Rolling in the Deep (2/?)
Rolling in the Deep
Title: Rolling in the DeepSeries: Still Waters (Run Deep) (Part III of IV)
Author:
melody_in_time
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Through S1 only
Disclaimer: I wish they were mine, but they aren't. Nor am I creative enough to have written the song that gave this instalment its title. That belongs to Adele, and whomever else had IP rights along side her.
Author's Notes: Welcome back to chapter 2, what would be chapter 1 if AO3 had provision for an introductory chapter. Advanced warning, I seem to find countless typos in this chapter every time I re-read it, so please feel free to let me know when you find them and I'll edit them out. This still isn't beta'ed, so I can believe that there's a lot hidden away.
Also, I need someone to do some French translations for me. Later on there's some need for it in the story, and my high school French is not going to be anything close to viable. Anyone feel like helping out, please just let me know. Spoiler level is negotiable!
Warnings: Discussions around fertility and pseudo-science
If you've wondered here by mistake, you may wish to start at Part I of the series, Rarest of the Rare: Chapter 1.
Chapter 1: Introduction - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8 - Chapter 9 - Chapter 10
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Greg sat at his desk resolutely digging away at the endless pile of paperwork. After twenty odd years on the force he would have sworn blind it multiplied every time he blinked, breeding in secret overnight. He doggedly signed his name on another form and stuck it in the appropriate internal mail envelope for SOCO, chucking it in in his out tray before reaching for the next.
That there was a lot of paperwork to be done was partly because there were no cases demanding his attention in the field, a sort of silver lining. There were smaller incidents being worked through, and evidence trickling in from various sources, but mostly it was small stuff that could be added to the picture from the office. The rest of it was court documents, joy of all joy, and like it or not those had to be done as a lot of them were close to trial date.
Peter/Jeremy Carson/Smith’s case wasn’t one of them. Child abusers didn’t last long in prison, even in remand, and once the Carsons’ acts and plans had become public knowledge…
Even in remand prison justice held sway and none of the three would be needing a trial before a court of law. The only judge they’d be seeing was whichever their belief system said they would, and Greg at least comforted himself with the idea that there was a very special circle of hell reserved for child molesters, rapists and abusers.
Last Greg had seen of the kid, Daniel, upon hearing the news that there would be no need for a trial, had whisked them out of the country for some desperately needed space while the media furore died down.
So instead of preparation for a massive media spectacle, Greg was mercifully left with equally important, but much less conspicuous cases. A new scandal had erupted in Parliament, taking with it all the reporters camped on his new doorstep, and Gregson had kept Mulgrave occupied long enough he hadn’t noticed Greg’s conspicuous absence. This was all making his life substantially easier, even if he did now owe Gregson big time.
That relief wasn’t the source of his glee fuelled dedication to paperwork though.
Two and a bit weeks. Finally, Ben was coming home, and Greg fully intended to knock off early so he could do one last check that everything was perfect before Mycroft arrived with him.
If he got through his mounds of self-replicating paperwork.
Which he would.
He’d covered for Whiting last weekend so he wasn’t scheduled for any new cases first off the rank, and had been hanging back in the evenings to clean up as much as possible, so once this pile was gone he could leave and have all weekend with Mycroft and Ben, darling little Ben who he missed so much.
Just this pile. One more down, two more down, th-
The door to his office, left open in case he was needed, slammed shut hard enough it failed to latch, rebounding with a second bang against the glass wall. Greg started, pen flying out of his hand as his body flailed. It clattered against the cabinet before making its way to the floor via every propped open metallic drawer and finally rolling to a halt on the carpet.
Sherlock, who else, shoved the door again, this time forcing it to catch and stay shut.
Despite his dramatic entrance, Sherlock cut a pathetic figure, shoulders slumped with his fingers still restraining the door. There had been a rain shower sweep through earlier, a summer squall that hadn’t lasted a whole hour and a half, though some of it had been relatively heavy. Sherlock looked as though he’d been outside through the whole thing. The water dropped off the ends of his sodden curls and ran down his neck, invisible under his shirt collar and on the dark material of his suit.
The absence of the familiar Belstaff, set aside for summer, made him look younger and more fragile than usual, as did the lack of scarf. The desolate grey shirt didn’t help, emphasising how pale he was even with the slight summer tan. His collar, a stark black band on his neck, seemed dull and waterlogged from the rain, not the usual sleek statement it normally proclaimed.
“Sherlock, are you o-” Greg started to ask.
It was the wrong question. Quick as a snake and twice as dangerous, Sherlock was in front of Greg’s desk. If he’d been a cobra, his hood would have been flared menacingly.
“So is my brother speaking to you yet, or has he still tossed you over for someone more observant?” Sherlock hissed.
Greg swallowed and sat back. A personal attack first up, something Sherlock thought was a sore spot, something that would have been a sore spot if Anthea hadn’t intervened, was trouble. Even worse, Sherlock was too preoccupied with his own need to strike out to notice any of the little signs on Greg’s person that things had changed.
“Speaking to me again, are we?” Greg deflected.
“Clearly not. Must have started fucking his secretary again.” Sherlock sounded bored.
The disdainful arrogance he wrapped around himself with a tight smirk playing at his lips was calculated to be hurtful, but it seemed slightly brittle, more a façade than the usual seamless characterisation most people never realised wasn’t real. It made Greg reluctant to throw the truth, that he and Mycroft were okay (and in the language of teenagers, “on again”), in Sherlock’s face like he deserved. Doing so felt dangerous, though not to him, and twenty odd years with the Yard had taught Greg to listen to his gut.
Sherlock was a diamond, but a flawed one, and every now and then those flaws rose to the surface where a single tap could cause him to shatter.
“After all, you’re certainly nowhere near his…” Sherlock wrinkled his nose, “usual type.”
It was all enough to make clear that the actual words were ‘Standard’.
Even knowing Sherlock whole heartedly approved of their relationship, it was a kick to Greg’s sleeping yet ever present demons, which Sherlock knew, and even trying not to break him open, there were still things Greg couldn’t let him get away with in all good conscience.
“Spoke to him on the phone, yesterday, if that counts.” He said casually.
It was actually the truth, sort of. He’d really spoken to Anthea who’d called instead of Mycroft to make logistical arrangements for today. The photo she’d sent him of an exhausted Mycroft passed out in the rocking chair with Ben in his arms more than made up for not getting to speak to his lover.
Something changed in Sherlock, but Greg couldn’t say what for the life of him.
“I assume Donovan has handed over the proof you needed.” Sherlock snapped icily.
It was a subtle dig, a reminder that Greg was on shaky ground everywhere and that Sherlock could jump ship if he so chose. Sherlock liked to pretend he would, though Greg knew better. It was sometimes hard to believe, but he knew.
“Yes, thank you for that.” Greg replied courteously, especially thankful that John Watson hadn’t shot the murderer during the arrest for groping Sherlock.
Broken hands were much easier to explain away than bullet holes.
“Has anyone else in the city deigned to be to least moderately interesting?” The frost edge to his voice and thinning lips suggested Sherlock wasn’t appreciating Greg’s reasonableness.
Tough. Greg wasn’t going to give him the fight he wanted.
“According to you no one’s ever,” was as far as Greg got before Sherlock’s coat tails had already swirled out the door in a wave of derisive disgust, shorter suit jacket conveying the impressive sentiment usually the purview of the longer coat.
The quiet click as the door shut behind him was accusatory, though what Greg had failed at he had no clue.
“Right…” Greg stared after the retreating figure through the glass walls.
A questioning look from Sally. Greg shrugged back, as clueless as her.
Maybe Mycroft would know. Greg would, could, check with him later.
Resolving to put the issue out of him mind for now, Greg bent over to get his pen, almost hitting his head in surprise as his mobile rang.
“In-Inspector Lestrade.” He managed, fumbling for the phone as he pushed upright.
“Hi Greg.” John sounded subdued.
“John, hi, if you’re looking for himself you just missed him.” Greg replied trying not to sound too harried as time ticked on and his paperwork pile didn’t.
“Oh, no, I was just calling to give you a heads up. He’s… probably not in a good mood.”
“He beat you here.” Greg shuffled the pages on his desk. “And yeah, I noticed when the door rebounded off the wall and he started in on Mycroft not speaking to me.”
“Sorry,” John apologised dully. “He’s… I’d better find him. He’s probably gone home.”
“John, what’s up?” Greg broke though John’s dull toned wanderings.
“Nothing, just - Nothing.” John took a deep shaky breath. “Nothing, just stuff. You know how it is. How are you going?”
“I’ve just had Sherlock Holmes in my office, throwing a fit, starting in on my actually better relationship with his brother, not noticing that it was actually better, and not insulting my intelligence once, despite trying to be actively hurtful, but everything’s alright? Bullshit, John. That’s not he’s bored.”
Greg could almost hear John wince.
“What’s up?” Greg asked.
He stared regretfully at his paperwork. It would have to wait.
“We just had an appointment,” John conceded, “with the specialist.”
Greg’s brain whirled frantically, trying to work out what John meant as his first thought was that ‘specialist’ was another euphemism for prostitute like ‘professional’ and that made no sense. Greg had trouble picturing the duo needing to add anything to their relationship, and he would never imagine that given how possessive John and Sherlock both were.
Oh, wait, fertility specialist. Doctor, of course.
“I thought you were going to wait until after another Heat?”
There was a pregnant silence on the other end of the phone.
“Oh,” Greg realised. “No, ah… right.”
“Yeah.”
Greg could picture John leaning against something, a wall, maybe tube station, maybe a bus stop, slumped in dejection.
“Well, how was the uh, appointment?” He fumbled.
“Could have been worse.” John said.
It sounded like ‘couldn’t have been worse’.
“That bad?” Greg felt his throat clenching in sympathy.
“It’s not… it isn’t me… and it’s not Sherlock’s weight or age. It’s not even the cocaine.” John took a deep breath. “It’s the suppressants. That he made. They’re…”
Greg sat quietly while John struggled with words. Silence from him would be more effective than anything he could ask. More honestly, he also didn’t know what to say.
“Sherlock, he… it’s quite ironic actually.” John laughed, a dry, slightly hysterical laugh. “He’s managed to create the world’s best birth control - all the fun of Estrus, but-
John cut off. From the rustle of the fabric near the mike, Greg figured he was either pushing a hand against his mouth to hold back the flood or the phone was now dangling loosely at his side while he regained control.
“It’s quite amazing, biologically.” Dr Watson continued. “Whatever he used, he’s managed to separate the hormonal activation of the Estrus Cycle from the release of the ovum.”
“And for the layman?”
“He’s decoupled Heat from when he’s fertile. He can have marathon sex during Estrus and doesn’t have to worry about pregnancy because there’s nothing to fertilise. Of course, when he is ovulating there’s no chance of conception because without the biological changes from Estrus his reproductive system is completely isolated from the rest.” His voice faltered, then recovered. “Perfect birth control without suppression. F-first of its kind, ruddy genius.”
There was another quick pause while John struggled to keep his detached doctor persona to the fore, rather than the highly emotional Alpha Dom.
“Is there anything they can do?” Greg asked softly.
“Yeah, yeah, well, maybe.” John’s voice oscillated between lifeless and emotional as he struggled for control. “That’s what I was just… why I didn’t call… Sherlock left straight after the …news.”
“So he doesn’t know its reversible?” Greg involuntarily bit his lip.
No wonder Sherlock had looked so small when he had arrived.
“It might not be.”
“Oh.”
Silence expanded to fill the gap left between them as Greg absorbed the news and John presumably struggled with vocalising it, making it real.
“They think it might be though, yeah?” Greg double checked.
The charcoal grey despair gathering on the other side of the phone was threatening to choke him.
“Yeah, yeah. They,” John cleared his throat and his voice dropped back to the lower, calming register and tones Greg thought of as Doctor Watson.
“They think it’s to do with hormone levels, and that his body is trying to correct itself. Reset the baseline, I guess. That’s why his Heats have been getting closer together as everything adjusts. That’s the theory anyway.”
“So it might fix itself eventually?”
Even Greg could hear the higher note in his voice and tried to tone it down. It sounded jarringly artificial next to John’s flat depth.
“It’s possible. They’re hoping to help things along with hormone treatments, just at different times in the cycle to usual fertility treatments and maybe…”
“That’s not too bad then.” Greg fiddled absently with his pen. “Might take longer, but…”
John didn’t immediately reply, adding to the sense of foreboding hanging over every break in speech.
“It’s not possible to identify any potential long term effects until after the cycle has been regulated.” Dr Watson said carefully.
“Meaning?” Greg pressed gently.
“Even if everything… syncs again, Sh- he may not be able to successfully carry to term or they suspect there might be a higher probability of genetic abnormalities in any chi - issue.”
“John…” Greg trailed off.
“Even if we conceive, he’s - Sherlock’s unlikely to be able to carry it and there’s a high possibility that the baby will have disabilities.” John spat out as quickly as possible. His voice wobbled at the end. “A Holmes with learning difficulties. Not just not a genius, actually disabled. I don’t - it’d kill him.”
“I know.”
Greg couldn’t imagine Mycroft not loving Ben, but he also knew his love well enough to know he’d not understand, would be totally unable to relate to his son if Ben wasn’t at least above average. Between Mycroft’s standards and the pressure he’d naively put on Ben, they’d never see eye to eye and end up hating each other, totally bewildered by the fact they’d ended up there.
He was still worried about that deep down. Not much, but a bit.
If Ben had been born disabled, with some problem that could be explicitly laid at Mycroft’s feet…
He’d still love him, always love him, but…
“Not that there a high chance of that. There’s almost no chance of conception, even-” John shut up abruptly and heavy breathing filled Greg’s ear as John calmed himself down again.
“It’s not a no.” Greg said quietly. “It’s not, John, and don’t borrow trouble before you need it.”
“I know, I know.”
A horn blared somewhere in the distance, electronically distorted over the phone connection.
“Do you need to get a beer?” Greg asked.
This was more personal sharing than usually occurred without the shield of alcohol.
“I should go home. Tell him there might be a chance, still. That’s it’s not, we might…”
“Yeah, sounds like an idea.” Greg agreed.
“Least I don’t have to dig him out of Mycroft’s house again.” John tried joviality that fell flat before it even began.
Mycroft.
Fuck.
“John.” Greg’s heart was back in his throat, threatening to strangle every word. The air clung to him, rolling in and out of his lungs in cloying humid breathes. “John, Mycroft’s coming home tonight.”
Greg could feel time slowing as John’s seconds joined the leaden thud that marked everyone of Greg’s, inescapably drummed out by the drill sergeant of a watch on his wrist. John under stood what Greg was saying, why Mycroft’d be home.
“His name is Abenathy Francois Holmes. He was born 9th September, 5 lbs and 35.4 cm.” Greg recited, mouth on autopilot. “He’ll be home this afternoon.”
There was controlled breathing harsh in Greg’s ear.
“I wasn’t sure if I should call,” Greg admitted. “What with Sherlock and…”
The end of the sentence faded away into more waiting and breathing.
“I’ll tell him.”
Cold clipped vowels, sharp consonants. Captain Watson, probably straightened automatically into parade rest while John had his emotional breakdown in a corner.
“Thanks, yeah. Just thought… before he finds out another…”
“I’ll tell him.”
“He’s gorgeous, John, really, and I haven’t spoken to Mycroft, but he’s going to want Sherlock to meet his nephew, I’m sure, maybe be godfather or something, Uncle and all, and I don’t know, but I imagine that’s what he’s-”
“I’ll tell him, Greg. The rest might…”
“Take some time.” Greg nodded. “I know. I just… given…”
“Yeah. Yeah, thanks.”
It wasn’t any fairer blurting out Ben’s arrival to John and shoving the birth in his face than it was to Sherlock, Greg knew that, but of the two of them John had better coping mechanisms. It actually made it more unfair, because not ricocheting through the Yard or shooting cocaine meant John was usually given the hard news by default under the hope he’d find a way to break it to Sherlock in a more controlled manner.
“Do,” Greg cleared his throat. “Do you want me to tell Mycroft for you?”
Alphas didn’t like to advertise reproductive problems, even when it wasn’t their virility in question. Ancient instinct, from the days where not reproducing meant you were liable to lose your mate to someone who could breed them. A touchy subject and Mycroft was too dominant for John to be comfortable knowing, Omega and relative not-with-standing.
“Please.” John’s reply was clear and crisp. “Before he contacts Sherlock, would be best. Try and get him to refrain from interfering, financially or otherwise, or I can’t promise what Sherlock will do.”
Because Mycroft was an Omega, and his unwanted and much loathed fertility would be a twisting knife in Sherlock’s gut.
“I’ll try.”
“Good.”
“I’ll just…” Greg cleared his throat after they both failed to mention anything else.
“Yeah, I’ll see you later.”
Greg nodded, even if John couldn’t see and went to hang up.
“Oh, Greg-” John’s small tinny voice caught him just before he hit the button.
“Yeah?”
“… Congratulations.”
Greg swallowed around the sudden restriction in his throat, heart beating hollowly in his chest.
It was the only time he’d hear that. Mycroft would again and again, and maybe Greg would as a friend of the family and adopted Dad, maybe casually mistaken in the street, but this was the only deliberate, genuine wish from someone who knew he’d get.
He hadn’t realised how much it would mean.
“Thank you.”
The dial tone sounded in his ear.
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Previous - Next
Title: Rolling in the DeepSeries: Still Waters (Run Deep) (Part III of IV)
Author:
melody_in_time
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Through S1 only
Disclaimer: I wish they were mine, but they aren't. Nor am I creative enough to have written the song that gave this instalment its title. That belongs to Adele, and whomever else had IP rights along side her.
Author's Notes: Welcome back to chapter 2, what would be chapter 1 if AO3 had provision for an introductory chapter. Advanced warning, I seem to find countless typos in this chapter every time I re-read it, so please feel free to let me know when you find them and I'll edit them out. This still isn't beta'ed, so I can believe that there's a lot hidden away.
Also, I need someone to do some French translations for me. Later on there's some need for it in the story, and my high school French is not going to be anything close to viable. Anyone feel like helping out, please just let me know. Spoiler level is negotiable!
Warnings: Discussions around fertility and pseudo-science
If you've wondered here by mistake, you may wish to start at Part I of the series, Rarest of the Rare: Chapter 1.
Chapter 1: Introduction - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8 - Chapter 9 - Chapter 10
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Greg sat at his desk resolutely digging away at the endless pile of paperwork. After twenty odd years on the force he would have sworn blind it multiplied every time he blinked, breeding in secret overnight. He doggedly signed his name on another form and stuck it in the appropriate internal mail envelope for SOCO, chucking it in in his out tray before reaching for the next.
That there was a lot of paperwork to be done was partly because there were no cases demanding his attention in the field, a sort of silver lining. There were smaller incidents being worked through, and evidence trickling in from various sources, but mostly it was small stuff that could be added to the picture from the office. The rest of it was court documents, joy of all joy, and like it or not those had to be done as a lot of them were close to trial date.
Peter/Jeremy Carson/Smith’s case wasn’t one of them. Child abusers didn’t last long in prison, even in remand, and once the Carsons’ acts and plans had become public knowledge…
Even in remand prison justice held sway and none of the three would be needing a trial before a court of law. The only judge they’d be seeing was whichever their belief system said they would, and Greg at least comforted himself with the idea that there was a very special circle of hell reserved for child molesters, rapists and abusers.
Last Greg had seen of the kid, Daniel, upon hearing the news that there would be no need for a trial, had whisked them out of the country for some desperately needed space while the media furore died down.
So instead of preparation for a massive media spectacle, Greg was mercifully left with equally important, but much less conspicuous cases. A new scandal had erupted in Parliament, taking with it all the reporters camped on his new doorstep, and Gregson had kept Mulgrave occupied long enough he hadn’t noticed Greg’s conspicuous absence. This was all making his life substantially easier, even if he did now owe Gregson big time.
That relief wasn’t the source of his glee fuelled dedication to paperwork though.
Two and a bit weeks. Finally, Ben was coming home, and Greg fully intended to knock off early so he could do one last check that everything was perfect before Mycroft arrived with him.
If he got through his mounds of self-replicating paperwork.
Which he would.
He’d covered for Whiting last weekend so he wasn’t scheduled for any new cases first off the rank, and had been hanging back in the evenings to clean up as much as possible, so once this pile was gone he could leave and have all weekend with Mycroft and Ben, darling little Ben who he missed so much.
Just this pile. One more down, two more down, th-
The door to his office, left open in case he was needed, slammed shut hard enough it failed to latch, rebounding with a second bang against the glass wall. Greg started, pen flying out of his hand as his body flailed. It clattered against the cabinet before making its way to the floor via every propped open metallic drawer and finally rolling to a halt on the carpet.
Sherlock, who else, shoved the door again, this time forcing it to catch and stay shut.
Despite his dramatic entrance, Sherlock cut a pathetic figure, shoulders slumped with his fingers still restraining the door. There had been a rain shower sweep through earlier, a summer squall that hadn’t lasted a whole hour and a half, though some of it had been relatively heavy. Sherlock looked as though he’d been outside through the whole thing. The water dropped off the ends of his sodden curls and ran down his neck, invisible under his shirt collar and on the dark material of his suit.
The absence of the familiar Belstaff, set aside for summer, made him look younger and more fragile than usual, as did the lack of scarf. The desolate grey shirt didn’t help, emphasising how pale he was even with the slight summer tan. His collar, a stark black band on his neck, seemed dull and waterlogged from the rain, not the usual sleek statement it normally proclaimed.
“Sherlock, are you o-” Greg started to ask.
It was the wrong question. Quick as a snake and twice as dangerous, Sherlock was in front of Greg’s desk. If he’d been a cobra, his hood would have been flared menacingly.
“So is my brother speaking to you yet, or has he still tossed you over for someone more observant?” Sherlock hissed.
Greg swallowed and sat back. A personal attack first up, something Sherlock thought was a sore spot, something that would have been a sore spot if Anthea hadn’t intervened, was trouble. Even worse, Sherlock was too preoccupied with his own need to strike out to notice any of the little signs on Greg’s person that things had changed.
“Speaking to me again, are we?” Greg deflected.
“Clearly not. Must have started fucking his secretary again.” Sherlock sounded bored.
The disdainful arrogance he wrapped around himself with a tight smirk playing at his lips was calculated to be hurtful, but it seemed slightly brittle, more a façade than the usual seamless characterisation most people never realised wasn’t real. It made Greg reluctant to throw the truth, that he and Mycroft were okay (and in the language of teenagers, “on again”), in Sherlock’s face like he deserved. Doing so felt dangerous, though not to him, and twenty odd years with the Yard had taught Greg to listen to his gut.
Sherlock was a diamond, but a flawed one, and every now and then those flaws rose to the surface where a single tap could cause him to shatter.
“After all, you’re certainly nowhere near his…” Sherlock wrinkled his nose, “usual type.”
It was all enough to make clear that the actual words were ‘Standard’.
Even knowing Sherlock whole heartedly approved of their relationship, it was a kick to Greg’s sleeping yet ever present demons, which Sherlock knew, and even trying not to break him open, there were still things Greg couldn’t let him get away with in all good conscience.
“Spoke to him on the phone, yesterday, if that counts.” He said casually.
It was actually the truth, sort of. He’d really spoken to Anthea who’d called instead of Mycroft to make logistical arrangements for today. The photo she’d sent him of an exhausted Mycroft passed out in the rocking chair with Ben in his arms more than made up for not getting to speak to his lover.
Something changed in Sherlock, but Greg couldn’t say what for the life of him.
“I assume Donovan has handed over the proof you needed.” Sherlock snapped icily.
It was a subtle dig, a reminder that Greg was on shaky ground everywhere and that Sherlock could jump ship if he so chose. Sherlock liked to pretend he would, though Greg knew better. It was sometimes hard to believe, but he knew.
“Yes, thank you for that.” Greg replied courteously, especially thankful that John Watson hadn’t shot the murderer during the arrest for groping Sherlock.
Broken hands were much easier to explain away than bullet holes.
“Has anyone else in the city deigned to be to least moderately interesting?” The frost edge to his voice and thinning lips suggested Sherlock wasn’t appreciating Greg’s reasonableness.
Tough. Greg wasn’t going to give him the fight he wanted.
“According to you no one’s ever,” was as far as Greg got before Sherlock’s coat tails had already swirled out the door in a wave of derisive disgust, shorter suit jacket conveying the impressive sentiment usually the purview of the longer coat.
The quiet click as the door shut behind him was accusatory, though what Greg had failed at he had no clue.
“Right…” Greg stared after the retreating figure through the glass walls.
A questioning look from Sally. Greg shrugged back, as clueless as her.
Maybe Mycroft would know. Greg would, could, check with him later.
Resolving to put the issue out of him mind for now, Greg bent over to get his pen, almost hitting his head in surprise as his mobile rang.
“In-Inspector Lestrade.” He managed, fumbling for the phone as he pushed upright.
“Hi Greg.” John sounded subdued.
“John, hi, if you’re looking for himself you just missed him.” Greg replied trying not to sound too harried as time ticked on and his paperwork pile didn’t.
“Oh, no, I was just calling to give you a heads up. He’s… probably not in a good mood.”
“He beat you here.” Greg shuffled the pages on his desk. “And yeah, I noticed when the door rebounded off the wall and he started in on Mycroft not speaking to me.”
“Sorry,” John apologised dully. “He’s… I’d better find him. He’s probably gone home.”
“John, what’s up?” Greg broke though John’s dull toned wanderings.
“Nothing, just - Nothing.” John took a deep shaky breath. “Nothing, just stuff. You know how it is. How are you going?”
“I’ve just had Sherlock Holmes in my office, throwing a fit, starting in on my actually better relationship with his brother, not noticing that it was actually better, and not insulting my intelligence once, despite trying to be actively hurtful, but everything’s alright? Bullshit, John. That’s not he’s bored.”
Greg could almost hear John wince.
“What’s up?” Greg asked.
He stared regretfully at his paperwork. It would have to wait.
“We just had an appointment,” John conceded, “with the specialist.”
Greg’s brain whirled frantically, trying to work out what John meant as his first thought was that ‘specialist’ was another euphemism for prostitute like ‘professional’ and that made no sense. Greg had trouble picturing the duo needing to add anything to their relationship, and he would never imagine that given how possessive John and Sherlock both were.
Oh, wait, fertility specialist. Doctor, of course.
“I thought you were going to wait until after another Heat?”
There was a pregnant silence on the other end of the phone.
“Oh,” Greg realised. “No, ah… right.”
“Yeah.”
Greg could picture John leaning against something, a wall, maybe tube station, maybe a bus stop, slumped in dejection.
“Well, how was the uh, appointment?” He fumbled.
“Could have been worse.” John said.
It sounded like ‘couldn’t have been worse’.
“That bad?” Greg felt his throat clenching in sympathy.
“It’s not… it isn’t me… and it’s not Sherlock’s weight or age. It’s not even the cocaine.” John took a deep breath. “It’s the suppressants. That he made. They’re…”
Greg sat quietly while John struggled with words. Silence from him would be more effective than anything he could ask. More honestly, he also didn’t know what to say.
“Sherlock, he… it’s quite ironic actually.” John laughed, a dry, slightly hysterical laugh. “He’s managed to create the world’s best birth control - all the fun of Estrus, but-
John cut off. From the rustle of the fabric near the mike, Greg figured he was either pushing a hand against his mouth to hold back the flood or the phone was now dangling loosely at his side while he regained control.
“It’s quite amazing, biologically.” Dr Watson continued. “Whatever he used, he’s managed to separate the hormonal activation of the Estrus Cycle from the release of the ovum.”
“And for the layman?”
“He’s decoupled Heat from when he’s fertile. He can have marathon sex during Estrus and doesn’t have to worry about pregnancy because there’s nothing to fertilise. Of course, when he is ovulating there’s no chance of conception because without the biological changes from Estrus his reproductive system is completely isolated from the rest.” His voice faltered, then recovered. “Perfect birth control without suppression. F-first of its kind, ruddy genius.”
There was another quick pause while John struggled to keep his detached doctor persona to the fore, rather than the highly emotional Alpha Dom.
“Is there anything they can do?” Greg asked softly.
“Yeah, yeah, well, maybe.” John’s voice oscillated between lifeless and emotional as he struggled for control. “That’s what I was just… why I didn’t call… Sherlock left straight after the …news.”
“So he doesn’t know its reversible?” Greg involuntarily bit his lip.
No wonder Sherlock had looked so small when he had arrived.
“It might not be.”
“Oh.”
Silence expanded to fill the gap left between them as Greg absorbed the news and John presumably struggled with vocalising it, making it real.
“They think it might be though, yeah?” Greg double checked.
The charcoal grey despair gathering on the other side of the phone was threatening to choke him.
“Yeah, yeah. They,” John cleared his throat and his voice dropped back to the lower, calming register and tones Greg thought of as Doctor Watson.
“They think it’s to do with hormone levels, and that his body is trying to correct itself. Reset the baseline, I guess. That’s why his Heats have been getting closer together as everything adjusts. That’s the theory anyway.”
“So it might fix itself eventually?”
Even Greg could hear the higher note in his voice and tried to tone it down. It sounded jarringly artificial next to John’s flat depth.
“It’s possible. They’re hoping to help things along with hormone treatments, just at different times in the cycle to usual fertility treatments and maybe…”
“That’s not too bad then.” Greg fiddled absently with his pen. “Might take longer, but…”
John didn’t immediately reply, adding to the sense of foreboding hanging over every break in speech.
“It’s not possible to identify any potential long term effects until after the cycle has been regulated.” Dr Watson said carefully.
“Meaning?” Greg pressed gently.
“Even if everything… syncs again, Sh- he may not be able to successfully carry to term or they suspect there might be a higher probability of genetic abnormalities in any chi - issue.”
“John…” Greg trailed off.
“Even if we conceive, he’s - Sherlock’s unlikely to be able to carry it and there’s a high possibility that the baby will have disabilities.” John spat out as quickly as possible. His voice wobbled at the end. “A Holmes with learning difficulties. Not just not a genius, actually disabled. I don’t - it’d kill him.”
“I know.”
Greg couldn’t imagine Mycroft not loving Ben, but he also knew his love well enough to know he’d not understand, would be totally unable to relate to his son if Ben wasn’t at least above average. Between Mycroft’s standards and the pressure he’d naively put on Ben, they’d never see eye to eye and end up hating each other, totally bewildered by the fact they’d ended up there.
He was still worried about that deep down. Not much, but a bit.
If Ben had been born disabled, with some problem that could be explicitly laid at Mycroft’s feet…
He’d still love him, always love him, but…
“Not that there a high chance of that. There’s almost no chance of conception, even-” John shut up abruptly and heavy breathing filled Greg’s ear as John calmed himself down again.
“It’s not a no.” Greg said quietly. “It’s not, John, and don’t borrow trouble before you need it.”
“I know, I know.”
A horn blared somewhere in the distance, electronically distorted over the phone connection.
“Do you need to get a beer?” Greg asked.
This was more personal sharing than usually occurred without the shield of alcohol.
“I should go home. Tell him there might be a chance, still. That’s it’s not, we might…”
“Yeah, sounds like an idea.” Greg agreed.
“Least I don’t have to dig him out of Mycroft’s house again.” John tried joviality that fell flat before it even began.
Mycroft.
Fuck.
“John.” Greg’s heart was back in his throat, threatening to strangle every word. The air clung to him, rolling in and out of his lungs in cloying humid breathes. “John, Mycroft’s coming home tonight.”
Greg could feel time slowing as John’s seconds joined the leaden thud that marked everyone of Greg’s, inescapably drummed out by the drill sergeant of a watch on his wrist. John under stood what Greg was saying, why Mycroft’d be home.
“His name is Abenathy Francois Holmes. He was born 9th September, 5 lbs and 35.4 cm.” Greg recited, mouth on autopilot. “He’ll be home this afternoon.”
There was controlled breathing harsh in Greg’s ear.
“I wasn’t sure if I should call,” Greg admitted. “What with Sherlock and…”
The end of the sentence faded away into more waiting and breathing.
“I’ll tell him.”
Cold clipped vowels, sharp consonants. Captain Watson, probably straightened automatically into parade rest while John had his emotional breakdown in a corner.
“Thanks, yeah. Just thought… before he finds out another…”
“I’ll tell him.”
“He’s gorgeous, John, really, and I haven’t spoken to Mycroft, but he’s going to want Sherlock to meet his nephew, I’m sure, maybe be godfather or something, Uncle and all, and I don’t know, but I imagine that’s what he’s-”
“I’ll tell him, Greg. The rest might…”
“Take some time.” Greg nodded. “I know. I just… given…”
“Yeah. Yeah, thanks.”
It wasn’t any fairer blurting out Ben’s arrival to John and shoving the birth in his face than it was to Sherlock, Greg knew that, but of the two of them John had better coping mechanisms. It actually made it more unfair, because not ricocheting through the Yard or shooting cocaine meant John was usually given the hard news by default under the hope he’d find a way to break it to Sherlock in a more controlled manner.
“Do,” Greg cleared his throat. “Do you want me to tell Mycroft for you?”
Alphas didn’t like to advertise reproductive problems, even when it wasn’t their virility in question. Ancient instinct, from the days where not reproducing meant you were liable to lose your mate to someone who could breed them. A touchy subject and Mycroft was too dominant for John to be comfortable knowing, Omega and relative not-with-standing.
“Please.” John’s reply was clear and crisp. “Before he contacts Sherlock, would be best. Try and get him to refrain from interfering, financially or otherwise, or I can’t promise what Sherlock will do.”
Because Mycroft was an Omega, and his unwanted and much loathed fertility would be a twisting knife in Sherlock’s gut.
“I’ll try.”
“Good.”
“I’ll just…” Greg cleared his throat after they both failed to mention anything else.
“Yeah, I’ll see you later.”
Greg nodded, even if John couldn’t see and went to hang up.
“Oh, Greg-” John’s small tinny voice caught him just before he hit the button.
“Yeah?”
“… Congratulations.”
Greg swallowed around the sudden restriction in his throat, heart beating hollowly in his chest.
It was the only time he’d hear that. Mycroft would again and again, and maybe Greg would as a friend of the family and adopted Dad, maybe casually mistaken in the street, but this was the only deliberate, genuine wish from someone who knew he’d get.
He hadn’t realised how much it would mean.
“Thank you.”
The dial tone sounded in his ear.
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