Rolling in the Deep (6/?)
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: Evening everyone. Sorry I'm a day late, but there was this little music competition called Eurovision on over the weekend that rather stole my time and attention. I do love it, and there were good entries this year! Go Conchita!!! My three favourite acts all were in the top ten, so I'm happy.
Anyway, not the point and the Americans are probably going Huh at this stage. I did edit this while watching the voting, so there are probably all sorts of typos I missed while cheering the douze pointes.
Oh, while we're on that. Does anyone speak French? I need some translation done for later in the story (spoilers negotiable) and it has been a long time since my year 12 French (and I was never close to fluent AND they never taught us any of these words!). Any volunteers?
Anyway, sorry again for the delay.
Warnings: Dub-con! We're not into the Non-Con yet, but it's Dub-Con. From that, you've probably gathered we're back into the sex. We're also going to start exploring some gender role issues. If you're confused, it'll make sense when you read the chapter. Sorry, really not sure how to describe it, but currently it's not a big thing, I don't think, so it's more like a pre-warning.
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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The way to avoid questions was probably not to put a photograph of him and Ben dead centre of his desk in a nice flashy new frame. Nonetheless, that was exactly what Greg did because, even if he was at work and couldn’t have Ben with him, he could at least have a photograph.
Leaving that morning had been hard, not the least because Ben had seemed to sense the next day would be important and had spent the night before crying and refusing to sleep, no matter what his parents tried.
He’d been fine asleep in Sherlock’s arms; he’d been quietly sleeping in his crib while Sherlock and Greg argued in hushed voices about whether nursery rhymes were more appropriate than Bach at Ben’s age. He’d been back to happy and cheerful when he’d woken and John had played with him on the floor while Sherlock and Greg argued over whether or not Peek-a-boo would damage his intelligence. He’d been ecstatic when Mycroft had returned home and Greg had joined John on the floor while Sherlock and Mycroft argued about appropriate compensation for babysitting.
It was only after - after John and Sherlock left, after feeding, after bath time, that he’d decided something was not right, and nothing Greg could do would settle him until his wailing had summoned Mycroft from his home office to help the bewildered Alpha. Not that the Omega had had any better luck with their recalcitrant son, who was still throwing a tantrum and refusing to settle when Greg re-emerged from the bathroom in his pyjamas.
A suitably chastened Mycroft had no better ideas than Greg. Walking, humming, feeding, cuddles… none of it helped and Mrs Potts was out for the evening at a friend’s.
Eventually Ben had cried himself out, but as soon as he was placed in the cot…
Mrs Potts suggested taking him for a drive when she eventually returned. It had worked… until the car stopped.
Greg had spent the rest of his night sleeping in shifts, genuinely worried there was something wrong with Ben. Leaving the exhausted little tyke with Mrs Potts that morning…
He wondered whether he should call…
Yes, he’d call, straight after Sally left.
Sally sat opposite Greg, legs crossed at the knee. Her arms were crossed as she regarded him stonily. In all fairness, he had just disappeared for two weeks with no warning, so Greg just waited, letting Sally glare holes into his forehead until she was ready to talk.
Maybe he should text, not call, in case Ben was asleep. He’d have to get Mrs Potts’s number from Anthea, but…
Did she have a number? He assumed she owned a mobile, but she was occasionally rather-
“So this is why you’ve been so weird, oh, the last nine months?” Sally broke in coldly. She didn’t need to look at the picture to make it clear what she meant. “He looks like you.”
Greg’s heart gave a proud pitter-patter before he tamped it down. “That’s a bit hard given he’s not mine.”
The first denial. Would it ever get easier?
Sally looked at him sceptically.
“Meet the brand new baby Holmes.” Greg handed her the photo so she could look properly. “Mycroft’s kid.”
Sally studied the photograph and looked up with the firm eyes of the determined.
“Are you gay, Sir?”
That had not been quite the question Greg had been expecting, so his entirely eloquent reply was ‘huh?’
“You’ve been going to dinner for ages, you suddenly move in with him, and now you have a baby together.” Sally’s detective stare wasn’t very comfortable on the receiving end. “It’s fine if you are, but if you don’t want people to know you may want to tone it down a little.”
“No, no, uh, no.” Greg shook his head. “Just friends. The baby, Ben, is just a coincidence.”
“A coincidence? There’s a photo of him on your desk.” Sally looked sceptical.
“That’s because he’s adorable.” Greg replied. “Come on, look at that little nose and those itty ears and tell me he’s not.”
Sally shrugged, but didn’t deny it.
“Ben?” She asked eventually. “That’s a very normal name for a Holmes.”
“Ah well,” Greg winced, “it’s Abernathy actually.”
“I like Ben.” Sally put the photo back on the desk and returned to coolly regarding Greg.
Accepting that the interlude was over Greg started asking through their cases and noting Sally’s clipped, professional replies in return. His two week break had clearly not helped his relationship with his sergeant so soon on the back of that last fiasco with the Carson/Smith case.
Gregson’s response to the photo was to grunt and tell Greg he owed him the next four murders because Gregson had had to work stupid hours while Greg was away to cover his caseload. Greg told Gregson that he could just call Sherlock and be done with them.
Gregson shrugged and reminded Greg that some of them didn’t piss off their superiors for fun. Greg had just snorted. Neither of them mentioned that any other time a sergeant as close to inspector as Sally was would have been given the chance to step up for two weeks.
Dimmock had poked his haughty little head in too, and stammered and blushed his way through his congratulations. He’d managed a bit better once Greg corrected him on Ben’s (fake) parentage, but still hadn’t quite managed to sound completely sure of what he was saying.
“See what I have to deal with when you’re not here?” Gregson had growled, and dragged the stuttering Dimmock unceremoniously from Greg’s little fishbowl of an office.
The rest of the day had been quite simple. Neither Packenham nor Mulgrave had made appearances, both apparently at some police conference, so there were no awkward encounters with either of Greg’s superiors, and people were treating him mostly like normal, Sally’s malcontent one of the last bastions of pain left over from Greg’s miraculous career resurrection.
Mrs Potts called him before he could text her and roundly scolded him for thinking about Ben instead of concentrating at work. He was just fine, and Greg could see him when he got home. Greg in turn resigned himself to the fact that apparently everyone who worked for Mycroft was psychic, especially when he received an unsolicited text with Mrs Potts’s mobile details from Anthea ‘just in case’.
He tried to concentrate on work, he really did. He even stayed until ten past, mostly because everyone in the bullpen seemed to have their eyes glued to his door (he was certainly the current grist for the rumour mill).
Escaping felt like a sigh of relief, and entering home like a breath of fresh air.
Mycroft was already there, slowly rocking backwards and forward in the chair as Ben fed. It wasn’t often Greg saw Mycroft feed Ben directly. Most of the time he used the seemingly endless supply of expressed milk in the fridge or waited until Greg went for a shower. This, Mycroft sitting peacefully while Ben nursed, was a rare sight.
“Hey,” Greg pressed his lips lightly to Ben and then Mycroft’s hair.
He liked to think Mycroft pressed back against him a little, welcoming the affection instead of just tolerating it, but that was a dangerous train of thought so he made himself stop and turned to Ben.
“How is he?” He asked quietly, watching Ben suckle at Mycroft’s chest. “Was he okay today?”
“He was unsettled.” Mycroft replied. “I’m informed he was not shy at making his displeasure known, but then that is to be expected. He seems to resemble Sherlock in temperament, not just looks, and my brother has never been shy about demanding his due.”
Greg chuckled lightly, and brazenly placed another kiss on Mycroft’s neatly arranged hair. “Let’s hope not too much like Sherlock or his teenage years will be hell.”
Mycroft shuddered delicately and turned to inspect Ben’s progress. Ben contemplated the offered nipple then screwed up his face, apparently satisfied.
“Just like Sherlock.” Mycroft sighed, easing Ben up to his shoulder. “Your eating habits are all over the place.”
Greg held out a hand, offering to take Ben to burp him, but Mycroft elegantly waved him off, already standing to take care of it. With a shrug Greg conceded and collapsed down on the couch, elbow propped up on the pillows reminiscent of an emperor surveying his harem. Greg could feel a low, warm hum developing and spreading through his body as he watched Mycroft deftly care for their child.
The feeling was hard to describe and even harder to define. It wasn’t lust, though there certainly were components of that involved. It was too lazy, too satisfied to be lust, but too warm and active to be compared to the afterglow either. Nor was it love, though Greg loved both of the Holmeses before him fiercely.
It wasn’t affection or protectiveness or possession, though again they were all arguably components. The closest Greg could get to classifying it was that lazy weekend morning he’d stolen, wrapped around his pregnant love’s body as the room saturated with their combined scents.
This was even stronger, as though the Alpha in him delighted not only in the fact that he’d sired a healthy, happy child, but also that his strong, amazing mate was so good with him. Watching Mycroft work, so assured, so in control, was always a sight, but to have that same competence extend to their child… Oh his Alpha was very pleased and prepared to bask in their mate’s presence as Greg’s Sub so desperately desired.
Mycroft met Greg’s gaze and for a long moment the same conflagration of emotions blazed out, shifting the atmosphere of the room to a low burn even as Mycroft’s circuit carried him out of eye contact.
The simmer continued as Ben slowly gave in to a full stomach and long day, eyes drooping and eventually closing. The wait would have been tortuous if not for the softer edge to the burn... contentment, Greg eventually identified it as.
Mycroft gently lowered Ben into the cot, pulling the covers over him in case of a draft. Then, and only then, did he turn to Greg.
The feeling in the room sharpened as he did, walking towards Greg with a more predatory stride than the metronomic pace he’d set walking Ben to sleep. Mycroft’s waistcoat hung open, undone so he could perform the same task to the tailored shirt loosened underneath and left wide. His tie was gone, abandoned on the chest of drawers so he could feed Ben without it in the way and the sight of each perfectly fitted and prohibitively expensive article of bespoke clothing so casually open from neck to waist for the sole purposes of their son…
Greg had been swollen since he had first arranged himself carelessly on the suite of pillows under him; plump and heavy, but not immediate. At the visual he was now presented with, the knowledge that Mycroft’s nipple just visible at the edge of the fabric was so red and raw looking was because his Omega, his Dom, his Mycroft had been feeding his son… His groin tightened and insistently began filling our further.
“You enjoy watching me taking care of our son.” Mycroft stopped in front of him and raised an implacable brow. “What is it, your son, your Dom, all home together? How very caveman of you, Gregory.”
“You could make signing paperwork sexy.” Greg retorted, still splayed lazily across the couch. “Besides, you liked me watching. Your son, your Sub, all inside your territory? How very primitive of you, Mycroft.”
The eyebrow lifted higher and Mycroft tilted his head challengingly, stopping so he loomed over Greg, who in turn tilted his head back and up, broad grin stretching across his face. He knew, just knew, from the way Mycroft was studying him that if he’d had the crop in easy reach it would have been dragging over Greg’s cheek and lips in sensual warning.
“Abernathy is asleep.” Mycroft stepped back, but his eyes still burned.
“Mmm,” Greg hummed, feeling slightly drunk. “We should leave before we wake Ben up.”
As always there was a vague disapproval at the truncation of Ben’s unwieldy name, but more for show than serious disagreement, whether because Mycroft didn’t mind Greg calling him Ben or because Mycroft just couldn’t muster the annoyance at that moment to be determined.
Greg pushed himself to standing on surprisingly steady limbs, almost colliding with Mycroft in doing so. The intangible connection between them narrowed to a heavy pulsing thread, beating in time with the arousal growing beneath Greg’s skin.
Holding Mycroft’s gaze as long as possible, he slowly walked backwards, pausing at the door to turn off the lights. Mycroft brushed past, fabric of his shirt and trousers rustling against Greg’s as he shut the door, shuffling both of them those last few steps out of the room.
With the first physical touch the connection ballooned out again, a syrupy mess that made it hard to breathe and left Greg feeling intoxicated down to his very bones. They stood there, lips a millimetre apart breathing the scents of each other, but just not quite touching skin to skin.
The only point of actual physical contact was their hands, freely roaming over arms and torsos as the tension ratcheted higher and higher and higher with every caught nail and sigh of cloth.
“Are you okay for this?” Greg murmured. “Medically I mean, are you healed?”
“There are other options.” Mycroft murmured back.
The stillness lasted a precise second longer before their mouths connected.
Mycroft tasted of warmth and home, even with the particular bitterness that accumulated by the end of the day. Greg knew he probably tasted of cheap stale coffee, so he certainly had no right to complain, and underneath it all there was still that peculiar note that seemed hardwired into his brain to be Mycroft and therefore to be craved.
The laconic simmer kept their actions controlled to a slower sensual exploration until the natural end of the kiss when they both drew back. When they came back together it was as an attack of teeth and colliding desperation.
How long, Greg wondered as his hands clawed wildly at Mycroft’s belt, how long since they’d last been together like this. Months, he decided before his attention was comprehensively stolen by Mycroft’s tongue doing something oh so sinful to his ear.
“Jesus Christ.” He tried to step, start them moving out of the hallway into the bedroom.
Mycroft used the movement to capture him close, pinning Greg tight against him, Greg’s hands digging into their stomachs.
“Too long.” Greg fumbled for Mycroft’s lips.
“Most assuredly.” His Dom peppered his mouth with tight lips, teasingly denying him the depth Greg wanted.
“Too many syllables,” Greg hugged disapprovingly, “and much too much clothing.”
“We should fix that.” Mycroft ran those fluttering little bites down Greg’s neck.
“I’m trying too.” Greg snarled.
He wrenched his hands out from between their bodies and buried them in Mycroft’s hair, forcing him to hold still enough to kiss.
It was a duel he lost, Mycroft claiming his mouth the second Greg’s lips met his, but at least it was a duel they had and moaning under the assault, Greg didn’t really mind.
“Bedroom.” Mycroft pulled back, almost shoving Greg towards the door with his eagerness.
Greg started in on his clothing as he moved, fumbling open his shirt as fast as desperate fingers could manage. Reaching the bed, he threw himself on it, reclining as Mycroft came in and dragged his cheap off the rack shirt off him. Mycroft taking care of the shirt, Greg undid his belt and threw it to the side. He managed his button, but then his hands were back in Mycroft’s hair and his mouth full of Mycroft’s tongue and Mycroft undid the rest.
“Off.” Mycroft lifted himself off Greg, allowing him to cant his hips up and shimmy the trousers and pants down.
“Return the - mumph.” Greg managed before he was pinned back on the bed by Mycroft’s body weight and questing mouth.
He hissed as Mycroft’s belt caught, luckily nowhere too sensitive.
“What should I do to you?” Mycroft gasped out around sucking marks over Greg’s chest.
“Anything you like.” Greg panted back. “So long as you’re naked.”
“Anything?” There was a wicked gleam in Mycroft’s eye as he shifted backwards, biting the soft skin of Greg’s inner thigh.
“Yes, anything.” Greg swore, biting his lip as Mycroft gave him a harder disapproving nip.
“Well then…” Mycroft trailed off and kisses rained up Greg’s leg.
“Just do it quickly.” Greg insisted, rocking up to try and press himself closer to Mycroft.
“You are shockingly behaved tonight.” Mycroft frowned in amused disapproval.
“Then please, Master, punish me.” Greg whined. “Just do something.”
“Hands and knees.” Mycroft slapped the side of Greg’s leg, urging him over.
Greg turned willingly, eagerly, through slightly disappointed they weren’t just going to jump straight to sex and scratch other itches later.
“Wider.” Mycroft ordered and Greg moved his hands and legs wider.
Not wide enough. Mycroft fastened a wide leather cuff around Greg’s wrist and yanked the chain up to attach it to the bed. It pulled Greg off balance and he’d barely time to adjust his weight before his other arm was similarly attached. The chains were too short to allow him to rest comfortably on all fours, just the wrong side of his centre of gravity to easily balance.
The excess chain hanging next to the bed was testament to Mycroft’s ability to judge lengths to perfection and the fact that the chains were deliberately too short.
Greg hadn’t expected similar for his feet, forcing his knees further from his arms and further apart than he’d held them, resting on the invisible marks Mycroft had determined.
“Beautiful. Mycroft trailed a finger along the muscles of Greg’s back and cupped his arse.
“Thank you, Master.” Greg blushed lightly as his cock bobbed obscenely in the air. He was extremely glad his slight tan would hide the flush.
“One last thing, I think.” Mycroft held the black silk blindfold delicately, winding it over Greg’s eyes, blocking the light.
“You will notice Gregory that the restraints would let you collapse onto the bed, if you were willing to fall on your nose.” Mycroft’s voice wrapped around him, seemingly from everywhere at once, cradling him. “This you will not do. You will remain on all fours, until you are released. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Master.” Greg replied.
He could already feel the light burn developing in his shoulders from holding the pose. By the end, his muscles would be in agony.
Mycroft’s hand returned, silky cool with lubricant as he fondled Greg, stroking him lazily and leaving a cool tingle as the air rushed past. His hands continued further, rolling Greg’s balls and tugging gently on the sparse wiry hair. Then it left and Greg could hear a thick squelch as Mycroft coated his fingers again. That, Greg absently noted, was a lot of lube for a hand-
Pressure resting at his entrance.
“Have you ever done this before?” Mycroft asked, fingers dancing around Greg’s rim, almost tickling.
“No,” Greg managed around a gasp as Mycroft’s other hand returned to stroking his cock.
“Slowly then.” Mycroft’s fingers teased more.
The number of mixed feelings flowing through Greg made it hard to process. He’d never ever thought of penetrating himself, not even with his own fingers. The idea seemed inherently wrong and made his skin crawl - Alphas took, not were taken - but Mycroft’s fingers were contributing, a lot, to the low burn and fiery sparks of arousal.
His Sub side seemed to love the idea; the Alpha rejected it completely, and he wasn’t sure the trembling in his arms was all muscle strain anymore.
“Mycroft-” He gasped, as Mycroft’s first finger slid inside.
Logically he knew it would be Mycroft’s pinkie, maybe his index finger, but it was wrong and splitting him open and decidedly not big enough.
He whimpered, partly in pleasure, mostly in confusion as Mycroft began to gently stretch him open.
“Do you know what I’m going to do to you,” Mycroft asked deceptively mildly, “one day? I’m going to order you to come home, on time, and have the most thorough shower of your life. You will clean yourself out completely, and then wait for me, kneeling on my floor. When I return, I’m going to tie you to this bed, not quite like this, with your arse offered high, and I’m going to use my tongue on you.”
Greg whimpered again, as under the guise of a particularly pleasurable twist over the head of his staff Mycroft introduced another finger.
“I’ll kneel there behind you, tracing your entrance, flicking my tongue lightly over your tight ring. I’ll keep doing that, until you’re a writhing quivering mess before me, begging me to put something in you. I will, just the tip of my tongue, and you’ll beg, you’ll beg as I work you open, for more, that it’s not enough, but you won’t get it, not until I’m satisfied that you’re well and truly sodden and open before me.”
That whimper was definitely arousal. It was perverse, he was an Alpha, it was wrong, but that somehow made it more arousing, and… Greg moaned as fireworks set off behind him eyes.
Prostate. That was definitely his prostate and no wonder Mycroft always jumped when he managed the right angle cause Jesus Christ that felt nothing like the prostate exam he’d been forced into during his last medical.
“When you are,” Mycroft’s lust-deepened voice continued, “when you’re so wet and so open you’re helpless underneath me, so desperate for anything substantial, anything longer and thicker than my tongue, do you know what I’ll do then, Gregory?”
Greg panted heavily, too overwhelmed with rightwrongnoamazingmorenogodyes to answer.
“I’ll test that you’re open enough, just, like this,” Mycroft punctuated each word with a stroke of those long, elegant fingers, “and then…”
The fingers disappeared and Greg positively keened at their absence.
“And then, Gregory,” Mycroft continued right in his ear, “I’ll fuck you so hard through the mattress you’ll leave a permanent imprint.”
As emphasis, something much thicker pressed into him, almost sending Greg crashing to his elbows. For a second Greg thought Mycroft had thrust into him and was now lodged balls deep in Greg’s arse, but no, Mycroft was next to him, holding his head tenderly between his hands and whispering how good Greg was and how proud of him he was.
“Almost there, Gregory.” Mycroft stroked his hair, gently but tugging sharply at the end of each stoke, keeping Greg on the edge rather than let him plateau into calm.
Tilting Greg’s head, Mycroft searched his face, assessing something.
“Almost.” Mycroft kissed his forehead gently. “Let’s get you all the way down, shall we?”
Greg lost track of him as Mycroft shifted away from the bed. His head was heavy, and he realised he was close to subspace. He’d missed his descent, preoccupied by the conflict inside himself, conflict reignited by the reality that he was in fact ‘getting off’ on this.
The crop trailed up his arm allowing him to tell what was next and anticipate the next move as it lazily traced over his back. The longer it took before the stroke fell, the more Greg tensed waiting for it.
“Relax.”
An order. The stroke wouldn’t come until he’d obeyed.
He tried to find something else to focus on, but all that did was highlight the plug in his arse, which made him tense more, more, more with its wrongness.
“Relax.”
He grabbed at the wave of calm the order produced and threw himself under it, submerging himself as deeply as possibly away from thought.
He needed to not think. Thought let him focus, made him focus on the intrusion. He hadn’t minded too much when it had been Mycroft’s fingers (yes, he had, no, he hadn’t, yes, he had), but the silicon wedge was not his Dom and without even that tenuous bit of rightness about it the whole thing threatened to rip the Zen like state he’d almost reached far away.
It wasn’t enough, the order, but it was enough for Mycroft, who’d provided stinging lines over his buttocks, 1-2-3-4, in quick succession. Each line allowed him to dive deeper, forcing himself frantically under. Every stroke shifted the plug inside him, just a little, just enough to send fireworks up behind his eyes.
Eventually he got far enough that he couldn’t force himself under any further. Any extra depth would have to come from Mycroft, Mycroft who was petting his hair and praising him feely the way Greg had always hoped to hear and with every word was ripping Greg the other way, forcing him to struggle down to that tipping point again and again. It felt wrong, it made him think, getting praised for something he didn’t want (but he did) and was wrong (so wrong). Every time he tried to relax, the pleasure, the emotion, the damnable plug pulled him up and away from the precious oblivion he craved.
“You’re doing so well.” Mycroft kissed his forehead, laying the crop on the bed.
He reached behind and gently eased the plug from Greg’s body, still murmuring praise as he moved around and sank slowly into Greg’s arse.
Greg had hoped it would be easier with Mycroft instead of the silicon, and it was, was easier to concentrate on the fact that his Dom wanted this, that it was giving his Dom pleasure. It made it easier for the Sub, enough to send the Alpha just a little back.
Enough to hang at the tipping point.
He was tired, so tired. He felt like his mental self was hanging slumped, worn out from fighting himself. The pleasure from Mycroft’s cock and hands washed over his body, but not his exhausted self. He barely realised he was coming, the orgasm feeling like someone else’s.
“Gor-“ Mycroft was cut off by a wail over the baby monitor. “Shit.”
He pulled out, still hard, running a hand over Greg’s back so Greg could still place him in the room.
“Eyes closed, Gregory.” The blindfold was tugged off, causing Greg to squint at the sudden light. “I said eyes closed. Here, one arm, the other. I’ll get your legs.”
Mycroft hustled around the bed, motions speeding up as Ben’s grumpy cries grew more petulant over the monitor.
“There. Lie down, Gregory, don’t try to move.” Mycroft flashed in front of Greg’s eyes, emerald dressing gown fluttering around him. “That’s it, just stay there.”
“Ben?” Greg lifted his head groggily, scrambling to gather his thoughts after his orgasm.
Mycroft must have interpreted it as the slow ascent from Subspace, because he smoothed Greg’s hair back and dropped another lingering kiss. “Stay. I’ll see what he needs.”
“I can-”
“Stay. Sleep, Gregory.” Mycroft pulled his robe tight and swirled out of the room.
A few seconds later, Greg could hear Mycroft shushing Ben, picking him up out of the crib and jigging him lightly. With the attention, Ben was already quietening down.
Just wanted his Mummy, Greg pushed himself under the covers and let his eyes fall shut. Mind clearing, the thoughts, the conflicting emotions were already crowding over him.
Sleep, he told himself, a sentiment echoed by Mycroft on the other end of the baby monitor. Sleep, and deal with the nest of vipers he’d fallen into tomorrow.
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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: Evening everyone. Sorry I'm a day late, but there was this little music competition called Eurovision on over the weekend that rather stole my time and attention. I do love it, and there were good entries this year! Go Conchita!!! My three favourite acts all were in the top ten, so I'm happy.
Anyway, not the point and the Americans are probably going Huh at this stage. I did edit this while watching the voting, so there are probably all sorts of typos I missed while cheering the douze pointes.
Oh, while we're on that. Does anyone speak French? I need some translation done for later in the story (spoilers negotiable) and it has been a long time since my year 12 French (and I was never close to fluent AND they never taught us any of these words!). Any volunteers?
Anyway, sorry again for the delay.
Warnings: Dub-con! We're not into the Non-Con yet, but it's Dub-Con. From that, you've probably gathered we're back into the sex. We're also going to start exploring some gender role issues. If you're confused, it'll make sense when you read the chapter. Sorry, really not sure how to describe it, but currently it's not a big thing, I don't think, so it's more like a pre-warning.
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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The way to avoid questions was probably not to put a photograph of him and Ben dead centre of his desk in a nice flashy new frame. Nonetheless, that was exactly what Greg did because, even if he was at work and couldn’t have Ben with him, he could at least have a photograph.
Leaving that morning had been hard, not the least because Ben had seemed to sense the next day would be important and had spent the night before crying and refusing to sleep, no matter what his parents tried.
He’d been fine asleep in Sherlock’s arms; he’d been quietly sleeping in his crib while Sherlock and Greg argued in hushed voices about whether nursery rhymes were more appropriate than Bach at Ben’s age. He’d been back to happy and cheerful when he’d woken and John had played with him on the floor while Sherlock and Greg argued over whether or not Peek-a-boo would damage his intelligence. He’d been ecstatic when Mycroft had returned home and Greg had joined John on the floor while Sherlock and Mycroft argued about appropriate compensation for babysitting.
It was only after - after John and Sherlock left, after feeding, after bath time, that he’d decided something was not right, and nothing Greg could do would settle him until his wailing had summoned Mycroft from his home office to help the bewildered Alpha. Not that the Omega had had any better luck with their recalcitrant son, who was still throwing a tantrum and refusing to settle when Greg re-emerged from the bathroom in his pyjamas.
A suitably chastened Mycroft had no better ideas than Greg. Walking, humming, feeding, cuddles… none of it helped and Mrs Potts was out for the evening at a friend’s.
Eventually Ben had cried himself out, but as soon as he was placed in the cot…
Mrs Potts suggested taking him for a drive when she eventually returned. It had worked… until the car stopped.
Greg had spent the rest of his night sleeping in shifts, genuinely worried there was something wrong with Ben. Leaving the exhausted little tyke with Mrs Potts that morning…
He wondered whether he should call…
Yes, he’d call, straight after Sally left.
Sally sat opposite Greg, legs crossed at the knee. Her arms were crossed as she regarded him stonily. In all fairness, he had just disappeared for two weeks with no warning, so Greg just waited, letting Sally glare holes into his forehead until she was ready to talk.
Maybe he should text, not call, in case Ben was asleep. He’d have to get Mrs Potts’s number from Anthea, but…
Did she have a number? He assumed she owned a mobile, but she was occasionally rather-
“So this is why you’ve been so weird, oh, the last nine months?” Sally broke in coldly. She didn’t need to look at the picture to make it clear what she meant. “He looks like you.”
Greg’s heart gave a proud pitter-patter before he tamped it down. “That’s a bit hard given he’s not mine.”
The first denial. Would it ever get easier?
Sally looked at him sceptically.
“Meet the brand new baby Holmes.” Greg handed her the photo so she could look properly. “Mycroft’s kid.”
Sally studied the photograph and looked up with the firm eyes of the determined.
“Are you gay, Sir?”
That had not been quite the question Greg had been expecting, so his entirely eloquent reply was ‘huh?’
“You’ve been going to dinner for ages, you suddenly move in with him, and now you have a baby together.” Sally’s detective stare wasn’t very comfortable on the receiving end. “It’s fine if you are, but if you don’t want people to know you may want to tone it down a little.”
“No, no, uh, no.” Greg shook his head. “Just friends. The baby, Ben, is just a coincidence.”
“A coincidence? There’s a photo of him on your desk.” Sally looked sceptical.
“That’s because he’s adorable.” Greg replied. “Come on, look at that little nose and those itty ears and tell me he’s not.”
Sally shrugged, but didn’t deny it.
“Ben?” She asked eventually. “That’s a very normal name for a Holmes.”
“Ah well,” Greg winced, “it’s Abernathy actually.”
“I like Ben.” Sally put the photo back on the desk and returned to coolly regarding Greg.
Accepting that the interlude was over Greg started asking through their cases and noting Sally’s clipped, professional replies in return. His two week break had clearly not helped his relationship with his sergeant so soon on the back of that last fiasco with the Carson/Smith case.
Gregson’s response to the photo was to grunt and tell Greg he owed him the next four murders because Gregson had had to work stupid hours while Greg was away to cover his caseload. Greg told Gregson that he could just call Sherlock and be done with them.
Gregson shrugged and reminded Greg that some of them didn’t piss off their superiors for fun. Greg had just snorted. Neither of them mentioned that any other time a sergeant as close to inspector as Sally was would have been given the chance to step up for two weeks.
Dimmock had poked his haughty little head in too, and stammered and blushed his way through his congratulations. He’d managed a bit better once Greg corrected him on Ben’s (fake) parentage, but still hadn’t quite managed to sound completely sure of what he was saying.
“See what I have to deal with when you’re not here?” Gregson had growled, and dragged the stuttering Dimmock unceremoniously from Greg’s little fishbowl of an office.
The rest of the day had been quite simple. Neither Packenham nor Mulgrave had made appearances, both apparently at some police conference, so there were no awkward encounters with either of Greg’s superiors, and people were treating him mostly like normal, Sally’s malcontent one of the last bastions of pain left over from Greg’s miraculous career resurrection.
Mrs Potts called him before he could text her and roundly scolded him for thinking about Ben instead of concentrating at work. He was just fine, and Greg could see him when he got home. Greg in turn resigned himself to the fact that apparently everyone who worked for Mycroft was psychic, especially when he received an unsolicited text with Mrs Potts’s mobile details from Anthea ‘just in case’.
He tried to concentrate on work, he really did. He even stayed until ten past, mostly because everyone in the bullpen seemed to have their eyes glued to his door (he was certainly the current grist for the rumour mill).
Escaping felt like a sigh of relief, and entering home like a breath of fresh air.
Mycroft was already there, slowly rocking backwards and forward in the chair as Ben fed. It wasn’t often Greg saw Mycroft feed Ben directly. Most of the time he used the seemingly endless supply of expressed milk in the fridge or waited until Greg went for a shower. This, Mycroft sitting peacefully while Ben nursed, was a rare sight.
“Hey,” Greg pressed his lips lightly to Ben and then Mycroft’s hair.
He liked to think Mycroft pressed back against him a little, welcoming the affection instead of just tolerating it, but that was a dangerous train of thought so he made himself stop and turned to Ben.
“How is he?” He asked quietly, watching Ben suckle at Mycroft’s chest. “Was he okay today?”
“He was unsettled.” Mycroft replied. “I’m informed he was not shy at making his displeasure known, but then that is to be expected. He seems to resemble Sherlock in temperament, not just looks, and my brother has never been shy about demanding his due.”
Greg chuckled lightly, and brazenly placed another kiss on Mycroft’s neatly arranged hair. “Let’s hope not too much like Sherlock or his teenage years will be hell.”
Mycroft shuddered delicately and turned to inspect Ben’s progress. Ben contemplated the offered nipple then screwed up his face, apparently satisfied.
“Just like Sherlock.” Mycroft sighed, easing Ben up to his shoulder. “Your eating habits are all over the place.”
Greg held out a hand, offering to take Ben to burp him, but Mycroft elegantly waved him off, already standing to take care of it. With a shrug Greg conceded and collapsed down on the couch, elbow propped up on the pillows reminiscent of an emperor surveying his harem. Greg could feel a low, warm hum developing and spreading through his body as he watched Mycroft deftly care for their child.
The feeling was hard to describe and even harder to define. It wasn’t lust, though there certainly were components of that involved. It was too lazy, too satisfied to be lust, but too warm and active to be compared to the afterglow either. Nor was it love, though Greg loved both of the Holmeses before him fiercely.
It wasn’t affection or protectiveness or possession, though again they were all arguably components. The closest Greg could get to classifying it was that lazy weekend morning he’d stolen, wrapped around his pregnant love’s body as the room saturated with their combined scents.
This was even stronger, as though the Alpha in him delighted not only in the fact that he’d sired a healthy, happy child, but also that his strong, amazing mate was so good with him. Watching Mycroft work, so assured, so in control, was always a sight, but to have that same competence extend to their child… Oh his Alpha was very pleased and prepared to bask in their mate’s presence as Greg’s Sub so desperately desired.
Mycroft met Greg’s gaze and for a long moment the same conflagration of emotions blazed out, shifting the atmosphere of the room to a low burn even as Mycroft’s circuit carried him out of eye contact.
The simmer continued as Ben slowly gave in to a full stomach and long day, eyes drooping and eventually closing. The wait would have been tortuous if not for the softer edge to the burn... contentment, Greg eventually identified it as.
Mycroft gently lowered Ben into the cot, pulling the covers over him in case of a draft. Then, and only then, did he turn to Greg.
The feeling in the room sharpened as he did, walking towards Greg with a more predatory stride than the metronomic pace he’d set walking Ben to sleep. Mycroft’s waistcoat hung open, undone so he could perform the same task to the tailored shirt loosened underneath and left wide. His tie was gone, abandoned on the chest of drawers so he could feed Ben without it in the way and the sight of each perfectly fitted and prohibitively expensive article of bespoke clothing so casually open from neck to waist for the sole purposes of their son…
Greg had been swollen since he had first arranged himself carelessly on the suite of pillows under him; plump and heavy, but not immediate. At the visual he was now presented with, the knowledge that Mycroft’s nipple just visible at the edge of the fabric was so red and raw looking was because his Omega, his Dom, his Mycroft had been feeding his son… His groin tightened and insistently began filling our further.
“You enjoy watching me taking care of our son.” Mycroft stopped in front of him and raised an implacable brow. “What is it, your son, your Dom, all home together? How very caveman of you, Gregory.”
“You could make signing paperwork sexy.” Greg retorted, still splayed lazily across the couch. “Besides, you liked me watching. Your son, your Sub, all inside your territory? How very primitive of you, Mycroft.”
The eyebrow lifted higher and Mycroft tilted his head challengingly, stopping so he loomed over Greg, who in turn tilted his head back and up, broad grin stretching across his face. He knew, just knew, from the way Mycroft was studying him that if he’d had the crop in easy reach it would have been dragging over Greg’s cheek and lips in sensual warning.
“Abernathy is asleep.” Mycroft stepped back, but his eyes still burned.
“Mmm,” Greg hummed, feeling slightly drunk. “We should leave before we wake Ben up.”
As always there was a vague disapproval at the truncation of Ben’s unwieldy name, but more for show than serious disagreement, whether because Mycroft didn’t mind Greg calling him Ben or because Mycroft just couldn’t muster the annoyance at that moment to be determined.
Greg pushed himself to standing on surprisingly steady limbs, almost colliding with Mycroft in doing so. The intangible connection between them narrowed to a heavy pulsing thread, beating in time with the arousal growing beneath Greg’s skin.
Holding Mycroft’s gaze as long as possible, he slowly walked backwards, pausing at the door to turn off the lights. Mycroft brushed past, fabric of his shirt and trousers rustling against Greg’s as he shut the door, shuffling both of them those last few steps out of the room.
With the first physical touch the connection ballooned out again, a syrupy mess that made it hard to breathe and left Greg feeling intoxicated down to his very bones. They stood there, lips a millimetre apart breathing the scents of each other, but just not quite touching skin to skin.
The only point of actual physical contact was their hands, freely roaming over arms and torsos as the tension ratcheted higher and higher and higher with every caught nail and sigh of cloth.
“Are you okay for this?” Greg murmured. “Medically I mean, are you healed?”
“There are other options.” Mycroft murmured back.
The stillness lasted a precise second longer before their mouths connected.
Mycroft tasted of warmth and home, even with the particular bitterness that accumulated by the end of the day. Greg knew he probably tasted of cheap stale coffee, so he certainly had no right to complain, and underneath it all there was still that peculiar note that seemed hardwired into his brain to be Mycroft and therefore to be craved.
The laconic simmer kept their actions controlled to a slower sensual exploration until the natural end of the kiss when they both drew back. When they came back together it was as an attack of teeth and colliding desperation.
How long, Greg wondered as his hands clawed wildly at Mycroft’s belt, how long since they’d last been together like this. Months, he decided before his attention was comprehensively stolen by Mycroft’s tongue doing something oh so sinful to his ear.
“Jesus Christ.” He tried to step, start them moving out of the hallway into the bedroom.
Mycroft used the movement to capture him close, pinning Greg tight against him, Greg’s hands digging into their stomachs.
“Too long.” Greg fumbled for Mycroft’s lips.
“Most assuredly.” His Dom peppered his mouth with tight lips, teasingly denying him the depth Greg wanted.
“Too many syllables,” Greg hugged disapprovingly, “and much too much clothing.”
“We should fix that.” Mycroft ran those fluttering little bites down Greg’s neck.
“I’m trying too.” Greg snarled.
He wrenched his hands out from between their bodies and buried them in Mycroft’s hair, forcing him to hold still enough to kiss.
It was a duel he lost, Mycroft claiming his mouth the second Greg’s lips met his, but at least it was a duel they had and moaning under the assault, Greg didn’t really mind.
“Bedroom.” Mycroft pulled back, almost shoving Greg towards the door with his eagerness.
Greg started in on his clothing as he moved, fumbling open his shirt as fast as desperate fingers could manage. Reaching the bed, he threw himself on it, reclining as Mycroft came in and dragged his cheap off the rack shirt off him. Mycroft taking care of the shirt, Greg undid his belt and threw it to the side. He managed his button, but then his hands were back in Mycroft’s hair and his mouth full of Mycroft’s tongue and Mycroft undid the rest.
“Off.” Mycroft lifted himself off Greg, allowing him to cant his hips up and shimmy the trousers and pants down.
“Return the - mumph.” Greg managed before he was pinned back on the bed by Mycroft’s body weight and questing mouth.
He hissed as Mycroft’s belt caught, luckily nowhere too sensitive.
“What should I do to you?” Mycroft gasped out around sucking marks over Greg’s chest.
“Anything you like.” Greg panted back. “So long as you’re naked.”
“Anything?” There was a wicked gleam in Mycroft’s eye as he shifted backwards, biting the soft skin of Greg’s inner thigh.
“Yes, anything.” Greg swore, biting his lip as Mycroft gave him a harder disapproving nip.
“Well then…” Mycroft trailed off and kisses rained up Greg’s leg.
“Just do it quickly.” Greg insisted, rocking up to try and press himself closer to Mycroft.
“You are shockingly behaved tonight.” Mycroft frowned in amused disapproval.
“Then please, Master, punish me.” Greg whined. “Just do something.”
“Hands and knees.” Mycroft slapped the side of Greg’s leg, urging him over.
Greg turned willingly, eagerly, through slightly disappointed they weren’t just going to jump straight to sex and scratch other itches later.
“Wider.” Mycroft ordered and Greg moved his hands and legs wider.
Not wide enough. Mycroft fastened a wide leather cuff around Greg’s wrist and yanked the chain up to attach it to the bed. It pulled Greg off balance and he’d barely time to adjust his weight before his other arm was similarly attached. The chains were too short to allow him to rest comfortably on all fours, just the wrong side of his centre of gravity to easily balance.
The excess chain hanging next to the bed was testament to Mycroft’s ability to judge lengths to perfection and the fact that the chains were deliberately too short.
Greg hadn’t expected similar for his feet, forcing his knees further from his arms and further apart than he’d held them, resting on the invisible marks Mycroft had determined.
“Beautiful. Mycroft trailed a finger along the muscles of Greg’s back and cupped his arse.
“Thank you, Master.” Greg blushed lightly as his cock bobbed obscenely in the air. He was extremely glad his slight tan would hide the flush.
“One last thing, I think.” Mycroft held the black silk blindfold delicately, winding it over Greg’s eyes, blocking the light.
“You will notice Gregory that the restraints would let you collapse onto the bed, if you were willing to fall on your nose.” Mycroft’s voice wrapped around him, seemingly from everywhere at once, cradling him. “This you will not do. You will remain on all fours, until you are released. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Master.” Greg replied.
He could already feel the light burn developing in his shoulders from holding the pose. By the end, his muscles would be in agony.
Mycroft’s hand returned, silky cool with lubricant as he fondled Greg, stroking him lazily and leaving a cool tingle as the air rushed past. His hands continued further, rolling Greg’s balls and tugging gently on the sparse wiry hair. Then it left and Greg could hear a thick squelch as Mycroft coated his fingers again. That, Greg absently noted, was a lot of lube for a hand-
Pressure resting at his entrance.
“Have you ever done this before?” Mycroft asked, fingers dancing around Greg’s rim, almost tickling.
“No,” Greg managed around a gasp as Mycroft’s other hand returned to stroking his cock.
“Slowly then.” Mycroft’s fingers teased more.
The number of mixed feelings flowing through Greg made it hard to process. He’d never ever thought of penetrating himself, not even with his own fingers. The idea seemed inherently wrong and made his skin crawl - Alphas took, not were taken - but Mycroft’s fingers were contributing, a lot, to the low burn and fiery sparks of arousal.
His Sub side seemed to love the idea; the Alpha rejected it completely, and he wasn’t sure the trembling in his arms was all muscle strain anymore.
“Mycroft-” He gasped, as Mycroft’s first finger slid inside.
Logically he knew it would be Mycroft’s pinkie, maybe his index finger, but it was wrong and splitting him open and decidedly not big enough.
He whimpered, partly in pleasure, mostly in confusion as Mycroft began to gently stretch him open.
“Do you know what I’m going to do to you,” Mycroft asked deceptively mildly, “one day? I’m going to order you to come home, on time, and have the most thorough shower of your life. You will clean yourself out completely, and then wait for me, kneeling on my floor. When I return, I’m going to tie you to this bed, not quite like this, with your arse offered high, and I’m going to use my tongue on you.”
Greg whimpered again, as under the guise of a particularly pleasurable twist over the head of his staff Mycroft introduced another finger.
“I’ll kneel there behind you, tracing your entrance, flicking my tongue lightly over your tight ring. I’ll keep doing that, until you’re a writhing quivering mess before me, begging me to put something in you. I will, just the tip of my tongue, and you’ll beg, you’ll beg as I work you open, for more, that it’s not enough, but you won’t get it, not until I’m satisfied that you’re well and truly sodden and open before me.”
That whimper was definitely arousal. It was perverse, he was an Alpha, it was wrong, but that somehow made it more arousing, and… Greg moaned as fireworks set off behind him eyes.
Prostate. That was definitely his prostate and no wonder Mycroft always jumped when he managed the right angle cause Jesus Christ that felt nothing like the prostate exam he’d been forced into during his last medical.
“When you are,” Mycroft’s lust-deepened voice continued, “when you’re so wet and so open you’re helpless underneath me, so desperate for anything substantial, anything longer and thicker than my tongue, do you know what I’ll do then, Gregory?”
Greg panted heavily, too overwhelmed with rightwrongnoamazingmorenogodyes to answer.
“I’ll test that you’re open enough, just, like this,” Mycroft punctuated each word with a stroke of those long, elegant fingers, “and then…”
The fingers disappeared and Greg positively keened at their absence.
“And then, Gregory,” Mycroft continued right in his ear, “I’ll fuck you so hard through the mattress you’ll leave a permanent imprint.”
As emphasis, something much thicker pressed into him, almost sending Greg crashing to his elbows. For a second Greg thought Mycroft had thrust into him and was now lodged balls deep in Greg’s arse, but no, Mycroft was next to him, holding his head tenderly between his hands and whispering how good Greg was and how proud of him he was.
“Almost there, Gregory.” Mycroft stroked his hair, gently but tugging sharply at the end of each stoke, keeping Greg on the edge rather than let him plateau into calm.
Tilting Greg’s head, Mycroft searched his face, assessing something.
“Almost.” Mycroft kissed his forehead gently. “Let’s get you all the way down, shall we?”
Greg lost track of him as Mycroft shifted away from the bed. His head was heavy, and he realised he was close to subspace. He’d missed his descent, preoccupied by the conflict inside himself, conflict reignited by the reality that he was in fact ‘getting off’ on this.
The crop trailed up his arm allowing him to tell what was next and anticipate the next move as it lazily traced over his back. The longer it took before the stroke fell, the more Greg tensed waiting for it.
“Relax.”
An order. The stroke wouldn’t come until he’d obeyed.
He tried to find something else to focus on, but all that did was highlight the plug in his arse, which made him tense more, more, more with its wrongness.
“Relax.”
He grabbed at the wave of calm the order produced and threw himself under it, submerging himself as deeply as possibly away from thought.
He needed to not think. Thought let him focus, made him focus on the intrusion. He hadn’t minded too much when it had been Mycroft’s fingers (yes, he had, no, he hadn’t, yes, he had), but the silicon wedge was not his Dom and without even that tenuous bit of rightness about it the whole thing threatened to rip the Zen like state he’d almost reached far away.
It wasn’t enough, the order, but it was enough for Mycroft, who’d provided stinging lines over his buttocks, 1-2-3-4, in quick succession. Each line allowed him to dive deeper, forcing himself frantically under. Every stroke shifted the plug inside him, just a little, just enough to send fireworks up behind his eyes.
Eventually he got far enough that he couldn’t force himself under any further. Any extra depth would have to come from Mycroft, Mycroft who was petting his hair and praising him feely the way Greg had always hoped to hear and with every word was ripping Greg the other way, forcing him to struggle down to that tipping point again and again. It felt wrong, it made him think, getting praised for something he didn’t want (but he did) and was wrong (so wrong). Every time he tried to relax, the pleasure, the emotion, the damnable plug pulled him up and away from the precious oblivion he craved.
“You’re doing so well.” Mycroft kissed his forehead, laying the crop on the bed.
He reached behind and gently eased the plug from Greg’s body, still murmuring praise as he moved around and sank slowly into Greg’s arse.
Greg had hoped it would be easier with Mycroft instead of the silicon, and it was, was easier to concentrate on the fact that his Dom wanted this, that it was giving his Dom pleasure. It made it easier for the Sub, enough to send the Alpha just a little back.
Enough to hang at the tipping point.
He was tired, so tired. He felt like his mental self was hanging slumped, worn out from fighting himself. The pleasure from Mycroft’s cock and hands washed over his body, but not his exhausted self. He barely realised he was coming, the orgasm feeling like someone else’s.
“Gor-“ Mycroft was cut off by a wail over the baby monitor. “Shit.”
He pulled out, still hard, running a hand over Greg’s back so Greg could still place him in the room.
“Eyes closed, Gregory.” The blindfold was tugged off, causing Greg to squint at the sudden light. “I said eyes closed. Here, one arm, the other. I’ll get your legs.”
Mycroft hustled around the bed, motions speeding up as Ben’s grumpy cries grew more petulant over the monitor.
“There. Lie down, Gregory, don’t try to move.” Mycroft flashed in front of Greg’s eyes, emerald dressing gown fluttering around him. “That’s it, just stay there.”
“Ben?” Greg lifted his head groggily, scrambling to gather his thoughts after his orgasm.
Mycroft must have interpreted it as the slow ascent from Subspace, because he smoothed Greg’s hair back and dropped another lingering kiss. “Stay. I’ll see what he needs.”
“I can-”
“Stay. Sleep, Gregory.” Mycroft pulled his robe tight and swirled out of the room.
A few seconds later, Greg could hear Mycroft shushing Ben, picking him up out of the crib and jigging him lightly. With the attention, Ben was already quietening down.
Just wanted his Mummy, Greg pushed himself under the covers and let his eyes fall shut. Mind clearing, the thoughts, the conflicting emotions were already crowding over him.
Sleep, he told himself, a sentiment echoed by Mycroft on the other end of the baby monitor. Sleep, and deal with the nest of vipers he’d fallen into tomorrow.
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