Greg went for his shower and still shut when he emerged afterwards washed and freshly shaven.
He had some extra time before work, thanks to skipping his morning run, and his Uncle had taught him a few things whenever Greg was sent to him because things weren’t all that good at home. If not for his pitying, self-righteous cousins they would have been some of the best times of Greg’s life.
“My,” Greg knocked gently on the door. “I was thinking of doing crepes for breakfast. If you’re up to it of course.” He added quickly.
There was movement on the other side and the door eased open carefully.
“No, run this morning?” Mycroft hid a yawn behind his hand.
“Slept in.” Greg answered truthfully, leaving out the part about barely slept.
Even Mycroft Holmes looked adorably tousled straight out of bed in the morning. His dark hair was kept short, but that didn’t stop a brave wisp at the back trying to curl or prevent the tuft above his right ear sticking up in completely the wrong direction. Nor was Mycroft immune to pillow imprints on his cheek or the general air of cuddliness that surrounded the half asleep.
Greg resisted the urge to tuck the hair back down behind Mycroft’s ear properly as he blinked rapidly in sleepy confusion.
“I was thinking of making crepes for breakfast.” Greg repeated.
Mycroft nodded slowly in acknowledgement of Greg’s statement. He didn’t reply, just remained standing there, left arm leant against the doorway, right arm dangling nonchalantly at his side.
“Would you like some?” Greg asked hesitantly.
Mycroft swallowed convulsively several times in rapid succession.
“I think I might refrain this morning.” Mycroft leant his forehead on his forearm, elbow still braced against the door frame.
“My?” Greg held out a cautious hand, but was waved off. Mycroft’s right hand had wrapped around his waist.
“I think,” Mycroft’s voice was thick and he paused to press the back of his hand over his mouth, eyes closed as he swallowed rapidly. “If you might excuse...”
“Go, go.” Greg waved him away frantically.
The door fell shut and the quick shuffle of footsteps could be heard across carpet, followed by another door. Even though he couldn’t hear anymore, Greg could guess fairly easily where Mycroft had ended up. It was also fairly clear he didn’t want company for this, a fact for which Greg heartily didn’t blame him.
Instead Greg headed down to the kitchen and stared at the fridge for a bit. He could still make crepes, but his enthusiasm was more than slightly diminished, as he suspected Mycroft’s would be. Sighing Greg pulled out the milk and orange juice and poured himself a bowl of cereal. It was incredibly unsatisfying in comparison.
The bedroom door was (still) shut when Greg climbed back upstairs to clean his teeth, a silent command that the occupant didn’t want company yet, and probably wouldn’t until he was armoured in his bespoke suit and handmade shoes. Even Before Greg wasn’t sure Mycroft would have let Greg see him bent over a toilet heaving his guts out. The track pants had been amazing a sight enough. For such an image conscious person being watched vomiting must have been something relegated to nightmares.
Unable to leave without making some effort to care for his Omega, Greg left a glass of water and a glass of juice on the table, a tea cup and tea making equipment on the bench, and grouped a selection of fruit closer to the yoghurt in the fridge. He also removed Monday’s leftover lasagne before Mycroft saw it and got annoyed. It would do well for lunch.
The fire in the library had been carefully banked, and the book restored to its place on the bookshelf. The tea cup Mycroft had left as he’d diplomatically sidled out of the room had been washed and was next to the sink, so someone, probably John, had cleaned up before they had left last night. It slightly unnerved Greg that he didn’t know when John and Sherlock had left, despite lying awake in the same house.
Depleted bank balance or no, Greg had added one new indulgence into his life, and given it was even earlier than usual, Greg kept his pace slow and lingered in the cafe doorway.
“Morning, Inspector. You’re early. The usual?” The freckled uni student behind the counter gave Greg her most sincere smile.
“Yeah, thanks.” Greg returned her smile and rubbed his hands together, cursing the forgetfulness that had left his gloves at the Yard.
“Coming right up.” With a slight toss of her dark brown ponytail, she started on Greg’s morning saviour.
Tea and coffee were still prohibited items at the house under the iron law of Mrs Potts, and if Mycroft wasn’t allowed them Greg wasn’t brave enough to drink them in front of him. Tea he could manage at the Yard easily enough, but the swill the automated machine called coffee was good only for boredom and killing taste buds. It wasn’t even properly hot.
So Greg bought his coffee on the way, drank copious amounts of proper tea at work, and declined the disgusting herbal stuff Mycroft was reduced to drinking at home.
Mycroft knew Greg was cheating on the prohibition, and Greg knew Mycroft must know, but so far no comment had been made and Greg bought his little cup of heaven every morning to ride the Tube with.
“You’re earlier than usual. Don’t envy you out there in the cold, its frightful this morning. Just when we thought spring might be here. Susie was talking about heading down to the park, or maybe out to the countryside for a picnic yesterday. Certainly not so enthusiastic about that idea today I can tell you.” The hissing of the milk heating cut through the chatty barista’s low Northern burr.
Greg thought her name was Tamara, she didn’t wear a name tag. He knew from previous visits that Susie was a girl from uni, also studying criminology (or was it psychology?).
“Here ya go, Inspector.” The large cup of coffee was handed over with an even wider smile and Greg gratefully wrapped his fingers around it as Tamara fussed at the till and handed his change back.
The cheery wave as he left was more than necessary, he’d be back tomorrow without the enthusiastic service because the coffee really was that good, but at least she was still cheerful despite the early morning and university workload. If her cheerfulness verged on flirtatious, Greg was more than willing to be innocently flirted with for coffee this good by a pretty little Sub half his age.
Plonking down at his desk, coffee and cup long since disposed of, Greg allowed himself a few minutes respite before pulling off his scarf and overcoat, stuffing his gloves preventatively into the pockets, and hanging them on the coat rack in the pen.
Sally was by his door when he walked back.
“Sir.”
“Donovan.” He waved her in ahead of him. “You’re here early.”
She ignored his comment and sat in front of his desk, waiting for him to settle into his chair. As soon as he’d sat she had her notebook out and started.
“Forensic services want to meet about the Robinson case, work out what we want tested. The list of exhibits,” Greg dug into his inbox and found the appropriate list as she talked, “will need to be narrowed down.
The Robinson case was a stabbing outside a night club. There had been plenty of possible items collected for a variety of possible tests.
“Don’t bother with cigarette butts for now. The sister said our Vic didn’t smoke so unlikely he was out there for a ciggy with anyone.”
“No way of telling which butt would belong to our perp anyway.” Sally agreed. “Best they may be useful for is DNA to place him at the scene once we’ve ID’d him. Condoms?”
“More likely. They’re not going to like testing all,” he did a quick count, “thirty of them though.”
“It’s not a gay club.” Sally pulled a couple of photos out of the case file and studied the scene. “Vic was an Alpha. Think that wound could come from a Sub? I think a Beta, maybe, but I’m not sure a woman could have.”
Greg accepted the photos and frowned at the wound. “I think a strong woman could. What does pathology say?”
“Still waiting.”
“Any cameras come through yet?”
“Only one’s real. They were meant to send it yesterday. Only covers the entrance, but...”
“Better than nothing.” They sat in silence a few minutes, both going over their notes.
“What do you think?” Greg asked. He had his theory, but he wanted to hear hers.
“Not whoever he was with.” Sally replied promptly. “Robinson liked his Subs small and delicate. Can’t see one of them managing to do that.”
Greg nodded in agreement. He’d noticed the photos at Robinson’s place and assuming he’d kept to his almost ethereal preference, it was hard to imagine one of them going for him and succeeding.
“Dom then.”
“If she,” all the Subs in the photos had been female, “already had a Dom, especially one there... Poaching is not taken well.”
“Mmm.” Greg hummed in non-committal agreement.
“Or he went out alone and it’s drugs, maybe a deal gone bad.” Sally finished.
Greg sighed and wished for pathology. It was certainly a valid option until ruled out.
“You, sir?” Sally asked.
“Don’t disagree.” Greg flipped through a couple of pages in his notes. “Be easier with the footage and pathology. Huh...” He paused and read something.
Sally leant over the desk and started reading his notes upside down. By now she was used to his handwriting. “Bartender doesn’t recall him talking to any women, but he was talking briefly to a young male Sub at the bar. Could be something. Not his usual type.”
“But could have possibly managed the injury.” Greg flipped a few more pages, but if any further thought had been spared for the Sub by the bartender, Greg hadn’t noted it down. “Might be worth getting some more information while we wait for the rest.”
Sally nodded and noted it in her personal notebook, the non-official one she used for brainstorming, lists and the betting pool.
“We need to go lean on someone about the footage if it isn’t here by lunch.”
Sally noted that too.
“And what tests do we want to request from forensics when we meet today?” She asked.
Greg scanned his copy of the exhibit list and shoved it back in its manila folder in his tray.
“Leave it. There’s nothing on there until we have a suspect. I’ll send an email putting a hold on the testing until pathology’s back and we have the footage. Maybe they can clear some of the backlog of other stuff we’ve requested instead.”
Sally snorted in disbelief, but didn’t comment.
“Okay,” she shoved the photos back in the case file and cycled it to the bottom of the stack. “Peterson, Kelly.”
Greg pulled the crime scene photos towards him to refresh his memory. “That’s the girl who died six months ago, yeah?”
“Kelly Peterson, 13, unpresented, found in a ditch three days after she failed to come home from Kendo practice.” Sally read out.
Greg remembered the case. It was the one he’d thoroughly shamed Dimmock about not calling in Sherlock when the girl was first missing and then found dead, letting the case go cold.
“What’s new?” Greg asked. Neither he nor Sally commented on the fact it had mysteriously surfaced in their stack of cases.
“Anonymous tip called in. Apparently she was seen in Ilford a couple of hours after practice.”
“Ilford.” Greg flipped quickly to the girl’s home address. “That’s the opposite side of town to where she lived.”
“Or where her Kendo lesson was.” Sally frowned and nibbled on her pen.
“We’ll need to find out whether she had any reason to be over there. Might’ve had a friend or someone, but it’s not likely.”
“Parents?” Sally drew a division on the page and started a new note.
“Parents.” Greg confirmed. “And one of us’ll need to review the reports in detail.
Sally nodded and kept writing as Greg put the folder away and grabbed the next one from the stack.
“John Doe.” Greg frowned as he pulled the file closer.
Sally pursed her lips and stabbed her pen into the page for the full stop. The John Doe scene was the one Greg had ended up throwing Sherlock off. It was not only difficult, it was highly emotional.
“Have we got anything?” Greg asked, totally resigned. “When are we getting the fingerprint report?”
Sally ran a hand through her hair. “Nothing and ‘as soon as possible.’”
“Well I’ll put that in my email as well.” Greg scrawled a note on his hand.
So far there were no missing persons reports that matched their corpse’s description, but all that meant was that he hadn’t been reported missing in the last week. Matching the case to the older records took time, time Greg didn’t have personally. He’d commandeered two DCs to trawl through the records, but they weren’t able to start until that afternoon. Until the fingerprint report came through they wouldn’t know if he was in the database for any priors or have any clue as to his identity.
“Do we have the pathology report?”
Sally gave him a look and Greg let the file fall to the desk with a thump.
“Thought not.”
There were no cameras in the area that would be any use, and the few neighbours who had opened their doors and not slammed them into the uniforms’ faces hadn’t been willing or able to say anything useful.
They needed Sherlock, but having kicked him off for bad behaviour Greg couldn’t bring him back without condoning the same, assuming Sherlock would even deign to look at it. When it came to pride, Sherlock was pricklier than an Alpha.
“I’ll try and get something from forensics.” Greg volunteered. “We need to get an ID to even know where to start.”
“Have they done a DNA search?” Sally asked.
“I hadn’t requested it.” Greg sighed. “They prefer to fingerprint first, you know that, but I’ll ask for that instead of any tests for the Robinson case yet. Given the circumstances he died under he just might have been arrested before.”
“Thankfully we haven’t destroyed all the samples yet.” Sally muttered darkly.
Greg left the comment alone. The decision of the European Court of Human Rights was as polarising among police services as the football was the general public.
“We’ll have to comb through the neighbours reports and crime scene shots again. See if there’s anything we’ve missed.”
Sally added ‘complete review’ to her list. Greg shuffled the case to the side and picked up the next folder.
“Oh, the assault at Stuart Street.”
“We wanted to speak to the Uncle.” Sally drew her line and started the next note.
“Yeah, and he should’ve arrived back,” Greg flipped back through his scrawled notes, “yesterday.”
“Need to speak to him in the next day or so then.” Sally sighed. “Hope he knows more about the kid than his parents did.”
“He was apparently close to the uncle. Well, is, I suppose. He’s in a coma, not dead.” Greg spoke around his pen. Chewing on pens had become his substitute for smoking.
“Then why didn’t he cut his trip short.” Sally asked icily.
Greg didn’t disagree with her.
“Might be something to ask Mr Carson when we talk to him.”
They talked through the couple of remaining open cases, debated a few theories and listed a couple of further tests for the forensic services lab to conduct, especially as for one case they had already arrested a suspect who was remanded in custody.
Eventually Greg sat back with a sigh and rubbed his eyes. They’d been at this for two hours, and it was still only just peaking quarter past nine.
“Coffee?” Sally asked, working the kinks out of her neck.
“Tea, unless you’re going out of the station.”
“That posh stuff your friend’s got ruined you for an honest cup of coffee has it, Sir?” Sally teased good naturedly. Greg mocked glared at her and she held up her hands in surrender. “Tea it is.”
It was good to see her smile as she walked out of the room. Between Greg’s mood swings and the latest debacle with Anderson it seemed like it had been too long. Ordinarily he’d take her down the pub, maybe with a few other DIs and Sergeants and have a good night to take her mind off things, but that wasn’t really an option now that he was meant to be saving money.
Absently rubbing his shoulder, Greg watched the hustle and bustle of the Yard. Groups collected then broke apart after morning greetings or information was passed on. Uniforms carried boxes of files in and out. Inspectors consulted with sergeants, length of interaction varying from brief conversations to detailed conferences. A couple of people threw glares at each other and tilted their chins aggressively as they moved quickly past each other. Dimmock could be seen yelling down his phone, clearly frustrated about something.
Sally arrived back with the tea, shutting the door to Greg’s office firmly behind her. Her gait over to the desk was stiff and her face painted a careful neutral.
Greg accepted his tea without comment. Whether she’d run into Anderson or Weatherly or was just self-conscious because her private life was so openly being played out at work, it was only his business if she made it so. Until she said something, he’d keep his peace just as she had done for him.
“So today’s plan?” She asked as she settled back into the chair.
“Why don’t you take the Robinson case, talk to the bartender and see about that footage. He liked the look of you last time, suspect you’d get more than me.”
Greg left unspoken that it would also get her away from the station and reduce the potential for any accidental run ins with Anderson to zero. It was true, after all, the bartender had been watching Sally out of the corner of his eye the entire time Greg had been trying to interview him. The Sub had clearly wished the straws had been drawn the other way and Greg had been interviewing the DJ instead.
“Can do.” Sally starred those items on her list.
“I’ll talk to forensics,” that had to come from him anyway to have any weight worth thinking about, “and the constables are going to start trawling for missing persons this afternoon, I’ll need to look in on them.
“Why don’t,” Greg rearranged things in his head, “we both head out to the uncle now, then I’ll come back and review the Peterson case, see if I can catch the parents this afternoon. That’ll let me check how they’re going with the missing persons. You can chase up the Bartender and surveillance footage, then meet me for the Parents if you’re done.”
“Sounds good, Sir.”
Neither of them mentioned that this allowed Greg to go to Susie Peterson’s parents via Sherlock, and that they’d maybe have some new leads before they even got to the interview.
“In that case,” Sally eyed her coffee with an expression of distaste, “how about we dump this and get some proper stuff on the way.”
“Well,” Greg hesitated.
“Come on, Sir, my shout.” Sally stood up. “You dispose of these, I’ll grab my coat.”
Greg sent her a mock salute and received a mock glare in return.
Disposing of the mugs had to wait because once Sally had ducked out, Anderson slunk in with the fingerprint report for John Doe. Greg skimmed the findings, nada, and sent him off again with orders for a DNA search and the other forensic requests he otherwise had to email through.
Why Anderson had felt the need to hand deliver a report not from his section Greg didn’t question, not after the snarky comment about Sally hiding away from the office. Greg had offered to let Anderson accompany Sally to the interviews instead of Greg himself and watched the other Alpha frantically back pedal, citing workloads and Greg’s DNA testing. He’d clearly come over to talk to Sally, maybe even to apologise, and had his courage fail on him.
Sympathetic as Greg was to their position and the issues Anderson was struggling with, he really was starting to wish they’d give up trying. Sally really could do better and it was becoming increasingly obvious that no matter how much he wanted to, Anderson couldn’t give it to her.
Sally was waiting in the car, though she didn’t say anything until after Greg had pulled out of the car park.
“Anything useful?”
It wasn’t quite ‘What did he want?’, but only because Sally did try to be professional.
“Fingerprint report.” Greg sighed. “Nothing so far. I’ve asked for DNA, but-”
“But if he was on record we’d have fingerprints. Familial search?”
“Yeah, but it’ll take months and we have nothing.”
“You can’t go to him.” Sally shot him a sharp look.
“I know.” Greg dug his fingers into the steering wheel. “Doesn’t mean I want to let it go cold.”
“We might have to.” Sally looked out the window, her mouth curled into a dissatisfied grimace.
“I know.” Greg took off from the lights slightly harder than was required.
“Hey,” Sally patted his knee. “We’ll find something. We always do.”
“I hope you’re right.”
The glaring problem was normally that something they found was given to them by Sherlock.
The uncle was upset about the attack on his nephew; perfectly so. Greg couldn’t say what it was about the whole situation, but something about it bothered him.
“What do you think?” He asked back in the car. Sally was driving this time.
“It was a very reasonable explanation.” Sally replied neutrally.
“Very.” Greg drummed his fingers on the console.
“It is understandable that he didn’t come back from a very important business conference in Scotland when he’d already been told everything over the phone and all he could do was hold his nephew’s hand and weep by his bed.”
“Sergeant Donovan, I do believe you’re becoming something of a cynic.”
“After four and a half years with you Sir, most would say it’s overdue.”
“Oi, what are you trying to say?”
“Nothing, Sir.” She grinned as she turned the key in the ignition and eased out into traffic. “Nothing at all.”
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Have a Merry Christmas all!
Previous - Next
Title:Though I Walk through the Valley (19/38)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: Second chapter! This is the start of a more indepth look at some of Greg's cases, relationships, and general life at the Yard. Hopefully it'll end up an interesting bit of case that will help add a bit of colour and scope to the world for you.
Warnings: None for this chapter
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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The bed was far too big. Greg lay there in the centre, on the left, on the right, and turned over and over. He resisted the urge to sit up and punch his pillow back into shape. The pillow was new, never used, the filling perfectly distributed inside its fabric casing. There was no point giving in to his frustrations and taking it out on the hapless pillow, just because he couldn’t sleep.
He turned over onto his other side and tucked a hand under his cheek. Then he moved it under the pillow. Then in a fit of temper he hurled the pillow across the room and pulled another from the stack next to him. It wasn’t as though he was running short.
Everything about sleeping in this room, ‘his room’, bothered him. Not the fact that he was, he could understand that Mycroft still needed space, but physically he was having trouble sleeping despite the alcohol and emotional exhaustion.
The mattress was slightly firmer than his one back at his flat and a million times more comfortable without the worn down grooves from years of use. This was the first time Greg had used it, possibly the first time it had ever been used. He’d lived with Mycroft for weeks and he’d never even lain on ‘his’ bed.
That was the problem, Greg realised. He hadn’t spent any time in this room; it wasn’t ‘his’. He felt like he was sleeping in the guest room, which as far as he’d been viewing things wasn’t far off. The only use he’d made of it was effectively as a dressing room. Boxes still littered the floor, pushed neatly back against the wall, but still there. Other than his exercise gear and work clothes even the rest of his wardrobe was still boxed up waiting for attention.
He wasn’t sure what to put out in the way of photos and knickknacks from before, didn’t know whether he could put holes in the wall to hang pictures or not. The bookshelves were still empty though and he had no excuse there. The room was artificially neat and ordered. It wasn’t his room. It was just a room with a bed.
He hadn’t had any such trouble sleeping in the Master bedroom where he was arguably even more of a guest than in here. Was that because it was Mycroft’s room, was he having trouble sleeping because there wasn’t Mycroft here with him?
Greg rolled over again then got out of bed and strode over to the heavy curtains, yanking them open in defiance of the pull cord.
Light streamed through the gap he’d created leaving him silhouetted on the floor. The warm glow from the street lamps mingled with the stark moonlight and the occasional harsh beam of headlights as a car passed with a silent purr beneath him.
The Holmes’s townhouse faced other buildings rather than one of the parks. The lights were off and curtains drawn, all except one of the buildings where the faintest gleam still showed around the drapes.
A cat yowled and ran down the road. In the stillness Greg could hear the slight chiming of a bell. Someone’s purebred pet, undoubtedly worth thousands, had escaped and was making a dash for freedom.
The thought of opening the window entered and left Greg’s mind. There was nothing opening the window could do to relieve the restlessness he felt.
The lights from a taxi swept along the road, arching brightly into Greg’s window. The beam sharply illuminated the white wall of the building opposite, then fell to rest on the black bitumen, engine thrumming as the driver put it in neutral to wait.
The door for the house with the light opened and two young boys stepped through. The backpacks said they’d been studying, the giggling and pecking kisses the one was leaving over the other’s face suggested they’d been doing more than studying. The one higher on the steps, still within the bounds of the doorway, seemed to urge the other to leave, but was coaxed back twice for more kisses, one of them much more than innocent.
The spell that fell over them afterwards, gazing infatuatedly into each other’s eyes, was broken by the cabbie revving the cab. Giggling the Alpha, Greg assumed he was an Alpha, was pushed away by his Omega, forcing him down the steps to the pavement, feigning heartbreak at the separation. The Omega bit his lip, probably blushing, but Greg was too far away to see in the moonlight, as the other boy kissed his fingers like some courtly prince from a story and disappeared into the cab. The door shut and after a few moments the light disappeared as well.
‘Young love,’ Greg smiled wistfully. The kids would probably see each other in school in a few hours and counting, but at that age every second seemed to count. Another similarity between his world and Mycroft’s, though at home he would have assumed one if not both of the boys were Betas, and another teenage experience he suspected both of them had missed out on.
The pyjamas rustled around his legs as he returned to the bed, leaving the curtains open, the lights of London reminding him of another inconsistency about tonight and his life for the last few weeks. The nights in Mycroft’s bed had been spent at most in pants. Mycroft would always redress, sliding on silk or satin pyjama sets, but Greg had never moved any into Mycroft’s room and certainly never felt the need to leave and fetch night wear after their nightly seasons.
This was also the first night in months he was going to bed without being taken down to Subspace and sex. It really was no wonder he was too keyed up to sleep.
With an exhale he let himself fall backwards on the bed, arms outstretched, staring up at the shadowed ceiling. The light threw the ceiling rose into a mess of blurred contrasts and stark details. It was nothing like his plain white dingy ceiling in his old place. Here the shadows were intricate curls, not cobwebs that would never dare reside in any house maintained by Mrs Potts.
Greg rolled over again and tucked his feet in under the covers. Eventually he drew them over his body as well. Then he flipped over and stared the other way for a bit. Then he flopped back.
Somehow, eventually he slept.
Morning was both too soon and not soon enough. Routine woke Greg early enough for his run, all to the good as he hadn’t remembered to set an alarm, the usual one being in the other room. He debated not going and trying to snatch a few more minutes sleep, but the same restlessness that hadn’t let him sleep the night before wouldn’t let him fall back to sleep then either, so eventually he rolled out of bed and debated the merits of a shortened run or a long shower and starting work early, maybe cutting down some of the detritus already beginning to sneak into his in-tray.
The roll of thunder and pitter patter of rain weighed heavily for the latter.
Mycroft’s door was shut as Greg went for his shower and still shut when he emerged afterwards washed and freshly shaven.
He had some extra time before work, thanks to skipping his morning run, and his Uncle had taught him a few things whenever Greg was sent to him because things weren’t all that good at home. If not for his pitying, self-righteous cousins they would have been some of the best times of Greg’s life.
“My,” Greg knocked gently on the door. “I was thinking of doing crepes for breakfast. If you’re up to it of course.” He added quickly.
There was movement on the other side and the door eased open carefully.
“No, run this morning?” Mycroft hid a yawn behind his hand.
“Slept in.” Greg answered truthfully, leaving out the part about barely slept.
Even Mycroft Holmes looked adorably tousled straight out of bed in the morning. His dark hair was kept short, but that didn’t stop a brave wisp at the back trying to curl or prevent the tuft above his right ear sticking up in completely the wrong direction. Nor was Mycroft immune to pillow imprints on his cheek or the general air of cuddliness that surrounded the half asleep.
Greg resisted the urge to tuck the hair back down behind Mycroft’s ear properly as he blinked rapidly in sleepy confusion.
“I was thinking of making crepes for breakfast.” Greg repeated.
Mycroft nodded slowly in acknowledgement of Greg’s statement. He didn’t reply, just remained standing there, left arm leant against the doorway, right arm dangling nonchalantly at his side.
“Would you like some?” Greg asked hesitantly.
Mycroft swallowed convulsively several times in rapid succession.
“I think I might refrain this morning.” Mycroft leant his forehead on his forearm, elbow still braced against the door frame.
“My?” Greg held out a cautious hand, but was waved off. Mycroft’s right hand had wrapped around his waist.
“I think,” Mycroft’s voice was thick and he paused to press the back of his hand over his mouth, eyes closed as he swallowed rapidly. “If you might excuse...”
“Go, go.” Greg waved him away frantically.
The door fell shut and the quick shuffle of footsteps could be heard across carpet, followed by another door. Even though he couldn’t hear anymore, Greg could guess fairly easily where Mycroft had ended up. It was also fairly clear he didn’t want company for this, a fact for which Greg heartily didn’t blame him.
Instead Greg headed down to the kitchen and stared at the fridge for a bit. He could still make crepes, but his enthusiasm was more than slightly diminished, as he suspected Mycroft’s would be. Sighing Greg pulled out the milk and orange juice and poured himself a bowl of cereal. It was incredibly unsatisfying in comparison.
The bedroom door was (still) shut when Greg climbed back upstairs to clean his teeth, a silent command that the occupant didn’t want company yet, and probably wouldn’t until he was armoured in his bespoke suit and handmade shoes. Even Before Greg wasn’t sure Mycroft would have let Greg see him bent over a toilet heaving his guts out. The track pants had been amazing a sight enough. For such an image conscious person being watched vomiting must have been something relegated to nightmares.
Unable to leave without making some effort to care for his Omega, Greg left a glass of water and a glass of juice on the table, a tea cup and tea making equipment on the bench, and grouped a selection of fruit closer to the yoghurt in the fridge. He also removed Monday’s leftover lasagne before Mycroft saw it and got annoyed. It would do well for lunch.
The fire in the library had been carefully banked, and the book restored to its place on the bookshelf. The tea cup Mycroft had left as he’d diplomatically sidled out of the room had been washed and was next to the sink, so someone, probably John, had cleaned up before they had left last night. It slightly unnerved Greg that he didn’t know when John and Sherlock had left, despite lying awake in the same house.
Depleted bank balance or no, Greg had added one new indulgence into his life, and given it was even earlier than usual, Greg kept his pace slow and lingered in the cafe doorway.
“Morning, Inspector. You’re early. The usual?” The freckled uni student behind the counter gave Greg her most sincere smile.
“Yeah, thanks.” Greg returned her smile and rubbed his hands together, cursing the forgetfulness that had left his gloves at the Yard.
“Coming right up.” With a slight toss of her dark brown ponytail, she started on Greg’s morning saviour.
Tea and coffee were still prohibited items at the house under the iron law of Mrs Potts, and if Mycroft wasn’t allowed them Greg wasn’t brave enough to drink them in front of him. Tea he could manage at the Yard easily enough, but the swill the automated machine called coffee was good only for boredom and killing taste buds. It wasn’t even properly hot.
So Greg bought his coffee on the way, drank copious amounts of proper tea at work, and declined the disgusting herbal stuff Mycroft was reduced to drinking at home.
Mycroft knew Greg was cheating on the prohibition, and Greg knew Mycroft must know, but so far no comment had been made and Greg bought his little cup of heaven every morning to ride the Tube with.
“You’re earlier than usual. Don’t envy you out there in the cold, its frightful this morning. Just when we thought spring might be here. Susie was talking about heading down to the park, or maybe out to the countryside for a picnic yesterday. Certainly not so enthusiastic about that idea today I can tell you.” The hissing of the milk heating cut through the chatty barista’s low Northern burr.
Greg thought her name was Tamara, she didn’t wear a name tag. He knew from previous visits that Susie was a girl from uni, also studying criminology (or was it psychology?).
“Here ya go, Inspector.” The large cup of coffee was handed over with an even wider smile and Greg gratefully wrapped his fingers around it as Tamara fussed at the till and handed his change back.
The cheery wave as he left was more than necessary, he’d be back tomorrow without the enthusiastic service because the coffee really was that good, but at least she was still cheerful despite the early morning and university workload. If her cheerfulness verged on flirtatious, Greg was more than willing to be innocently flirted with for coffee this good by a pretty little Sub half his age.
Plonking down at his desk, coffee and cup long since disposed of, Greg allowed himself a few minutes respite before pulling off his scarf and overcoat, stuffing his gloves preventatively into the pockets, and hanging them on the coat rack in the pen.
Sally was by his door when he walked back.
“Sir.”
“Donovan.” He waved her in ahead of him. “You’re here early.”
She ignored his comment and sat in front of his desk, waiting for him to settle into his chair. As soon as he’d sat she had her notebook out and started.
“Forensic services want to meet about the Robinson case, work out what we want tested. The list of exhibits,” Greg dug into his inbox and found the appropriate list as she talked, “will need to be narrowed down.
The Robinson case was a stabbing outside a night club. There had been plenty of possible items collected for a variety of possible tests.
“Don’t bother with cigarette butts for now. The sister said our Vic didn’t smoke so unlikely he was out there for a ciggy with anyone.”
“No way of telling which butt would belong to our perp anyway.” Sally agreed. “Best they may be useful for is DNA to place him at the scene once we’ve ID’d him. Condoms?”
“More likely. They’re not going to like testing all,” he did a quick count, “thirty of them though.”
“It’s not a gay club.” Sally pulled a couple of photos out of the case file and studied the scene. “Vic was an Alpha. Think that wound could come from a Sub? I think a Beta, maybe, but I’m not sure a woman could have.”
Greg accepted the photos and frowned at the wound. “I think a strong woman could. What does pathology say?”
“Still waiting.”
“Any cameras come through yet?”
“Only one’s real. They were meant to send it yesterday. Only covers the entrance, but...”
“Better than nothing.” They sat in silence a few minutes, both going over their notes.
“What do you think?” Greg asked. He had his theory, but he wanted to hear hers.
“Not whoever he was with.” Sally replied promptly. “Robinson liked his Subs small and delicate. Can’t see one of them managing to do that.”
Greg nodded in agreement. He’d noticed the photos at Robinson’s place and assuming he’d kept to his almost ethereal preference, it was hard to imagine one of them going for him and succeeding.
“Dom then.”
“If she,” all the Subs in the photos had been female, “already had a Dom, especially one there... Poaching is not taken well.”
“Mmm.” Greg hummed in non-committal agreement.
“Or he went out alone and it’s drugs, maybe a deal gone bad.” Sally finished.
Greg sighed and wished for pathology. It was certainly a valid option until ruled out.
“You, sir?” Sally asked.
“Don’t disagree.” Greg flipped through a couple of pages in his notes. “Be easier with the footage and pathology. Huh...” He paused and read something.
Sally leant over the desk and started reading his notes upside down. By now she was used to his handwriting. “Bartender doesn’t recall him talking to any women, but he was talking briefly to a young male Sub at the bar. Could be something. Not his usual type.”
“But could have possibly managed the injury.” Greg flipped a few more pages, but if any further thought had been spared for the Sub by the bartender, Greg hadn’t noted it down. “Might be worth getting some more information while we wait for the rest.”
Sally nodded and noted it in her personal notebook, the non-official one she used for brainstorming, lists and the betting pool.
“We need to go lean on someone about the footage if it isn’t here by lunch.”
Sally noted that too.
“And what tests do we want to request from forensics when we meet today?” She asked.
Greg scanned his copy of the exhibit list and shoved it back in its manila folder in his tray.
“Leave it. There’s nothing on there until we have a suspect. I’ll send an email putting a hold on the testing until pathology’s back and we have the footage. Maybe they can clear some of the backlog of other stuff we’ve requested instead.”
Sally snorted in disbelief, but didn’t comment.
“Okay,” she shoved the photos back in the case file and cycled it to the bottom of the stack. “Peterson, Kelly.”
Greg pulled the crime scene photos towards him to refresh his memory. “That’s the girl who died six months ago, yeah?”
“Kelly Peterson, 13, unpresented, found in a ditch three days after she failed to come home from Kendo practice.” Sally read out.
Greg remembered the case. It was the one he’d thoroughly shamed Dimmock about not calling in Sherlock when the girl was first missing and then found dead, letting the case go cold.
“What’s new?” Greg asked. Neither he nor Sally commented on the fact it had mysteriously surfaced in their stack of cases.
“Anonymous tip called in. Apparently she was seen in Ilford a couple of hours after practice.”
“Ilford.” Greg flipped quickly to the girl’s home address. “That’s the opposite side of town to where she lived.”
“Or where her Kendo lesson was.” Sally frowned and nibbled on her pen.
“We’ll need to find out whether she had any reason to be over there. Might’ve had a friend or someone, but it’s not likely.”
“Parents?” Sally drew a division on the page and started a new note.
“Parents.” Greg confirmed. “And one of us’ll need to review the reports in detail.
Sally nodded and kept writing as Greg put the folder away and grabbed the next one from the stack.
“John Doe.” Greg frowned as he pulled the file closer.
Sally pursed her lips and stabbed her pen into the page for the full stop. The John Doe scene was the one Greg had ended up throwing Sherlock off. It was not only difficult, it was highly emotional.
“Have we got anything?” Greg asked, totally resigned. “When are we getting the fingerprint report?”
Sally ran a hand through her hair. “Nothing and ‘as soon as possible.’”
“Well I’ll put that in my email as well.” Greg scrawled a note on his hand.
So far there were no missing persons reports that matched their corpse’s description, but all that meant was that he hadn’t been reported missing in the last week. Matching the case to the older records took time, time Greg didn’t have personally. He’d commandeered two DCs to trawl through the records, but they weren’t able to start until that afternoon. Until the fingerprint report came through they wouldn’t know if he was in the database for any priors or have any clue as to his identity.
“Do we have the pathology report?”
Sally gave him a look and Greg let the file fall to the desk with a thump.
“Thought not.”
There were no cameras in the area that would be any use, and the few neighbours who had opened their doors and not slammed them into the uniforms’ faces hadn’t been willing or able to say anything useful.
They needed Sherlock, but having kicked him off for bad behaviour Greg couldn’t bring him back without condoning the same, assuming Sherlock would even deign to look at it. When it came to pride, Sherlock was pricklier than an Alpha.
“I’ll try and get something from forensics.” Greg volunteered. “We need to get an ID to even know where to start.”
“Have they done a DNA search?” Sally asked.
“I hadn’t requested it.” Greg sighed. “They prefer to fingerprint first, you know that, but I’ll ask for that instead of any tests for the Robinson case yet. Given the circumstances he died under he just might have been arrested before.”
“Thankfully we haven’t destroyed all the samples yet.” Sally muttered darkly.
Greg left the comment alone. The decision of the European Court of Human Rights was as polarising among police services as the football was the general public.
“We’ll have to comb through the neighbours reports and crime scene shots again. See if there’s anything we’ve missed.”
Sally added ‘complete review’ to her list. Greg shuffled the case to the side and picked up the next folder.
“Oh, the assault at Stuart Street.”
“We wanted to speak to the Uncle.” Sally drew her line and started the next note.
“Yeah, and he should’ve arrived back,” Greg flipped back through his scrawled notes, “yesterday.”
“Need to speak to him in the next day or so then.” Sally sighed. “Hope he knows more about the kid than his parents did.”
“He was apparently close to the uncle. Well, is, I suppose. He’s in a coma, not dead.” Greg spoke around his pen. Chewing on pens had become his substitute for smoking.
“Then why didn’t he cut his trip short.” Sally asked icily.
Greg didn’t disagree with her.
“Might be something to ask Mr Carson when we talk to him.”
They talked through the couple of remaining open cases, debated a few theories and listed a couple of further tests for the forensic services lab to conduct, especially as for one case they had already arrested a suspect who was remanded in custody.
Eventually Greg sat back with a sigh and rubbed his eyes. They’d been at this for two hours, and it was still only just peaking quarter past nine.
“Coffee?” Sally asked, working the kinks out of her neck.
“Tea, unless you’re going out of the station.”
“That posh stuff your friend’s got ruined you for an honest cup of coffee has it, Sir?” Sally teased good naturedly. Greg mocked glared at her and she held up her hands in surrender. “Tea it is.”
It was good to see her smile as she walked out of the room. Between Greg’s mood swings and the latest debacle with Anderson it seemed like it had been too long. Ordinarily he’d take her down the pub, maybe with a few other DIs and Sergeants and have a good night to take her mind off things, but that wasn’t really an option now that he was meant to be saving money.
Absently rubbing his shoulder, Greg watched the hustle and bustle of the Yard. Groups collected then broke apart after morning greetings or information was passed on. Uniforms carried boxes of files in and out. Inspectors consulted with sergeants, length of interaction varying from brief conversations to detailed conferences. A couple of people threw glares at each other and tilted their chins aggressively as they moved quickly past each other. Dimmock could be seen yelling down his phone, clearly frustrated about something.
Sally arrived back with the tea, shutting the door to Greg’s office firmly behind her. Her gait over to the desk was stiff and her face painted a careful neutral.
Greg accepted his tea without comment. Whether she’d run into Anderson or Weatherly or was just self-conscious because her private life was so openly being played out at work, it was only his business if she made it so. Until she said something, he’d keep his peace just as she had done for him.
“So today’s plan?” She asked as she settled back into the chair.
“Why don’t you take the Robinson case, talk to the bartender and see about that footage. He liked the look of you last time, suspect you’d get more than me.”
Greg left unspoken that it would also get her away from the station and reduce the potential for any accidental run ins with Anderson to zero. It was true, after all, the bartender had been watching Sally out of the corner of his eye the entire time Greg had been trying to interview him. The Sub had clearly wished the straws had been drawn the other way and Greg had been interviewing the DJ instead.
“Can do.” Sally starred those items on her list.
“I’ll talk to forensics,” that had to come from him anyway to have any weight worth thinking about, “and the constables are going to start trawling for missing persons this afternoon, I’ll need to look in on them.
“Why don’t,” Greg rearranged things in his head, “we both head out to the uncle now, then I’ll come back and review the Peterson case, see if I can catch the parents this afternoon. That’ll let me check how they’re going with the missing persons. You can chase up the Bartender and surveillance footage, then meet me for the Parents if you’re done.”
“Sounds good, Sir.”
Neither of them mentioned that this allowed Greg to go to Susie Peterson’s parents via Sherlock, and that they’d maybe have some new leads before they even got to the interview.
“In that case,” Sally eyed her coffee with an expression of distaste, “how about we dump this and get some proper stuff on the way.”
“Well,” Greg hesitated.
“Come on, Sir, my shout.” Sally stood up. “You dispose of these, I’ll grab my coat.”
Greg sent her a mock salute and received a mock glare in return.
Disposing of the mugs had to wait because once Sally had ducked out, Anderson slunk in with the fingerprint report for John Doe. Greg skimmed the findings, nada, and sent him off again with orders for a DNA search and the other forensic requests he otherwise had to email through.
Why Anderson had felt the need to hand deliver a report not from his section Greg didn’t question, not after the snarky comment about Sally hiding away from the office. Greg had offered to let Anderson accompany Sally to the interviews instead of Greg himself and watched the other Alpha frantically back pedal, citing workloads and Greg’s DNA testing. He’d clearly come over to talk to Sally, maybe even to apologise, and had his courage fail on him.
Sympathetic as Greg was to their position and the issues Anderson was struggling with, he really was starting to wish they’d give up trying. Sally really could do better and it was becoming increasingly obvious that no matter how much he wanted to, Anderson couldn’t give it to her.
Sally was waiting in the car, though she didn’t say anything until after Greg had pulled out of the car park.
“Anything useful?”
It wasn’t quite ‘What did he want?’, but only because Sally did try to be professional.
“Fingerprint report.” Greg sighed. “Nothing so far. I’ve asked for DNA, but-”
“But if he was on record we’d have fingerprints. Familial search?”
“Yeah, but it’ll take months and we have nothing.”
“You can’t go to him.” Sally shot him a sharp look.
“I know.” Greg dug his fingers into the steering wheel. “Doesn’t mean I want to let it go cold.”
“We might have to.” Sally looked out the window, her mouth curled into a dissatisfied grimace.
“I know.” Greg took off from the lights slightly harder than was required.
“Hey,” Sally patted his knee. “We’ll find something. We always do.”
“I hope you’re right.”
The glaring problem was normally that something they found was given to them by Sherlock.
The uncle was upset about the attack on his nephew; perfectly so. Greg couldn’t say what it was about the whole situation, but something about it bothered him.
“What do you think?” He asked back in the car. Sally was driving this time.
“It was a very reasonable explanation.” Sally replied neutrally.
“Very.” Greg drummed his fingers on the console.
“It is understandable that he didn’t come back from a very important business conference in Scotland when he’d already been told everything over the phone and all he could do was hold his nephew’s hand and weep by his bed.”
“Sergeant Donovan, I do believe you’re becoming something of a cynic.”
“After four and a half years with you Sir, most would say it’s overdue.”
“Oi, what are you trying to say?”
“Nothing, Sir.” She grinned as she turned the key in the ignition and eased out into traffic. “Nothing at all.”
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Have a Merry Christmas all!
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