Though I Walk Through the Valley (20/38)
Though I Walk through the Valley
Title:Though I Walk through the Valley (20/38)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! Hope you're all enjoying a fun day in whatever traditions you follow.
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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Sally dropped him in front of the Yard and continued on to the bartender’s home address. Greg hurried inside and caught his two constables by the arms just before Gregson tried to assign them something to do. Resisting the urge to stick out his tongue, Greg handed them the copies of their John Doe’s details and sent them over to missing persons to begin the long slow hunt through the records, just in case.
“Bugger off, Lestrade. I wasn’t done with them.” Gregson complained, leaning outside Greg’s office door.
Gregson was the only other DI in Serious Crimes who had an office, the other most senior inspector and the Alpha most likely to challenge Greg. He hadn’t, yet, and wouldn’t, Greg hoped, but Gregson wasn’t happy whenever Greg appeared to be going up in the world.
“I had them booked and that task of yours will take them a week.” Greg returned fire without any guilt.
“And yours won’t? Come off it Lestrade, it’s just another unidentified corpse. I’ve got a dead banker from one of the trading banks. I need someone to check through the records.”
“Check them yourself.” Greg threw a couple of scrap pieces of paper in the recycling.
“I’m not reviewing his phone records for the last year myself. I’ve got other cases.” Gregson scowled in the doorway.
“So do I.” Greg pointed out reasonably.
“Sir.” Someone called from out in the pen.
Gregson growled and left, heading over to Johnson, a newly promoted and very eager sergeant.
Greg gave an internal sigh of relief, but didn’t let it show externally. He’d learnt a long time ago not to show even the slightest sign of weakness at the Yard in case it was noticed.
Right then, the Peterson case.
He quickly read through the background information and then dove into the forensic reports that had been provided. There was very little in there, and certainly nothing to explain why she’d been half a city away from where she was meant to be.
Tapping the papers back into the file, he collected his coat and scarf, again, and headed out the door, stopping quickly to poke his head in on his researchers and check they hadn’t been illicitly appropriated by Gregson. They hadn’t been, and Greg continued on his way to the tube. It was several stops before he realised he’d forgotten to stop and reheat his lasagne, let alone eat it.
Resigning himself to an empty stomach, he trod the last few steps to Baker St and let himself in the front door.
“Greg, hi, come in.” John answered the knock on the entry way to the flat proper and stood back to let Greg inside. “You look tired.”
“Yeah, cause you’re looking peachy yourself.”
John laughed and ran his fingers through his hair. “Well, it was a long night.”
“Everything alright now?” Greg collapsed down in one of the arm chairs.
“Yeah, it is.” John clicked the kettle on without even asking. “You were right, it helps knowing that we’re both in the same place.”
“Say that again? Louder, I didn’t quite-”
“Shut up.” John grinned at him.
“Nah, it’s good to hear. He around?”
John let out a dry laugh. “Nope, ran out this morning.”
“Surprised you let him out.” Greg wasn’t quite teasing. John had seemed so easy going, but then last night...
“After twenty two fingers, an assorted allotment of toes and a salad spinner worth of ears appeared in the fridge this morning, all properly packaged and labelled, but on the body part free shelves, I didn’t really want to ask when Molly called about 65-natural causes, 22-suspected overdose, and 34-unknown. If I’m unlucky there’ll be another head by the end of the day.”
“Punishing you is he?” Greg didn’t both hiding his rather wicked smile.
“In his own way, yeah, looks like it.” John smiled back.
“Told you he wasn’t a push over.”
“Never thought he was.” John poured the water and dunked the tea bags.
Greg waited in satisfied anticipation of the completion of John’s task: two coffees and now a decent cup of tea. It must have shown a bit on his face because John’s grin was even wider as he handed the mug over.
“Oh shush.” Greg breathed in the heady scent of a decent caffeinated tea.
“Would you like me to leave you alone with that?” John teased.
“How was your hangover?” Greg parried.
John collapsed into his chair with his own groan. “You just had to get me drunk didn’t you?”
“You seemed like you needed it.” Greg shrugged.
They both took sips of their drinks.
“Last night,” Greg asked suddenly. “How much of what you said was-”
“True?” John sighed and balanced the mug on the arm of the chair. “All of it’s true, but I wouldn’t say it the same way while sober. I was rather miserable last night. And drunk.”
He gave Greg a withering glare. Greg shrugged and didn’t apologise.
“I’ll tell you one thing though, I’m starting to really wish Holmes Senior was alive.” John muttered darkly over the rim of his tea cup before tossing the biscuit packet to Greg.
“So you could kill him?” Greg asked, extracting one of the offered custard cream. “Been having similar thoughts myself.”
“I don’t like it, Greg. The more I find out about their childhood, the more it seems-”
“Wrong, problematic.”
Abusive.
John nodded. “Sherlock couldn’t give a stuff about what ‘good Omegas’ are meant to do, but was convinced that if he wasn’t capable of having children I’d leave.”
“Haven’t you heard John, that’s all Omegas are good for.” Greg let out all the bitterness in to the phrase he could muster, and that was quite a lot. There was never going to be a more sympathetic ear than this one.
A tic appeared in John’s neck.
“I wonder,” he mused out loud, “what happens when that’s your attitude and you have two Omega sons who have no interest in being good little brood mares.”
“I don’t really want to think about it.”
“Neither.” John sighed and slumped back. “I’m this close to finding his grave so I can do something to it as it is.”
“You and Sherlock are going to keep trying though?”
“Do Bonded pairs ever really stop trying?” John asked rhetorically. “We’ll take it a day at a time, try and get some meat on his bones. That’ll help quite a bit. If that doesn’t work then, then we’ll go see about some professional help. It’s not like Sherlock doesn’t have the money for it.”
“Getting that impression, yeah. Have you seen that house? Properly, I mean. They have statues of horse armour in the dining room, John, horse armour.”
“Seriously?” John whistled.
“It’s mad. I feel a bit like I’m living in a museum.” Greg drained his mug and accepted more custard creams.
Custard creams were also on Mrs Potts’s unauthorised list.
“How is that working out for you?” John asked.
“Fine, yeah, good.”
“I find that hard to believe.” John sounded more than a little sceptical.
The automatic twinge of anger was not unexpected to Greg, though the strength of his reaction was.
“I’m not commenting on your relationship,” John held up a hand placating before Greg could form the words he wanted to snap, “but moving in with a Holmes is never as simple as ‘fine, yeah, good’. Mycroft might not keep body parts in the fridge, but I’m sure he’s got his own quirks.”
Mollified slightly, Greg eyed John over his empty mug. “Don’t we all?”
“Holmeses are worse.” John replied automatically. “God knows I love Sherlock to pieces, but it would be nice not to have to worry about waking up to find pieces of unidentified meat in the bathtub.”
“You haven’t stopped him though. You could.” Greg felt obliged to point out.
“Yes, yes that’s true, and no I haven’t.” John agreed. “You’ve already made your point. I’m not the big bad Alpha I think I am.”
“Well it’s a bit much of you to claim you’re some kind of special case. You’re not the only strong Alpha out there and they manage.”
“As I said, point taken.” John continued to regard him, tea mug tapping idly on his leg as he attempted to pick apart Greg’s responses and work out which nerve he’d hit and why.
Doctors! All the same.
“Sorry, didn’t sleep well.” Greg rubbed absently at his forehead.
John’s gaze softened, becoming less Sherlock and more John.
“It’s a fair enough statement.” John held out his hand for the empty mug. “Another?”
Greg did a quick review of the number of cups he’d already consumed, and then decided stuff it, he was still tired and John made good tea.
“Since you’re making.” He passed over the mug.
“So are things alright?” John called from the kitchen as he refilled the kettle. “Moving, baby, work, whole bit.”
“There are things.” Greg admitted. “Mycroft’s a fridge Nazi, no leftovers whatsoever... And Mrs Potts is worse. There are lists, actual physical lists, of food that’s not allowed inside the house because it’s not good for the baby.”
“Mrs Potts?” There was rustling as John fetched down another packet of custard creams from the Food Only cupboard.
“Housekeeper at the main estate. She comes down to check on Mycroft and do his cleaning.”
“Seriously?” John’s expression was delighted astonishment.
“Seriously. Used to be just a couple of days a month, but the rate she’s going now she might as well move in.”
“Well, there you go.” John dunked the tea bags and left them to brew.
“Bit different to what I’m used to. Still feels a bit surreal.” Greg pushed up out of his chair and walked over to the fridge, intending to be useful and fetch the milk.
“Best not.” John blocked his way. “Ears, thumbs and other assorted phalanges, remember?”
Hands held up in surrender, Greg let John extract the milk (emblazoned with ‘John’s milk, No Experiments, That Means You, Sherlock!’ in thick black pen) and return it to the fridge once he’d poured. Sometimes it really was best not to look.
“How’s Mycroft coping with the pregnancy? Everything progressing well?” John handed over the mug and snared the custard creams as they returned to the armchairs.
“Um, yeah, it’s um, it’s fine.”
“Just over four months, so foetus’d be, what, 14 cm roughly?”
“Uh, yeah, sounds right.”
John set down his mug on the arm. “You haven’t been going to the obstetrician appointments have you?”
“Uh, no.” Greg took a while to remember that obstetrician meant baby doctor.
“Has Mycroft?” John sounded worried. “He’s old to be having a first child, especially unsupervised.”
“No, no, yes, he’s been seeing someone. I assume.”
“You assume?” John arched an eyebrow, a trick he’d developed on a long and boring stakeout.
Greg had been relieved teaching John the correct muscular exercises to enable this expression had kept Sherlock entertained. He wasn’t so glad now it was being used on him.
“I didn’t think to ask.” Greg mumbled into his tea. “He must be, he has a doctor after all. He’s not stupid.”
“And he hasn’t talked to you about it at all?”
Greg shrugged. “It’s not like I could go to the appointments with him. We’re trying to keep it secret after all.”
“True.” John took a mouthful of tea. “Ask him for the ultrasound pictures, he should already have some of those. There’s usually a scan done sometime at the start of the second trimester.”
Greg nodded absently, mind racing. He’d been so caught up in trying to navigate the emotional and physical elements of their new relationship that thoughts of the baby as more than an abstract and future concept had fallen by the wayside.
Ultrasound pictures, Mycroft would have seen their baby and Greg, who should have been there to share that moment with him, hadn’t been. Who had been? Mycroft and the doctor, or had She been there as well?
That morning had been the first time he’d even been made aware Mycroft was suffering from morning sickness. Shouldn’t that have settled down already? Josephine had stopped vomiting once she was out of the first trimester, though she had remained sensitive to certain smells. What was Mycroft sensitive to? He’d obviously been throwing up in the mornings while Greg was out running and oblivious.
What were his cravings? Did he have cravings?
“Here.” John held out a plain plastic bag.
It was heavy with several books inside. What to Expect When You’re Expecting, Baby Boy: A Guide to Omega Pregnancy, 101 Things School Failed to Teach You About Heat and Pregnancy.
Greg looked up at John questioningly.
“Figured you’d probably forgotten everything Health class tried to teach you.” John lowered himself back into his chair. “Picked those up for you a couple of weeks ago. Not exactly suspicious for me to do so, a little strange for you.”
“I, uh, thanks.” Greg lay the bag down on the floor. He’d have to read through those, get a better grip on what was happening and what he could do to help.
John nodded and fidgeted a little in his chair.
“You know Greg,” he said, “if you have any questions, you can ask. Me.”
“Oh, no, I,” Greg flushed bright pink at the thought of asking John some of the questions he had.
“Really Greg,” John urged, using what Greg had dubbed the brisk ‘I’m a professional’ voice. “Anything, just ask. I assure you, between med school, the army and general practice, there’s very little I haven’t heard or seen, and I’ve definitely been told stories of worse.”
Greg blushed more.
“Really. I was on A&E rotation in med school and this couple were brought in. They were stuck together. Intimately.”
“No.”
“Yes. Apparently he had a piercing and...” John trailed off meaningfully.
“Oh Jesus.” Greg winced.
“Exactly. That’s a mild example. I have removed you don’t want to know what from you don’t want to know where, listened to all ends of sexual confessions, and had to answer the ‘is it meant to look like that/ be that colour’ question. If there’s something you need to know, just ask.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Greg‘s hand flapped for his case file. If Sherlock wasn’t here he really should go before-
“How often is, I mean, not that I’m no-” Greg shut his mouth with a snap as his brain caught up with what his mouth was asking. “You know what, forget that.”
“It varies, assuming you’re trying to ask me how much sex is usual during pregnancy.” John sent Greg a small smirk before lapsing back into his Dr Watson persona. “It’s a common question. The answer changes Omega to Omega, but the general answer is a lot.”
John looked entirely calm sipping tea in his chair. It was entirely unfair because Greg felt ready to vibrate out of his skin with embarrassment.
“Really?” He squeaked.
“Really.” John’s smile was a quiet professional one this time. “Pregnancy is regulated by the same hormones which cause Estrus, just in different levels and relative proportions. It’s another reason most Alphas love it when their Omegas are pregnant. Not only is there the pat on the back to their macho pride, their Omegas are close to insatiable for nine months and require significantly less prep before penetration.”
“Significantly less...” Greg trailed off, blushing so hard he was beginning to feel dizzy.
“Cops, the same as soldiers you lot. Put you in a pub with a beer and you’ll brag in excruciatingly explicit detail, but try to talk about sex and other bodily functions in a proper serious conversation and you’re all mortified.” John shook his head. “Yes, less prep before penetrative sex, which it mostly is during pregnancy. As I said, similar to Estrus. That doesn’t mean you can dispense with the preparation and lube all together, but you won’t need as much or to reapply.”
“Oh.” Greg took a large mouthful of tea. “Is it, um, safe?”
“I won’t ask exactly what you’re doing because I just do not want to know, but given you’re in the unique situation where Mycroft’s the Dom, I doubt there’s much you need to worry about.” John reached for and ate a custard cream. “Anything else?”
“Um, no, that should be. I’ll just read,” Greg held up the books.
The lower door slammed shut and thundering steps could be heard bounding up to 221B accented by Mrs Hudson’s chiding bird-like voice as Sherlock disturbed her morning shows.
“Oh thank Christ.” Greg grabbed the case file and held it protectively in front of him, ignoring John’s well natured chuckle.
“John, you’ll be here this afternoon, won’t you? Molly’s going to deliver- hello Lestrade.” Sherlock strolled into the room, removing his gloves.
John gave a long suffering sigh. “Is there going to be room in the fridge for food?”
“Yes, of course. Maybe. We can get takeaway.” Sherlock dismissed the problem with a flick of his fingers and swirled his coat off his shoulders.
Strolling over to John he plonked down on his knees and gently nuzzled his neck.
“Tea.”
“Kettle’s in the kitchen. I’ve got mine.” John held up his mug in demonstration.
“Tea!” Sherlock demanded again, ceasing to nuzzle into his Dom since it had failed to elicit the appropriate reaction and poking John instead.
“And what’s the magic word?” John teased, remaining firmly in his seat.
Everyone in the room knew John would go make the tea. It was just a matter of how much Sherlock had to work for it.
“Now.” Sherlock replied with a glare.
“Not quite.” John coughed through his mouthful of tea.
“But you’ll get it anyway.” Sherlock challenged.
“Yes, you beautiful ingrate, I’ll get your tea.”
Satisfied, Sherlock rose and threw himself bodily on the couch, shoes knocked off and toes kneading against the leather end.
“Lestrade, file.” Sherlock held out his hand imperiously.
With a sigh, Greg handed it over.
“All the physical exhibits are at the Yard, but that’s a copy of the paper documents.”
“What’s new?” Sherlock demanded, flipping through pages more quickly than he could possibly be reading them. “Six months old and not one of yours originally, what’s new?”
“Anonymous tip that she was seen in Ilford after she went missing.” Greg cracked his neck “I’m going to talk to the parents after this.”
“Mmm.” Sherlock hummed, perusing one of the reports in more detail.
John left the tea on the floor by his elbow.
“I’ll take it.” Sherlock snapped the file shut and picked up his tea. “It may prove to be some distraction.”
“Hey, you can’t keep that, and I wanted to talk to the parents today.” Greg protested.
“It’s been six months. Another 24 hours is hardly going to make a difference at this stage.” Sherlock waved dismissively.
“Bit not good, Sherlock.” John called from the kitchen.
He emerged again with a sandwich on a plate which was shoved into Sherlock’s hands.
“Case John, I don’t eat when I’m working.” Sherlock pushed it away.
“You do now, remember?” John pushed the plate back quietly.
“Oh. Yes.” Sherlock looked slightly stunned, but picked up half the sandwich and began to eat.
The heavy silence that fell was only broken by Sherlock’s chewing and the clatter of dishes as John cleaned up in the kitchen.
“Right well, I should then...” Greg got up to leave just as his phone rang. “Hello, Donovan... really?... that’s interesting. I’ll head back to the Yard. Have the tech guys double check the footage... Flatmate, yeah, meet you at the Yard.” Greg hung up. “Sorry ‘bout that, something else may have actually panned out. By tomorrow, Sherlock.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes and took another bite of sandwich.
“See you, John.” Greg called, heading out the door with his bag of books.
Greg detoured on his way back to the Yard, stopping briefly at the house to drop the books in his room. The last thing he needed was to get caught with a bag full of baby books at the Yard.
Donovan had dropped the footage with the AV Unit and somehow cajoled or bullied them into playing it for her then rather than whenever they got around to it.
“Sir.”
She didn’t take her eyes off the screen as he walked in.
“Nothing so far.” Sally pursed her lips a more people filed past the bouncer on fast forward.
“But?”
Sally handed over her notebook, her official one with her notes from her conversation with Clive the bartender. “It may be nothing, but the description of the Sub sounded familiar. Still waiting to see if I’m right.”
“You said on the phone.” Greg scanned the description. “It does sound a lot like Carson, but there are a lot of slender brunette Beta Subs out there.”
“Birthmark on his wrist.” Sally pointed further down the page, eyes still glued to the running footage.
“Unusual, certainly suggestive.” Greg was reluctant to commit to hope too quickly.
“Stop!” Sally barked out, finger resting on the screen.
One of the tech guys glared at her, clearly wanting to remove the offending appendage from his precious equipment, but she ignored him.
“Well, well, well, Peter Carson. Good eyes, Donovan.” Greg tapped her notebook idly on the bench. “Could be a coincidence, but I’m not fond of coincidences where both parties to a conversation end up on my desk.”
“Flatmate?” Sally grinned at him.
“Flatmate.” Greg handed back the notebook.
On the way out of the station Greg checked on the constables again (still there, still working) and thought longingly of the lunch he hadn’t yet eaten as they tried to talk around takeaway pizza. He warned them not to get any on the records and left them to it.
Sally was once again waiting in the car, texting at a rate of knots. From the look on her face Anderson had decided to text through his apology and it had been found lacking.
“So theories?” Greg asked once she’d put her phone down.
“Well, we know Carson and Robinson were at the same club, Robinson was stabbed and two days later Carson was assaulted and almost killed. We know they spoke... And that’s about all we know.” Sally drummed her fingers against the armrest.
“Do we think Robinson was interested in Carson?” Greg took a left as the chirpy GPS instructed.
“He’s not exactly his type.” Sally sounded doubtful.
“Carson’s Dom may not have known that. Maybe you were right with the poaching.” The freeway was no faster than the normal streets, but Greg dutifully sped up the on ramp as the GPS instructed.
“Except neither his parents nor his uncle mentioned a Dom. Nor did his flatmate, though he wasn’t in a good state last time we spoke to him.” Sally pointed out.
“So we’re back to drug deal gone wrong, and Carson as our mysterious murderer, in which case who did him, or a coincidence where we just happen to have two vics from different ends of town and different walks of life having a brief conversation and being attacked within two days of each other.” Greg shook his head. “I don’t like that.”
“We did say the wound could have come from a male Sub. Maybe Robinson broke his pattern and came onto the kid and he said no, forcefully when he had to.”
“Maybe.” Greg tapped his finger on the wheel in time to the radio.
“Didn’t seem like the impression of Carson from people we’ve spoken to so far, Sir.”
Greg sighed. “No, it doesn’t. The drug angle doesn’t sit well either.”
“Just means we’re missing something.” Sally stubbornly gazed out the window.
“Aren’t we always?” Greg asked rhetorically.
It took another half an hour on the freeway, then 15 minutes navigating side streets before they found themselves outside the flat Carson had shared with another Beta Sub, Sampson Marshall.
The young uni student was home and Greg had to wonder whether he’d been out of the flat since his friend had ended up in hospital.
“DI Lestrade, this is DS Donovan, we’d like to ask you some more questions about Peter Carson if you don’t mind.” Greg and Sally both showed their Ids.
“You’re the ones from the hospital.” The young Sub opened the door wide to allow them past. “Come in.”
“Surprised you remember. You weren’t in the best shape, Mr Marshall.” Greg pulled his gloves off and stuffed them into his pockets.
“Sam, please. Mr Marshall’s my Da and Sampson’s a character in stories.” He gestured for them to sit and they did, taking the couch so Sam had plenty of spaces to choose from. “What do you want to know?”
“Can you start by going over the night for us again?” Greg asked.
Sally pulled out her pen and sat quietly, ready to write down anything new.
“Yeah, yeah, sure. Um, we’d gone out for dinner, met a few friends at the Pub. I suppose you’ll want names won’t you? Ricky Garmon, Sonia Westbury, Azir Fitzhubert, yeah everyone gets a laugh at that one, and Mabel, Mabel Tompkins.” Same gave a wistful smile. “Mabel, Azir and I have comps whenever we meet up, see who can get the most double takes on our names. Azir always wins. Nothing shocking about Sampson or Mabel, even if they are a little old fashioned. Az won’t let us just play on first names. Knows he wouldn’t win without the shock factor.”
Greg gave him a sympathetic smile.
“Long way to go for dinner.” Sally commented.
“Mabel and Azir live the other side, and Ricky’s way out so it’s easier for him to head into the centre.” Sam clasped his hands together and then rested them on his knee.
Sally nodded and pretended to make a note on her pad. The movement prompted Sam to go on.
“We walked a bit after dinner, dropped Ricky at the interchange, then the others headed off too. We’d driven in that night, so we headed to the car.” His voice trailed off. “I had to go back and get it the next day.”
“What happened on the walk back?” Greg prompted.
“We, we were almost back at the car when Pete thought he saw something. He told me to wait and second and jogged down the street... I, after ten minutes I was tired of waiting so went after him and...” Sam’s hands were clenching and unclenching in his lap. “I almost went passed him. He, he was lying there on the ground and ...”
Greg sent his best comforting look the kid’s way. If he’d been closer he might have tried a comforting hand, but the distance he was sitting from Sam it would have involved standing to move closer, something that was unlikely to be reassuring.
“I called for an ambulance, and I tried, I tried to...”
“You did well. You kept him alive while the ambulance came. You did well.” Sally could move closer and did, gently patting Sam’s arm.
It was one of the reasons Greg was more than happy to have a female Sergeant. Even as a Dom, Sally was regarded as less threatening by the general population than he was, and could do things like this that Greg couldn’t.
“He, they don’t know if he’ll wake up.” Sam pressed his hands together hard enough to turn his knuckles white. “I shouted and shouted for help, but no one stopped. We were in a little alley and a couple of people looked down and then hurried off, but no one stopped.”
Sam’s voice broke and he looked up at Greg with pleading eyes. “Why did no one stop?”
Greg hated when the people surrounding the victims asked questions like that. Why my friend/lover/partner? Why did no one see/help/stop?
“Because they were scared, the same way you were.” Greg leant forward, catching and maintaining Sam’s gaze. “Because humans are flawed.”
The truth was that people had probably thought it was a drug deal gone wrong, the way they’d been tucked down that dingy alley. The PCs on the scene had certainly thought so until they’d all arrived at the hospital and Sam had stammered out enough of his story to convince them otherwise.
“We’re going to do our best to find who did this, Sam, I promise.” Greg was careful not to promise to find them. That was a promise he’d made and broken before and would prefer not to do again.
“Are you able to answer some more questions?” Greg continued.
Sam nodded. Greg sent Sally and quick look and she took over the questioning.
“Have you and Peter ever been to a place called Illusion before?” She moved back to sit slightly further away, though not on the couch again.
Sam looked confused. “A couple of times, on and off. It wasn’t a favourite. The music’s better at Glam and if we’re all the way over there we’re usually meeting Mabel, Az, Son and Ricky so we go to Fusion.”
“Have you been there lately? Or do you know if Peter has?”
They knew the answers to these questions, but it was always best to ask.
“Um, uh.” Sam blinked as he tried to think back. “Not recently, I don’t think.”
“So Peter wasn’t there about a week ago?” Sally pressed.
Sam blinked again. “I don’t think so, unless... he was out with a whole pile of university mates last Thursday. They may have gone to Illusion.”
“You weren’t with them?” Greg asked.
Sam shook his head. “I don’t get on with them. The Subs are alright, but Mark and Ryan are real arsehole Doms. I had a test the next day so I begged off. Why? Is this relevant?”
“It may be. Did Peter have a Dom he was close to, maybe someone he was looking at making an arrangement with?”
“No one.” Same shook his head. “Az used to tease him about becoming a monk he was so celibate. He was always shy around Doms, always blushed and backed away. Could barely even look at an Alpha.”
“And there was no one he was interested in, or who was interested in him?” Sally asked.
“No.” Sam shook his head then paused. “Well, there were some flowers delivered to the door, but neither of us knew who they were for. Wrong address, you know. Or Pete said he didn’t know…. But I suppose when I think about it, he smiled, when he saw them.”
“Anything else? Phone calls, mysterious or otherwise?”
“Sorry, couldn’t tell you. We don’t have a home line, we just use our mobiles and between work and uni and other friends...” Sam shrugged.
Greg and Sally shared a quick look.
“Then if you wouldn’t mind giving us the details of the friends Peter was with last Thursday we’ll get out of your hair.” Greg smiled as he stood, knees cracking loudly.
“Ah, sure.”
Greg didn’t bother to listen to the details Sam provided, trusting Sally to record them. Instead he looked around the room, taking in the items that spoke to the flatmates’ personalities.
According to his parents, Peter Carson was a troublemaker, a wild boy out of control. To his uncle he was troubled, a home boy from a broken home, still gentle, still kind, just lost. To his flatmate he was a good friend, shy, studious.
The picture in front of Greg showed Carson and four others: two boys and two girls, presumably Mabel, Sonia, Ricky and Azir. He was dressed in tight jeans, a loose light blue shirt and a leather jacket, brown hair half-heartedly spiked. He looked like he was trying to be tough, doomed to fall short with large baby blue eyes and a too friendly smile.
“That was Rick’s birthday.” Sam came up next to Greg. “Last year. We ended up out at Hounslow Heath, no idea how or why, just cause we could.”
“Best kind of night.” Greg turned. “Thanks for your help, Sam.”
Sam opened the door for them. “Anything.”
With a parting handshake they left, squishing along the narrow corridor.
“Inspector!” Sam called. He looked unnaturally small in the doorway. “You will catch them, whoever did this?”
“We’ll do our best.” Greg promised.
He sighed as he collapsed into the car. Lazily he chucked the keys Sally’s way and she caught them with a roll of her eyes. It was her turn to drive.
“We need to speak to Carson’s buddies who were at the club with him and we need his phone.” Greg sighed.
“Probably best to get a warrant for the phone, Sir. He’s still alive.”
“Great, just great. Why do I get the feeling I’m going to be in charge of the warrant?”
Sally grinned and turned onto the freeway. “Hospital might just give you his effects if you ask.”
“I want this case perfect for when it goes to court. No short cuts on this one.”
Sally nodded in agreement. They sat in silence as the car sped down the road.
“How long do you think you’ll need to chase down the uni kids?” Greg eventually asked.
“Not long.” Sally overtook a car doing well under the speed limit. “Sam said they should all be in class, so I’ll head over and catch them on campus.”
“Drop me back at the Yard.” Greg sighed. “Call when you’re done.”
“How long do you think the warrant will take?”
The car next to them attempted to change lanes without looking and Sally leant on the horn. The silver BMW swerved back and the driver blared his horn in response.
“Bloody Alpha drivers.” Sally muttered.
Greg didn’t disagree.
Walking back into the Yard Greg was briefly accosted by Mulgrave and asked where he’d been, but the DCI backed down when Greg said he’d been with Sally doing interviews. Apparently he still wasn’t trusted by senior management, a fact Greg had resigned himself to, but it would have been nice if his DCI had at least been on his side.
Back at his desk Greg tore through the paper work required for the warrant for Peter Carson’s effects, phone and phone records. Technically he could just collect Carson’s clothing and phone, technically he could use them as evidence, but if this was connected to the Robinson case Greg didn’t want any legal grey areas hanging over the trial. Neither the case nor Greg could afford it.
Sally’s phone call caught him leaving the Magistrate’s office, signed warrant tucked into his jacket pocket.
“Donovan?”
“Where are you, Sir?”
“Getting the warrant authorised. Heading back to the station now. How’re the interviews?”
“One more to go. Adam Hastings didn’t show today and hasn’t been seen for the last three.”
“Huh, always suspicious.”
“Beta Dom and apparently a bit of a gym junkie. Could easily have the strength to knock Carson over the head and kill Robinson.”
“The others?” Greg asked, pausing to pull his gloves on.
“Nothing interesting. They all alibi out for the attack on Carson and half of them don’t even recall him talking to Robinson. Tell you more when I get back?”
“Sounds good.” Greg caught a glimpse of his watch and resigned himself to not getting home on time.
True to his thoughts, he was, finally, eating his re-heated lasagne when Sally arrived back at six.
“Well?” He mumbled around a mouthful.
Sally dropped into the chair opposite with a sigh and a grimace.
“Adam Hastings is legitimately at home, sick with the chicken pox that he apparently failed to contract as a child. He’s almost certainly not our suspect given that Carson is 5ft 11’’ and Robinson if 6ft 2’’. I’m no expert, but I think pathology is going to say our culprit was taller than 5ft 3’’.
“Yeah, probably.” Greg winced.
Sally pulled out her notebook. “The others confirm they were at the club. A few of them were able to ID Robinson as the man who spoke to Carson. None of them know what he said, just that it was something as Carson was coming back from the bar. Carson laughed it off and Robinson didn’t come near him again.”
“So we’ve got nothing.” Greg leant back in his chair and stared up at the ceiling.
“Adam did say that Carson was nervy the rest of the night.” Sally offered.
“Yeah, cause that’s useful.” Greg shovelled another fork full of lasagne into his mouth.
“The only other thing of any note was they all agreed that Carson was wearing way too much aftershave that night.”
Greg gave her a sceptical look.
“Must’ve been pretty strong for five people to comment on it.” Sally buried her nose in her notebook.
“Phone records are still coming.” Greg swallowed. “In my inbox, but haven’t sorted through yet. Phone’s in the box, rest still needs to be logged.”
“That’s the next job? Phone records?” Sally pulled the phone over. “Do we know what the passcode is?”
“Network was kind enough to unlock it.” Greg handed over the sticky note he’d scrawled down the pin on. “We can do this tomorrow, you know.”
“Tomorrow we have yesteryear’s missing person records to comb through, barring a miracle.” Sally replied.
Greg groaned and hung his head.
“Don’t suppose you have a charger for it?” Sally asked as the phone buzzed in her hand.
“This one work?” Greg held out his spare charger.
“No, Sir.” The tone of voice said very clearly what Sally thought of his dinosaur phone and charger.
“Go scrounge out there.” Greg waved at the pen as Sally stood with a huff. “Oh, and get this from the printer.”
He hit print on the records.
They were silent for a while once Sally returned, keys on the phone chiming as Sally flicked through the messages on the phone and Greg highlighted numbers on the call record.
“Okay, gimmie.” Greg said when she stopped tapping.
“Mostly nothing. Messages from Sam, his other friends, a number from his Uncle, Nothing unexpected.” Sally kept scrolling.
“Read out the numbers for me.” Greg drew lines in his coloured highlighters at the top of the page in preparation for filling them in. When they were done, the green highlighted lines remained unaccounted for.
“Nothing?” Greg asked.
“Not in his contacts. Nothing in his messages either.”
“Yet according to this, that number has called that phone once a day for the last six months. Not for short calls either, one hour, two hours, 50 minutes.” Greg lipped back a few pages and began circling dates.
“Sir?” Sally leant over to look.
“Almost every day, baring these ones. So what is so special about these dates that our mysterious caller didn’t call?” Greg held out the sheets.
“Lots of long weekends and public holidays.” Sally noted.
“True, and only a short call at Christmas, two minutes.” Greg tapped his finger against the paper. “But this isn’t a public holiday.”
“That,” Sally pulled the papers closer, “is a week.”
“Why a whole week?” Greg mused. “And why no calls in the last week, either?”
“Since the day after Robinson was attacked. I can try and see who the number is registered to.” Sally noted it down. “It’s certainly suspicious.”
“Doesn’t seem like a stalker.” Greg mused. “You don’t talk to your stalker for an hour at a go.”
“You’re thinking a Dom of some kind. One he had or was thinking of entering into an arrangement with.”
“Would explain the calls and the flowers, but why not save the number? And why didn’t his flatmate or any of his friends or family know about this?”
“Well, maybe-”
“Sir!” DC Weatherly stuck her head around the door. She faltered slightly seeing Sally, but powered on. “A body’s been found in Leicester Square.”
“Drug overdose?” Greg sighed, but stood up.
“Gunshot, Sir.”
“I’ll go get more coffee.” Sally looked as resigned as Greg felt.
It was going to be a long night.
~*~
It was a long night, and by the time Greg had finished supervising the incredibly awkward scene, with Sally, Anderson and DC Weatherly all present, he was exhausted. The sound of his feet dragging up the stairs filled the otherwise silent house.
He needed a shower. He needed sleep.
Mycroft’s door was shut, as it was every night. Mycroft never left the door open while he slept. A security precaution or a barrier against the world? Or against a particular person?
Greg opened the door as quietly as he could. Mycroft was asleep, light from the hallway spilling across features lax in slumber. He was curled on his side facing the door, fingers lightly clasping the edge of the pillow.
Leaning against the door, Greg took a deep breath and held it, letting the scent that permeated the room fill his nostrils. As the pheromones hit, Greg could feel himself relax, the knot of tension he carried whenever he was away from Mycroft easing.
Silently he shut the door. He wanted to go in, bed down and just hold Mycroft until he had to go, but that was in less than two hours and he stank of crime scene. There was no point disturbing Mycroft’s much needed rest just for a couple of hours sleep.
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Previous - Next
Title:Though I Walk through the Valley (20/38)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! Hope you're all enjoying a fun day in whatever traditions you follow.
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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Sally dropped him in front of the Yard and continued on to the bartender’s home address. Greg hurried inside and caught his two constables by the arms just before Gregson tried to assign them something to do. Resisting the urge to stick out his tongue, Greg handed them the copies of their John Doe’s details and sent them over to missing persons to begin the long slow hunt through the records, just in case.
“Bugger off, Lestrade. I wasn’t done with them.” Gregson complained, leaning outside Greg’s office door.
Gregson was the only other DI in Serious Crimes who had an office, the other most senior inspector and the Alpha most likely to challenge Greg. He hadn’t, yet, and wouldn’t, Greg hoped, but Gregson wasn’t happy whenever Greg appeared to be going up in the world.
“I had them booked and that task of yours will take them a week.” Greg returned fire without any guilt.
“And yours won’t? Come off it Lestrade, it’s just another unidentified corpse. I’ve got a dead banker from one of the trading banks. I need someone to check through the records.”
“Check them yourself.” Greg threw a couple of scrap pieces of paper in the recycling.
“I’m not reviewing his phone records for the last year myself. I’ve got other cases.” Gregson scowled in the doorway.
“So do I.” Greg pointed out reasonably.
“Sir.” Someone called from out in the pen.
Gregson growled and left, heading over to Johnson, a newly promoted and very eager sergeant.
Greg gave an internal sigh of relief, but didn’t let it show externally. He’d learnt a long time ago not to show even the slightest sign of weakness at the Yard in case it was noticed.
Right then, the Peterson case.
He quickly read through the background information and then dove into the forensic reports that had been provided. There was very little in there, and certainly nothing to explain why she’d been half a city away from where she was meant to be.
Tapping the papers back into the file, he collected his coat and scarf, again, and headed out the door, stopping quickly to poke his head in on his researchers and check they hadn’t been illicitly appropriated by Gregson. They hadn’t been, and Greg continued on his way to the tube. It was several stops before he realised he’d forgotten to stop and reheat his lasagne, let alone eat it.
Resigning himself to an empty stomach, he trod the last few steps to Baker St and let himself in the front door.
“Greg, hi, come in.” John answered the knock on the entry way to the flat proper and stood back to let Greg inside. “You look tired.”
“Yeah, cause you’re looking peachy yourself.”
John laughed and ran his fingers through his hair. “Well, it was a long night.”
“Everything alright now?” Greg collapsed down in one of the arm chairs.
“Yeah, it is.” John clicked the kettle on without even asking. “You were right, it helps knowing that we’re both in the same place.”
“Say that again? Louder, I didn’t quite-”
“Shut up.” John grinned at him.
“Nah, it’s good to hear. He around?”
John let out a dry laugh. “Nope, ran out this morning.”
“Surprised you let him out.” Greg wasn’t quite teasing. John had seemed so easy going, but then last night...
“After twenty two fingers, an assorted allotment of toes and a salad spinner worth of ears appeared in the fridge this morning, all properly packaged and labelled, but on the body part free shelves, I didn’t really want to ask when Molly called about 65-natural causes, 22-suspected overdose, and 34-unknown. If I’m unlucky there’ll be another head by the end of the day.”
“Punishing you is he?” Greg didn’t both hiding his rather wicked smile.
“In his own way, yeah, looks like it.” John smiled back.
“Told you he wasn’t a push over.”
“Never thought he was.” John poured the water and dunked the tea bags.
Greg waited in satisfied anticipation of the completion of John’s task: two coffees and now a decent cup of tea. It must have shown a bit on his face because John’s grin was even wider as he handed the mug over.
“Oh shush.” Greg breathed in the heady scent of a decent caffeinated tea.
“Would you like me to leave you alone with that?” John teased.
“How was your hangover?” Greg parried.
John collapsed into his chair with his own groan. “You just had to get me drunk didn’t you?”
“You seemed like you needed it.” Greg shrugged.
They both took sips of their drinks.
“Last night,” Greg asked suddenly. “How much of what you said was-”
“True?” John sighed and balanced the mug on the arm of the chair. “All of it’s true, but I wouldn’t say it the same way while sober. I was rather miserable last night. And drunk.”
He gave Greg a withering glare. Greg shrugged and didn’t apologise.
“I’ll tell you one thing though, I’m starting to really wish Holmes Senior was alive.” John muttered darkly over the rim of his tea cup before tossing the biscuit packet to Greg.
“So you could kill him?” Greg asked, extracting one of the offered custard cream. “Been having similar thoughts myself.”
“I don’t like it, Greg. The more I find out about their childhood, the more it seems-”
“Wrong, problematic.”
Abusive.
John nodded. “Sherlock couldn’t give a stuff about what ‘good Omegas’ are meant to do, but was convinced that if he wasn’t capable of having children I’d leave.”
“Haven’t you heard John, that’s all Omegas are good for.” Greg let out all the bitterness in to the phrase he could muster, and that was quite a lot. There was never going to be a more sympathetic ear than this one.
A tic appeared in John’s neck.
“I wonder,” he mused out loud, “what happens when that’s your attitude and you have two Omega sons who have no interest in being good little brood mares.”
“I don’t really want to think about it.”
“Neither.” John sighed and slumped back. “I’m this close to finding his grave so I can do something to it as it is.”
“You and Sherlock are going to keep trying though?”
“Do Bonded pairs ever really stop trying?” John asked rhetorically. “We’ll take it a day at a time, try and get some meat on his bones. That’ll help quite a bit. If that doesn’t work then, then we’ll go see about some professional help. It’s not like Sherlock doesn’t have the money for it.”
“Getting that impression, yeah. Have you seen that house? Properly, I mean. They have statues of horse armour in the dining room, John, horse armour.”
“Seriously?” John whistled.
“It’s mad. I feel a bit like I’m living in a museum.” Greg drained his mug and accepted more custard creams.
Custard creams were also on Mrs Potts’s unauthorised list.
“How is that working out for you?” John asked.
“Fine, yeah, good.”
“I find that hard to believe.” John sounded more than a little sceptical.
The automatic twinge of anger was not unexpected to Greg, though the strength of his reaction was.
“I’m not commenting on your relationship,” John held up a hand placating before Greg could form the words he wanted to snap, “but moving in with a Holmes is never as simple as ‘fine, yeah, good’. Mycroft might not keep body parts in the fridge, but I’m sure he’s got his own quirks.”
Mollified slightly, Greg eyed John over his empty mug. “Don’t we all?”
“Holmeses are worse.” John replied automatically. “God knows I love Sherlock to pieces, but it would be nice not to have to worry about waking up to find pieces of unidentified meat in the bathtub.”
“You haven’t stopped him though. You could.” Greg felt obliged to point out.
“Yes, yes that’s true, and no I haven’t.” John agreed. “You’ve already made your point. I’m not the big bad Alpha I think I am.”
“Well it’s a bit much of you to claim you’re some kind of special case. You’re not the only strong Alpha out there and they manage.”
“As I said, point taken.” John continued to regard him, tea mug tapping idly on his leg as he attempted to pick apart Greg’s responses and work out which nerve he’d hit and why.
Doctors! All the same.
“Sorry, didn’t sleep well.” Greg rubbed absently at his forehead.
John’s gaze softened, becoming less Sherlock and more John.
“It’s a fair enough statement.” John held out his hand for the empty mug. “Another?”
Greg did a quick review of the number of cups he’d already consumed, and then decided stuff it, he was still tired and John made good tea.
“Since you’re making.” He passed over the mug.
“So are things alright?” John called from the kitchen as he refilled the kettle. “Moving, baby, work, whole bit.”
“There are things.” Greg admitted. “Mycroft’s a fridge Nazi, no leftovers whatsoever... And Mrs Potts is worse. There are lists, actual physical lists, of food that’s not allowed inside the house because it’s not good for the baby.”
“Mrs Potts?” There was rustling as John fetched down another packet of custard creams from the Food Only cupboard.
“Housekeeper at the main estate. She comes down to check on Mycroft and do his cleaning.”
“Seriously?” John’s expression was delighted astonishment.
“Seriously. Used to be just a couple of days a month, but the rate she’s going now she might as well move in.”
“Well, there you go.” John dunked the tea bags and left them to brew.
“Bit different to what I’m used to. Still feels a bit surreal.” Greg pushed up out of his chair and walked over to the fridge, intending to be useful and fetch the milk.
“Best not.” John blocked his way. “Ears, thumbs and other assorted phalanges, remember?”
Hands held up in surrender, Greg let John extract the milk (emblazoned with ‘John’s milk, No Experiments, That Means You, Sherlock!’ in thick black pen) and return it to the fridge once he’d poured. Sometimes it really was best not to look.
“How’s Mycroft coping with the pregnancy? Everything progressing well?” John handed over the mug and snared the custard creams as they returned to the armchairs.
“Um, yeah, it’s um, it’s fine.”
“Just over four months, so foetus’d be, what, 14 cm roughly?”
“Uh, yeah, sounds right.”
John set down his mug on the arm. “You haven’t been going to the obstetrician appointments have you?”
“Uh, no.” Greg took a while to remember that obstetrician meant baby doctor.
“Has Mycroft?” John sounded worried. “He’s old to be having a first child, especially unsupervised.”
“No, no, yes, he’s been seeing someone. I assume.”
“You assume?” John arched an eyebrow, a trick he’d developed on a long and boring stakeout.
Greg had been relieved teaching John the correct muscular exercises to enable this expression had kept Sherlock entertained. He wasn’t so glad now it was being used on him.
“I didn’t think to ask.” Greg mumbled into his tea. “He must be, he has a doctor after all. He’s not stupid.”
“And he hasn’t talked to you about it at all?”
Greg shrugged. “It’s not like I could go to the appointments with him. We’re trying to keep it secret after all.”
“True.” John took a mouthful of tea. “Ask him for the ultrasound pictures, he should already have some of those. There’s usually a scan done sometime at the start of the second trimester.”
Greg nodded absently, mind racing. He’d been so caught up in trying to navigate the emotional and physical elements of their new relationship that thoughts of the baby as more than an abstract and future concept had fallen by the wayside.
Ultrasound pictures, Mycroft would have seen their baby and Greg, who should have been there to share that moment with him, hadn’t been. Who had been? Mycroft and the doctor, or had She been there as well?
That morning had been the first time he’d even been made aware Mycroft was suffering from morning sickness. Shouldn’t that have settled down already? Josephine had stopped vomiting once she was out of the first trimester, though she had remained sensitive to certain smells. What was Mycroft sensitive to? He’d obviously been throwing up in the mornings while Greg was out running and oblivious.
What were his cravings? Did he have cravings?
“Here.” John held out a plain plastic bag.
It was heavy with several books inside. What to Expect When You’re Expecting, Baby Boy: A Guide to Omega Pregnancy, 101 Things School Failed to Teach You About Heat and Pregnancy.
Greg looked up at John questioningly.
“Figured you’d probably forgotten everything Health class tried to teach you.” John lowered himself back into his chair. “Picked those up for you a couple of weeks ago. Not exactly suspicious for me to do so, a little strange for you.”
“I, uh, thanks.” Greg lay the bag down on the floor. He’d have to read through those, get a better grip on what was happening and what he could do to help.
John nodded and fidgeted a little in his chair.
“You know Greg,” he said, “if you have any questions, you can ask. Me.”
“Oh, no, I,” Greg flushed bright pink at the thought of asking John some of the questions he had.
“Really Greg,” John urged, using what Greg had dubbed the brisk ‘I’m a professional’ voice. “Anything, just ask. I assure you, between med school, the army and general practice, there’s very little I haven’t heard or seen, and I’ve definitely been told stories of worse.”
Greg blushed more.
“Really. I was on A&E rotation in med school and this couple were brought in. They were stuck together. Intimately.”
“No.”
“Yes. Apparently he had a piercing and...” John trailed off meaningfully.
“Oh Jesus.” Greg winced.
“Exactly. That’s a mild example. I have removed you don’t want to know what from you don’t want to know where, listened to all ends of sexual confessions, and had to answer the ‘is it meant to look like that/ be that colour’ question. If there’s something you need to know, just ask.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Greg‘s hand flapped for his case file. If Sherlock wasn’t here he really should go before-
“How often is, I mean, not that I’m no-” Greg shut his mouth with a snap as his brain caught up with what his mouth was asking. “You know what, forget that.”
“It varies, assuming you’re trying to ask me how much sex is usual during pregnancy.” John sent Greg a small smirk before lapsing back into his Dr Watson persona. “It’s a common question. The answer changes Omega to Omega, but the general answer is a lot.”
John looked entirely calm sipping tea in his chair. It was entirely unfair because Greg felt ready to vibrate out of his skin with embarrassment.
“Really?” He squeaked.
“Really.” John’s smile was a quiet professional one this time. “Pregnancy is regulated by the same hormones which cause Estrus, just in different levels and relative proportions. It’s another reason most Alphas love it when their Omegas are pregnant. Not only is there the pat on the back to their macho pride, their Omegas are close to insatiable for nine months and require significantly less prep before penetration.”
“Significantly less...” Greg trailed off, blushing so hard he was beginning to feel dizzy.
“Cops, the same as soldiers you lot. Put you in a pub with a beer and you’ll brag in excruciatingly explicit detail, but try to talk about sex and other bodily functions in a proper serious conversation and you’re all mortified.” John shook his head. “Yes, less prep before penetrative sex, which it mostly is during pregnancy. As I said, similar to Estrus. That doesn’t mean you can dispense with the preparation and lube all together, but you won’t need as much or to reapply.”
“Oh.” Greg took a large mouthful of tea. “Is it, um, safe?”
“I won’t ask exactly what you’re doing because I just do not want to know, but given you’re in the unique situation where Mycroft’s the Dom, I doubt there’s much you need to worry about.” John reached for and ate a custard cream. “Anything else?”
“Um, no, that should be. I’ll just read,” Greg held up the books.
The lower door slammed shut and thundering steps could be heard bounding up to 221B accented by Mrs Hudson’s chiding bird-like voice as Sherlock disturbed her morning shows.
“Oh thank Christ.” Greg grabbed the case file and held it protectively in front of him, ignoring John’s well natured chuckle.
“John, you’ll be here this afternoon, won’t you? Molly’s going to deliver- hello Lestrade.” Sherlock strolled into the room, removing his gloves.
John gave a long suffering sigh. “Is there going to be room in the fridge for food?”
“Yes, of course. Maybe. We can get takeaway.” Sherlock dismissed the problem with a flick of his fingers and swirled his coat off his shoulders.
Strolling over to John he plonked down on his knees and gently nuzzled his neck.
“Tea.”
“Kettle’s in the kitchen. I’ve got mine.” John held up his mug in demonstration.
“Tea!” Sherlock demanded again, ceasing to nuzzle into his Dom since it had failed to elicit the appropriate reaction and poking John instead.
“And what’s the magic word?” John teased, remaining firmly in his seat.
Everyone in the room knew John would go make the tea. It was just a matter of how much Sherlock had to work for it.
“Now.” Sherlock replied with a glare.
“Not quite.” John coughed through his mouthful of tea.
“But you’ll get it anyway.” Sherlock challenged.
“Yes, you beautiful ingrate, I’ll get your tea.”
Satisfied, Sherlock rose and threw himself bodily on the couch, shoes knocked off and toes kneading against the leather end.
“Lestrade, file.” Sherlock held out his hand imperiously.
With a sigh, Greg handed it over.
“All the physical exhibits are at the Yard, but that’s a copy of the paper documents.”
“What’s new?” Sherlock demanded, flipping through pages more quickly than he could possibly be reading them. “Six months old and not one of yours originally, what’s new?”
“Anonymous tip that she was seen in Ilford after she went missing.” Greg cracked his neck “I’m going to talk to the parents after this.”
“Mmm.” Sherlock hummed, perusing one of the reports in more detail.
John left the tea on the floor by his elbow.
“I’ll take it.” Sherlock snapped the file shut and picked up his tea. “It may prove to be some distraction.”
“Hey, you can’t keep that, and I wanted to talk to the parents today.” Greg protested.
“It’s been six months. Another 24 hours is hardly going to make a difference at this stage.” Sherlock waved dismissively.
“Bit not good, Sherlock.” John called from the kitchen.
He emerged again with a sandwich on a plate which was shoved into Sherlock’s hands.
“Case John, I don’t eat when I’m working.” Sherlock pushed it away.
“You do now, remember?” John pushed the plate back quietly.
“Oh. Yes.” Sherlock looked slightly stunned, but picked up half the sandwich and began to eat.
The heavy silence that fell was only broken by Sherlock’s chewing and the clatter of dishes as John cleaned up in the kitchen.
“Right well, I should then...” Greg got up to leave just as his phone rang. “Hello, Donovan... really?... that’s interesting. I’ll head back to the Yard. Have the tech guys double check the footage... Flatmate, yeah, meet you at the Yard.” Greg hung up. “Sorry ‘bout that, something else may have actually panned out. By tomorrow, Sherlock.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes and took another bite of sandwich.
“See you, John.” Greg called, heading out the door with his bag of books.
Greg detoured on his way back to the Yard, stopping briefly at the house to drop the books in his room. The last thing he needed was to get caught with a bag full of baby books at the Yard.
Donovan had dropped the footage with the AV Unit and somehow cajoled or bullied them into playing it for her then rather than whenever they got around to it.
“Sir.”
She didn’t take her eyes off the screen as he walked in.
“Nothing so far.” Sally pursed her lips a more people filed past the bouncer on fast forward.
“But?”
Sally handed over her notebook, her official one with her notes from her conversation with Clive the bartender. “It may be nothing, but the description of the Sub sounded familiar. Still waiting to see if I’m right.”
“You said on the phone.” Greg scanned the description. “It does sound a lot like Carson, but there are a lot of slender brunette Beta Subs out there.”
“Birthmark on his wrist.” Sally pointed further down the page, eyes still glued to the running footage.
“Unusual, certainly suggestive.” Greg was reluctant to commit to hope too quickly.
“Stop!” Sally barked out, finger resting on the screen.
One of the tech guys glared at her, clearly wanting to remove the offending appendage from his precious equipment, but she ignored him.
“Well, well, well, Peter Carson. Good eyes, Donovan.” Greg tapped her notebook idly on the bench. “Could be a coincidence, but I’m not fond of coincidences where both parties to a conversation end up on my desk.”
“Flatmate?” Sally grinned at him.
“Flatmate.” Greg handed back the notebook.
On the way out of the station Greg checked on the constables again (still there, still working) and thought longingly of the lunch he hadn’t yet eaten as they tried to talk around takeaway pizza. He warned them not to get any on the records and left them to it.
Sally was once again waiting in the car, texting at a rate of knots. From the look on her face Anderson had decided to text through his apology and it had been found lacking.
“So theories?” Greg asked once she’d put her phone down.
“Well, we know Carson and Robinson were at the same club, Robinson was stabbed and two days later Carson was assaulted and almost killed. We know they spoke... And that’s about all we know.” Sally drummed her fingers against the armrest.
“Do we think Robinson was interested in Carson?” Greg took a left as the chirpy GPS instructed.
“He’s not exactly his type.” Sally sounded doubtful.
“Carson’s Dom may not have known that. Maybe you were right with the poaching.” The freeway was no faster than the normal streets, but Greg dutifully sped up the on ramp as the GPS instructed.
“Except neither his parents nor his uncle mentioned a Dom. Nor did his flatmate, though he wasn’t in a good state last time we spoke to him.” Sally pointed out.
“So we’re back to drug deal gone wrong, and Carson as our mysterious murderer, in which case who did him, or a coincidence where we just happen to have two vics from different ends of town and different walks of life having a brief conversation and being attacked within two days of each other.” Greg shook his head. “I don’t like that.”
“We did say the wound could have come from a male Sub. Maybe Robinson broke his pattern and came onto the kid and he said no, forcefully when he had to.”
“Maybe.” Greg tapped his finger on the wheel in time to the radio.
“Didn’t seem like the impression of Carson from people we’ve spoken to so far, Sir.”
Greg sighed. “No, it doesn’t. The drug angle doesn’t sit well either.”
“Just means we’re missing something.” Sally stubbornly gazed out the window.
“Aren’t we always?” Greg asked rhetorically.
It took another half an hour on the freeway, then 15 minutes navigating side streets before they found themselves outside the flat Carson had shared with another Beta Sub, Sampson Marshall.
The young uni student was home and Greg had to wonder whether he’d been out of the flat since his friend had ended up in hospital.
“DI Lestrade, this is DS Donovan, we’d like to ask you some more questions about Peter Carson if you don’t mind.” Greg and Sally both showed their Ids.
“You’re the ones from the hospital.” The young Sub opened the door wide to allow them past. “Come in.”
“Surprised you remember. You weren’t in the best shape, Mr Marshall.” Greg pulled his gloves off and stuffed them into his pockets.
“Sam, please. Mr Marshall’s my Da and Sampson’s a character in stories.” He gestured for them to sit and they did, taking the couch so Sam had plenty of spaces to choose from. “What do you want to know?”
“Can you start by going over the night for us again?” Greg asked.
Sally pulled out her pen and sat quietly, ready to write down anything new.
“Yeah, yeah, sure. Um, we’d gone out for dinner, met a few friends at the Pub. I suppose you’ll want names won’t you? Ricky Garmon, Sonia Westbury, Azir Fitzhubert, yeah everyone gets a laugh at that one, and Mabel, Mabel Tompkins.” Same gave a wistful smile. “Mabel, Azir and I have comps whenever we meet up, see who can get the most double takes on our names. Azir always wins. Nothing shocking about Sampson or Mabel, even if they are a little old fashioned. Az won’t let us just play on first names. Knows he wouldn’t win without the shock factor.”
Greg gave him a sympathetic smile.
“Long way to go for dinner.” Sally commented.
“Mabel and Azir live the other side, and Ricky’s way out so it’s easier for him to head into the centre.” Sam clasped his hands together and then rested them on his knee.
Sally nodded and pretended to make a note on her pad. The movement prompted Sam to go on.
“We walked a bit after dinner, dropped Ricky at the interchange, then the others headed off too. We’d driven in that night, so we headed to the car.” His voice trailed off. “I had to go back and get it the next day.”
“What happened on the walk back?” Greg prompted.
“We, we were almost back at the car when Pete thought he saw something. He told me to wait and second and jogged down the street... I, after ten minutes I was tired of waiting so went after him and...” Sam’s hands were clenching and unclenching in his lap. “I almost went passed him. He, he was lying there on the ground and ...”
Greg sent his best comforting look the kid’s way. If he’d been closer he might have tried a comforting hand, but the distance he was sitting from Sam it would have involved standing to move closer, something that was unlikely to be reassuring.
“I called for an ambulance, and I tried, I tried to...”
“You did well. You kept him alive while the ambulance came. You did well.” Sally could move closer and did, gently patting Sam’s arm.
It was one of the reasons Greg was more than happy to have a female Sergeant. Even as a Dom, Sally was regarded as less threatening by the general population than he was, and could do things like this that Greg couldn’t.
“He, they don’t know if he’ll wake up.” Sam pressed his hands together hard enough to turn his knuckles white. “I shouted and shouted for help, but no one stopped. We were in a little alley and a couple of people looked down and then hurried off, but no one stopped.”
Sam’s voice broke and he looked up at Greg with pleading eyes. “Why did no one stop?”
Greg hated when the people surrounding the victims asked questions like that. Why my friend/lover/partner? Why did no one see/help/stop?
“Because they were scared, the same way you were.” Greg leant forward, catching and maintaining Sam’s gaze. “Because humans are flawed.”
The truth was that people had probably thought it was a drug deal gone wrong, the way they’d been tucked down that dingy alley. The PCs on the scene had certainly thought so until they’d all arrived at the hospital and Sam had stammered out enough of his story to convince them otherwise.
“We’re going to do our best to find who did this, Sam, I promise.” Greg was careful not to promise to find them. That was a promise he’d made and broken before and would prefer not to do again.
“Are you able to answer some more questions?” Greg continued.
Sam nodded. Greg sent Sally and quick look and she took over the questioning.
“Have you and Peter ever been to a place called Illusion before?” She moved back to sit slightly further away, though not on the couch again.
Sam looked confused. “A couple of times, on and off. It wasn’t a favourite. The music’s better at Glam and if we’re all the way over there we’re usually meeting Mabel, Az, Son and Ricky so we go to Fusion.”
“Have you been there lately? Or do you know if Peter has?”
They knew the answers to these questions, but it was always best to ask.
“Um, uh.” Sam blinked as he tried to think back. “Not recently, I don’t think.”
“So Peter wasn’t there about a week ago?” Sally pressed.
Sam blinked again. “I don’t think so, unless... he was out with a whole pile of university mates last Thursday. They may have gone to Illusion.”
“You weren’t with them?” Greg asked.
Sam shook his head. “I don’t get on with them. The Subs are alright, but Mark and Ryan are real arsehole Doms. I had a test the next day so I begged off. Why? Is this relevant?”
“It may be. Did Peter have a Dom he was close to, maybe someone he was looking at making an arrangement with?”
“No one.” Same shook his head. “Az used to tease him about becoming a monk he was so celibate. He was always shy around Doms, always blushed and backed away. Could barely even look at an Alpha.”
“And there was no one he was interested in, or who was interested in him?” Sally asked.
“No.” Sam shook his head then paused. “Well, there were some flowers delivered to the door, but neither of us knew who they were for. Wrong address, you know. Or Pete said he didn’t know…. But I suppose when I think about it, he smiled, when he saw them.”
“Anything else? Phone calls, mysterious or otherwise?”
“Sorry, couldn’t tell you. We don’t have a home line, we just use our mobiles and between work and uni and other friends...” Sam shrugged.
Greg and Sally shared a quick look.
“Then if you wouldn’t mind giving us the details of the friends Peter was with last Thursday we’ll get out of your hair.” Greg smiled as he stood, knees cracking loudly.
“Ah, sure.”
Greg didn’t bother to listen to the details Sam provided, trusting Sally to record them. Instead he looked around the room, taking in the items that spoke to the flatmates’ personalities.
According to his parents, Peter Carson was a troublemaker, a wild boy out of control. To his uncle he was troubled, a home boy from a broken home, still gentle, still kind, just lost. To his flatmate he was a good friend, shy, studious.
The picture in front of Greg showed Carson and four others: two boys and two girls, presumably Mabel, Sonia, Ricky and Azir. He was dressed in tight jeans, a loose light blue shirt and a leather jacket, brown hair half-heartedly spiked. He looked like he was trying to be tough, doomed to fall short with large baby blue eyes and a too friendly smile.
“That was Rick’s birthday.” Sam came up next to Greg. “Last year. We ended up out at Hounslow Heath, no idea how or why, just cause we could.”
“Best kind of night.” Greg turned. “Thanks for your help, Sam.”
Sam opened the door for them. “Anything.”
With a parting handshake they left, squishing along the narrow corridor.
“Inspector!” Sam called. He looked unnaturally small in the doorway. “You will catch them, whoever did this?”
“We’ll do our best.” Greg promised.
He sighed as he collapsed into the car. Lazily he chucked the keys Sally’s way and she caught them with a roll of her eyes. It was her turn to drive.
“We need to speak to Carson’s buddies who were at the club with him and we need his phone.” Greg sighed.
“Probably best to get a warrant for the phone, Sir. He’s still alive.”
“Great, just great. Why do I get the feeling I’m going to be in charge of the warrant?”
Sally grinned and turned onto the freeway. “Hospital might just give you his effects if you ask.”
“I want this case perfect for when it goes to court. No short cuts on this one.”
Sally nodded in agreement. They sat in silence as the car sped down the road.
“How long do you think you’ll need to chase down the uni kids?” Greg eventually asked.
“Not long.” Sally overtook a car doing well under the speed limit. “Sam said they should all be in class, so I’ll head over and catch them on campus.”
“Drop me back at the Yard.” Greg sighed. “Call when you’re done.”
“How long do you think the warrant will take?”
The car next to them attempted to change lanes without looking and Sally leant on the horn. The silver BMW swerved back and the driver blared his horn in response.
“Bloody Alpha drivers.” Sally muttered.
Greg didn’t disagree.
Walking back into the Yard Greg was briefly accosted by Mulgrave and asked where he’d been, but the DCI backed down when Greg said he’d been with Sally doing interviews. Apparently he still wasn’t trusted by senior management, a fact Greg had resigned himself to, but it would have been nice if his DCI had at least been on his side.
Back at his desk Greg tore through the paper work required for the warrant for Peter Carson’s effects, phone and phone records. Technically he could just collect Carson’s clothing and phone, technically he could use them as evidence, but if this was connected to the Robinson case Greg didn’t want any legal grey areas hanging over the trial. Neither the case nor Greg could afford it.
Sally’s phone call caught him leaving the Magistrate’s office, signed warrant tucked into his jacket pocket.
“Donovan?”
“Where are you, Sir?”
“Getting the warrant authorised. Heading back to the station now. How’re the interviews?”
“One more to go. Adam Hastings didn’t show today and hasn’t been seen for the last three.”
“Huh, always suspicious.”
“Beta Dom and apparently a bit of a gym junkie. Could easily have the strength to knock Carson over the head and kill Robinson.”
“The others?” Greg asked, pausing to pull his gloves on.
“Nothing interesting. They all alibi out for the attack on Carson and half of them don’t even recall him talking to Robinson. Tell you more when I get back?”
“Sounds good.” Greg caught a glimpse of his watch and resigned himself to not getting home on time.
True to his thoughts, he was, finally, eating his re-heated lasagne when Sally arrived back at six.
“Well?” He mumbled around a mouthful.
Sally dropped into the chair opposite with a sigh and a grimace.
“Adam Hastings is legitimately at home, sick with the chicken pox that he apparently failed to contract as a child. He’s almost certainly not our suspect given that Carson is 5ft 11’’ and Robinson if 6ft 2’’. I’m no expert, but I think pathology is going to say our culprit was taller than 5ft 3’’.
“Yeah, probably.” Greg winced.
Sally pulled out her notebook. “The others confirm they were at the club. A few of them were able to ID Robinson as the man who spoke to Carson. None of them know what he said, just that it was something as Carson was coming back from the bar. Carson laughed it off and Robinson didn’t come near him again.”
“So we’ve got nothing.” Greg leant back in his chair and stared up at the ceiling.
“Adam did say that Carson was nervy the rest of the night.” Sally offered.
“Yeah, cause that’s useful.” Greg shovelled another fork full of lasagne into his mouth.
“The only other thing of any note was they all agreed that Carson was wearing way too much aftershave that night.”
Greg gave her a sceptical look.
“Must’ve been pretty strong for five people to comment on it.” Sally buried her nose in her notebook.
“Phone records are still coming.” Greg swallowed. “In my inbox, but haven’t sorted through yet. Phone’s in the box, rest still needs to be logged.”
“That’s the next job? Phone records?” Sally pulled the phone over. “Do we know what the passcode is?”
“Network was kind enough to unlock it.” Greg handed over the sticky note he’d scrawled down the pin on. “We can do this tomorrow, you know.”
“Tomorrow we have yesteryear’s missing person records to comb through, barring a miracle.” Sally replied.
Greg groaned and hung his head.
“Don’t suppose you have a charger for it?” Sally asked as the phone buzzed in her hand.
“This one work?” Greg held out his spare charger.
“No, Sir.” The tone of voice said very clearly what Sally thought of his dinosaur phone and charger.
“Go scrounge out there.” Greg waved at the pen as Sally stood with a huff. “Oh, and get this from the printer.”
He hit print on the records.
They were silent for a while once Sally returned, keys on the phone chiming as Sally flicked through the messages on the phone and Greg highlighted numbers on the call record.
“Okay, gimmie.” Greg said when she stopped tapping.
“Mostly nothing. Messages from Sam, his other friends, a number from his Uncle, Nothing unexpected.” Sally kept scrolling.
“Read out the numbers for me.” Greg drew lines in his coloured highlighters at the top of the page in preparation for filling them in. When they were done, the green highlighted lines remained unaccounted for.
“Nothing?” Greg asked.
“Not in his contacts. Nothing in his messages either.”
“Yet according to this, that number has called that phone once a day for the last six months. Not for short calls either, one hour, two hours, 50 minutes.” Greg lipped back a few pages and began circling dates.
“Sir?” Sally leant over to look.
“Almost every day, baring these ones. So what is so special about these dates that our mysterious caller didn’t call?” Greg held out the sheets.
“Lots of long weekends and public holidays.” Sally noted.
“True, and only a short call at Christmas, two minutes.” Greg tapped his finger against the paper. “But this isn’t a public holiday.”
“That,” Sally pulled the papers closer, “is a week.”
“Why a whole week?” Greg mused. “And why no calls in the last week, either?”
“Since the day after Robinson was attacked. I can try and see who the number is registered to.” Sally noted it down. “It’s certainly suspicious.”
“Doesn’t seem like a stalker.” Greg mused. “You don’t talk to your stalker for an hour at a go.”
“You’re thinking a Dom of some kind. One he had or was thinking of entering into an arrangement with.”
“Would explain the calls and the flowers, but why not save the number? And why didn’t his flatmate or any of his friends or family know about this?”
“Well, maybe-”
“Sir!” DC Weatherly stuck her head around the door. She faltered slightly seeing Sally, but powered on. “A body’s been found in Leicester Square.”
“Drug overdose?” Greg sighed, but stood up.
“Gunshot, Sir.”
“I’ll go get more coffee.” Sally looked as resigned as Greg felt.
It was going to be a long night.
~*~
It was a long night, and by the time Greg had finished supervising the incredibly awkward scene, with Sally, Anderson and DC Weatherly all present, he was exhausted. The sound of his feet dragging up the stairs filled the otherwise silent house.
He needed a shower. He needed sleep.
Mycroft’s door was shut, as it was every night. Mycroft never left the door open while he slept. A security precaution or a barrier against the world? Or against a particular person?
Greg opened the door as quietly as he could. Mycroft was asleep, light from the hallway spilling across features lax in slumber. He was curled on his side facing the door, fingers lightly clasping the edge of the pillow.
Leaning against the door, Greg took a deep breath and held it, letting the scent that permeated the room fill his nostrils. As the pheromones hit, Greg could feel himself relax, the knot of tension he carried whenever he was away from Mycroft easing.
Silently he shut the door. He wanted to go in, bed down and just hold Mycroft until he had to go, but that was in less than two hours and he stank of crime scene. There was no point disturbing Mycroft’s much needed rest just for a couple of hours sleep.
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