Fic: Though I Walk Through the Valley (1/38)
Though I Walk through the Valley
Title: Though I Walk through the Valley (1/38)
Series: Still Waters (Run Deep) (Part II of IV)
Author: melody_in_time
Beta: imagined_away
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Through S1 only
Disclaimer: I wish, I wish upon a star... but until that works, not mine and sadly no money made.
Warnings: None for this chapter
Author's Notes: Hello all. No particular warnings for this chapter. I'll try to update on Friday, but it might be Sunday given my studies.
If you've wondered here by mistake, you may wish to start at Part I of the series, Rarest of the Rare: Chapter 1.
Prologue - Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8 - Chapter 9 - Chapter 10
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Greg leant over his desk, pen in hand, ostensibly studying the file in front of him. The fact that no notes had been written, pages turned or photographs shuffled for the last twenty minutes was entirely due to concentration. This was just a really hard sentence that was all.
Nothing to do with his being unable to concentrate on the sentence. No, he was entirely focused on it and, small words or no, it was just a difficult sentence.
With a grimace Greg flipped the file shut and held his head in his hands. Clearly that was not English and when he found the Constable who had thought it funny to give him such a convoluted sentence in a foreign language, with or without small words, they would regret it. Oh he would make them regret it. They’d be begging to be transferred by the time he was done and -
“Sir?” Sally stuck her head around his door.
“Donovan.” He stubbornly left his head where it was. She could deal with talking to the top of his head.
“Are you-” Greg looked up and moved his less than impressed gaze onto her. If she finished that sentence with ‘okay’, ‘alright’ or some other variation then...Sally swallowed. “Finished with that file?”
Greg sighed and pushed himself up off his elbows so he was sort of sitting up straight in his chair. “No. I know we need to close some cold cases, but this thing’s incomprehensible. Totally unreadable.”
Sally stood in front of his desk and, like the dedicated sergeant she was, dutifully nodded as he verbally worked his way into the pinnacle of another black mood.
“And the notes are in blue, not black. Who uses blue? Really?”
Nod, nod.
“If I get my hands on whoever wrote this! Cold case or not, this just isn’t on! They should be understandable, for God’s sake, I mean seriously, who wrote this? I am going to tear them a new one. This is practically in a foreign language; no I bet it is in a foreign language. No one writes like this anymore! Course, I bet it’s from the bloody 80s or something, but that is no excuse. We have to use these files!” Greg opened the front cover of the file and pulled out the information sheet affixed. “I am going-”
His eyes fell on the name of the reporting officer: DI G. Lestrade Sep’10.
Oh.
Not entirely sure he wanted to he slowly raised his eyes to look at Sally. The Dom was chewing her lower lip with a concerned look on her face.
“Uh...” He really didn’t know what to say after that.
“Are you sure you’re alright , Sir?”
There it was, that question again. He hated that question.
“Yeah, fine.”
“Because you’ve been off for a bit now.”
“I’m fine.”
“And you keep saying that.” The ‘and then doing things like this’ was left unspoken.
Greg looked stubbornly back down at his desk. It was his choice to look there, nothing to do with anything else. “I am fine.”
“Is it...Sub troubles, Sir?” Sally’s voice was hesitant.
Greg almost groaned out loud. Sub troubles. If only she knew...
“I’ll have this to you in half an hour.”
“But-”
“That will be all, Donovan.”
Sally gave a long suffering sigh and collected the piles off his desk, leaving Greg the singular folder in front of him. Greg forcibly ignored the fact she’d taken the ones he hadn’t got to yet as well as the completed ones. He’d finish this and go and get more. Simple. It would serve her right for doubting him.
His pencil (when had he put the pen down) snapped in his hand and he cursed voraciously. The metallic clang as the first half landed in the bin did little to soothe him, especially when the second half rebounded off the glass walls of his office instead.
It took him a few minutes to realise there was a low growl filling his office. It took a few moments more for him to realise he was making the sound and stop it.
This, this was why everyone was skating delicately around him, and he knew exactly what the problem was.
It was Thursday.
Once upon a time he’d loved Thursdays. They’d been the highlight of his week, much better than even the weekend. They still were the best night of the week by comparison (not that that was a high standard given his weeks), but they were also the worst by far.
The best because he got to see Mycroft.
The worst because he couldn’t do more than see.
The worst because he could feel how forced and artificial the relaxed and companionable meals had become.
The worst because there was a huge space between them that had never been there before, though they both studiously pretended this wasn’t so.
Oh and it hurt. It always hurt an Alpha when an Omega rejected them, a genetic hangover that twanged at the heart strings of all Unbonded Alphas even if they didn’t particularly like the Omega in question.
To be rejected by your perfect mate who you were head over heels in love with...Greg finally understood heartbreak.
“I do hope I’m not interrupting.” The voice was calm and collected in his doorway.
Surely not? He was not that lucky.
Greg slowly raised his eyes from the sight of the unremarkable pattern on his desk surface to the truly astounding one in his doorway.
Mycroft Holmes stood just inside pulling off his gloves, door already shut against the chatter of the bull pen. His overcoat was still done up, his nose was red, his cheeks were flushed from the February air and there were the remains of dark smudges under his eyes. He looked amazing.
It struck Greg anew every time he saw Mycroft just how handsome the younger politician and bureaucrat really was. He’d always readily acknowledged that the elder Holmes was a very good looking man, but since getting to know exactly how good that body under those suits looked (and felt) he’d be lying if he tried to claim his mouth didn’t become suspiciously dry. Better than suspiciously wet he supposed, the drooling dog look was to be avoided at all costs, and honestly those thighs were just... and his shoulders were ... and his arse! The feeling of plunging between those perfectly shaped buttocks was indelibly etched in Greg’s mind.
“Been overseas again have you?” Greg kept his hands tightly on his chair arms. Since their time together he’d found it necessary to hold onto something when the Omega Dominant was around else he’d find himself reaching for him.
Greg wondered idly if Mycroft was even aware how much looser his control was around Greg now, but hadn’t brought it up lest the iron bars fall back down. He’d grown accustomed to the shiver of dominance playing over his skin with Mycroft’s words and couldn’t stand to lose that now. He could handle holding himself still to feel at least some connection with the Omega.
He could also handle not knowing. Mycroft always used to say when he was leaving the country and give a vague mention as to where. On a few memorable occasions he’d actually brought souvenirs back for Greg - small trinkets generic to the regions so Greg never had any additional clues, but little glimpses into the trip nonetheless. Now Greg only knew if he’d be gone over a Thursday.
Mycroft nodded. “Indeed.”
There was silence.
“Australia, actually. Perth. Setting the groundwork for the Commonwealth Heads of Government meeting next year.”
Greg blinked in shock. What? That, that was... he wondered why he was being told and whether the next sentence out of Mycroft’s mouth was going to involve the fact that while he was there something had exploded and he needed to borrow Sherlock for a while.
The Omega took off his great coat and hung it on the back of the chair on the visitor’s side of the desk, but didn’t sit.
“I’m afraid I’ve found myself at a bit of a loss lately.” Mycroft’s voice flowed over every limb of Greg’s body. He swallowed ferociously, mouth suddenly very dry. The way that felt, that had to have been deliberate. “I go to sleep, I dream. I stay awake, I have to fight the urge to pick up my phone. I go to work, I have to discipline myself not to access the live camera stream.” Mycroft steadily made his way around the desk. His fingers dragged across the top of Greg’s chair and Greg shivered. “Whose fault do you suppose this is, Gregory?”
Oh he loved it when Mycroft said his name like that.
“Who do you think is haunting my every moment, awake or asleep?”
Greg drew a shaky breath. God he was almost fully hard already. How did Mycroft do this to him? “I don’t know, M-Mycroft.” He had to catch himself from saying Master. “Who?”
Mycroft was standing directly behind him. And elegant finger tilted his chin until he was looking straight up into the Omega’s face. His very close face.
“Really, don’t you?”
Mycroft’s lips were almost on his. A single millimetre, that’s all it would take.
“M-”
“No, you can’t go in there Freak.” A hand slammed into the door and jolted Greg bolt upright.
Dear God, this was the office and he’d almost-
- fantasised about Mycroft kissing him.
Disappointment welled up until he felt it choking him. There was no trace of Mycroft in the room - no man, no coat, no gloves. Only Greg, a waking fantasy, and his raging arousal.
Goddamit.
“I’m expected, Sally.”
“Oh really.”
“Yes, I do believe I’m meant to help clean up some of your incompetence.”
Oh, Christ Almighty, Sherlock.
Sherlock snarking with Sally outside his door while Greg fantasised about Mycroft.
Oh Shit and Sherlock would know.
Greg could still remember the horrifying moment Sherlock had barged into his office, first day back after Mycroft’s Heat. He’d been operating in a daze, body on autopilot as his brain attempted to process what had happened: Attempted to come to grips with being forced to acknowledge his feelings and them having them rejected at once; Attempted to comprehend the fact he had just spent the best and most honest time of his life with his best friend and then had his heart ripped out and pulverised.
Friends.
He could do just friends.
Then Sherlock, elegant, annoying and all too knowledgeable Sherlock who had told Greg he’d come by on Monday to give his statement, had done just that. He’d thrown open the door in his usual fashion and had stopped, head to one side. Greg could see him cataloguing the evidence, see the smirk and eyebrow as he knew that Greg had spent the weekend with an Omega in Heat, see the sudden eye widening and jaw dropping amazement as Sherlock realised that that Omega had been his brother.
“Is that so?” He’d asked, eyebrow high, still in the doorway.
Alpha or no, Greg hadn’t been able to keep looking at him. Instead he slouched in his chair and let his gaze travel as it wished becoming stuck under his desk looking at his drawers.
“Yeah.” He’d answered in a raspy voice.
Greg had never appreciated Sherlock more than then when the other Sub, for once showing come comprehension of human emotions, had left the subject there.
Greg still didn’t know how Sherlock had known, maybe there had been a visible bite mark (he wouldn’t put it past Sherlock to be able to identify all his acquaintances by the imprint of their teeth), but the Sub had never brought it up again. When it came down to it he supposed that even Sherlock had some things he didn’t really want to know about his DI and older brother, especially together.
“Leave it alone, Freak. He’s having problems and we don’t need you adding to them.”
“Please-”
“Or have you not noticed. The great Sherlock Holmes oblivious because he can’t feel so he doesn’t see.”
“Au contraire, Sally. I’m just observant enough to know what’s going on.”
The door opened and Sherlock twirled through, slamming it in Sally’s face before she got another word in. He glanced at Greg and then looked away, vaguely guilty.
“Hi.” Greg had to say something.
He’d lost his erection, thank Christ, but he just knew there were traces of what had happened all over him. Not that he could ever see, but Sherlock could probably tell by the creasing in his trousers or something.
“Lestrade. Good, case files? I will of course be taking them home to look at. I’m drowning in the stupidity of your subordinates here.” Sherlock recovered and strolled over to Greg’s desk removing his gloves in the exact way Greg’s fantasy Mycroft had just done.
The sight made Greg’s heart throb, but he pushed it away.
He was forty, he was a professional and he was at work. It had been two months (two months, seven days and fifteen hours. From arriving at Mycroft’s house, that was. It had been two months, four days and eighteen hours since his heart broke.)
“Um, files, case files, um.” He scrambled around his desk looking for the files. “Here.”
He held out the one file before him, which he still hadn’t read, and winced at the incredulous eyebrow his offering was greeted with.
Sherlock looked so much like his brother when he did that.
“Just the one? I had no idea the Yard had been so efficient lately.” Sherlock drawled, casually tucking his gloves into his coat pocket. There was the slightest toss of the curls as Sherlock gracefully collapsed into the chair opposite.
He knew, oh he knew why Greg was so flustered. ‘Pull it together.’ He scolded himself. ‘You’re an Alpha, for goodness sake.’
He peeked up at Sherlock guiltily. “Sally’s got them.”
The sceptical, slightly amused, expression was replaced with an all-out terrifying glare. With a wordless sound somewhere between a growl, a groan and a curse Sherlock snatched the file out of Greg’s hand and stalked off to do battle with Sally over what she viewed, quite correctly, as police property.
He paused in the doorway, and shot Greg a fast blank look.
“Have a good dinner tonight.” Sherlock slipped out the door and with a flourish was gone to wreak havoc on the unsuspecting Yard.
Great, just great. That was just what he needed.
Pity from Sherlock Holmes.
Brilliant.
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Previous - Next
The chapters will get longer as we go up through the story, but they start a little short. See you Friday/Sunday!
Title: Though I Walk through the Valley (1/38)
Series: Still Waters (Run Deep) (Part II of IV)
Author: melody_in_time
Beta: imagined_away
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Through S1 only
Disclaimer: I wish, I wish upon a star... but until that works, not mine and sadly no money made.
Warnings: None for this chapter
Author's Notes: Hello all. No particular warnings for this chapter. I'll try to update on Friday, but it might be Sunday given my studies.
If you've wondered here by mistake, you may wish to start at Part I of the series, Rarest of the Rare: Chapter 1.
Prologue - Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8 - Chapter 9 - Chapter 10
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Greg leant over his desk, pen in hand, ostensibly studying the file in front of him. The fact that no notes had been written, pages turned or photographs shuffled for the last twenty minutes was entirely due to concentration. This was just a really hard sentence that was all.
Nothing to do with his being unable to concentrate on the sentence. No, he was entirely focused on it and, small words or no, it was just a difficult sentence.
With a grimace Greg flipped the file shut and held his head in his hands. Clearly that was not English and when he found the Constable who had thought it funny to give him such a convoluted sentence in a foreign language, with or without small words, they would regret it. Oh he would make them regret it. They’d be begging to be transferred by the time he was done and -
“Sir?” Sally stuck her head around his door.
“Donovan.” He stubbornly left his head where it was. She could deal with talking to the top of his head.
“Are you-” Greg looked up and moved his less than impressed gaze onto her. If she finished that sentence with ‘okay’, ‘alright’ or some other variation then...Sally swallowed. “Finished with that file?”
Greg sighed and pushed himself up off his elbows so he was sort of sitting up straight in his chair. “No. I know we need to close some cold cases, but this thing’s incomprehensible. Totally unreadable.”
Sally stood in front of his desk and, like the dedicated sergeant she was, dutifully nodded as he verbally worked his way into the pinnacle of another black mood.
“And the notes are in blue, not black. Who uses blue? Really?”
Nod, nod.
“If I get my hands on whoever wrote this! Cold case or not, this just isn’t on! They should be understandable, for God’s sake, I mean seriously, who wrote this? I am going to tear them a new one. This is practically in a foreign language; no I bet it is in a foreign language. No one writes like this anymore! Course, I bet it’s from the bloody 80s or something, but that is no excuse. We have to use these files!” Greg opened the front cover of the file and pulled out the information sheet affixed. “I am going-”
His eyes fell on the name of the reporting officer: DI G. Lestrade Sep’10.
Oh.
Not entirely sure he wanted to he slowly raised his eyes to look at Sally. The Dom was chewing her lower lip with a concerned look on her face.
“Uh...” He really didn’t know what to say after that.
“Are you sure you’re alright , Sir?”
There it was, that question again. He hated that question.
“Yeah, fine.”
“Because you’ve been off for a bit now.”
“I’m fine.”
“And you keep saying that.” The ‘and then doing things like this’ was left unspoken.
Greg looked stubbornly back down at his desk. It was his choice to look there, nothing to do with anything else. “I am fine.”
“Is it...Sub troubles, Sir?” Sally’s voice was hesitant.
Greg almost groaned out loud. Sub troubles. If only she knew...
“I’ll have this to you in half an hour.”
“But-”
“That will be all, Donovan.”
Sally gave a long suffering sigh and collected the piles off his desk, leaving Greg the singular folder in front of him. Greg forcibly ignored the fact she’d taken the ones he hadn’t got to yet as well as the completed ones. He’d finish this and go and get more. Simple. It would serve her right for doubting him.
His pencil (when had he put the pen down) snapped in his hand and he cursed voraciously. The metallic clang as the first half landed in the bin did little to soothe him, especially when the second half rebounded off the glass walls of his office instead.
It took him a few minutes to realise there was a low growl filling his office. It took a few moments more for him to realise he was making the sound and stop it.
This, this was why everyone was skating delicately around him, and he knew exactly what the problem was.
It was Thursday.
Once upon a time he’d loved Thursdays. They’d been the highlight of his week, much better than even the weekend. They still were the best night of the week by comparison (not that that was a high standard given his weeks), but they were also the worst by far.
The best because he got to see Mycroft.
The worst because he couldn’t do more than see.
The worst because he could feel how forced and artificial the relaxed and companionable meals had become.
The worst because there was a huge space between them that had never been there before, though they both studiously pretended this wasn’t so.
Oh and it hurt. It always hurt an Alpha when an Omega rejected them, a genetic hangover that twanged at the heart strings of all Unbonded Alphas even if they didn’t particularly like the Omega in question.
To be rejected by your perfect mate who you were head over heels in love with...Greg finally understood heartbreak.
“I do hope I’m not interrupting.” The voice was calm and collected in his doorway.
Surely not? He was not that lucky.
Greg slowly raised his eyes from the sight of the unremarkable pattern on his desk surface to the truly astounding one in his doorway.
Mycroft Holmes stood just inside pulling off his gloves, door already shut against the chatter of the bull pen. His overcoat was still done up, his nose was red, his cheeks were flushed from the February air and there were the remains of dark smudges under his eyes. He looked amazing.
It struck Greg anew every time he saw Mycroft just how handsome the younger politician and bureaucrat really was. He’d always readily acknowledged that the elder Holmes was a very good looking man, but since getting to know exactly how good that body under those suits looked (and felt) he’d be lying if he tried to claim his mouth didn’t become suspiciously dry. Better than suspiciously wet he supposed, the drooling dog look was to be avoided at all costs, and honestly those thighs were just... and his shoulders were ... and his arse! The feeling of plunging between those perfectly shaped buttocks was indelibly etched in Greg’s mind.
“Been overseas again have you?” Greg kept his hands tightly on his chair arms. Since their time together he’d found it necessary to hold onto something when the Omega Dominant was around else he’d find himself reaching for him.
Greg wondered idly if Mycroft was even aware how much looser his control was around Greg now, but hadn’t brought it up lest the iron bars fall back down. He’d grown accustomed to the shiver of dominance playing over his skin with Mycroft’s words and couldn’t stand to lose that now. He could handle holding himself still to feel at least some connection with the Omega.
He could also handle not knowing. Mycroft always used to say when he was leaving the country and give a vague mention as to where. On a few memorable occasions he’d actually brought souvenirs back for Greg - small trinkets generic to the regions so Greg never had any additional clues, but little glimpses into the trip nonetheless. Now Greg only knew if he’d be gone over a Thursday.
Mycroft nodded. “Indeed.”
There was silence.
“Australia, actually. Perth. Setting the groundwork for the Commonwealth Heads of Government meeting next year.”
Greg blinked in shock. What? That, that was... he wondered why he was being told and whether the next sentence out of Mycroft’s mouth was going to involve the fact that while he was there something had exploded and he needed to borrow Sherlock for a while.
The Omega took off his great coat and hung it on the back of the chair on the visitor’s side of the desk, but didn’t sit.
“I’m afraid I’ve found myself at a bit of a loss lately.” Mycroft’s voice flowed over every limb of Greg’s body. He swallowed ferociously, mouth suddenly very dry. The way that felt, that had to have been deliberate. “I go to sleep, I dream. I stay awake, I have to fight the urge to pick up my phone. I go to work, I have to discipline myself not to access the live camera stream.” Mycroft steadily made his way around the desk. His fingers dragged across the top of Greg’s chair and Greg shivered. “Whose fault do you suppose this is, Gregory?”
Oh he loved it when Mycroft said his name like that.
“Who do you think is haunting my every moment, awake or asleep?”
Greg drew a shaky breath. God he was almost fully hard already. How did Mycroft do this to him? “I don’t know, M-Mycroft.” He had to catch himself from saying Master. “Who?”
Mycroft was standing directly behind him. And elegant finger tilted his chin until he was looking straight up into the Omega’s face. His very close face.
“Really, don’t you?”
Mycroft’s lips were almost on his. A single millimetre, that’s all it would take.
“M-”
“No, you can’t go in there Freak.” A hand slammed into the door and jolted Greg bolt upright.
Dear God, this was the office and he’d almost-
- fantasised about Mycroft kissing him.
Disappointment welled up until he felt it choking him. There was no trace of Mycroft in the room - no man, no coat, no gloves. Only Greg, a waking fantasy, and his raging arousal.
Goddamit.
“I’m expected, Sally.”
“Oh really.”
“Yes, I do believe I’m meant to help clean up some of your incompetence.”
Oh, Christ Almighty, Sherlock.
Sherlock snarking with Sally outside his door while Greg fantasised about Mycroft.
Oh Shit and Sherlock would know.
Greg could still remember the horrifying moment Sherlock had barged into his office, first day back after Mycroft’s Heat. He’d been operating in a daze, body on autopilot as his brain attempted to process what had happened: Attempted to come to grips with being forced to acknowledge his feelings and them having them rejected at once; Attempted to comprehend the fact he had just spent the best and most honest time of his life with his best friend and then had his heart ripped out and pulverised.
Friends.
He could do just friends.
Then Sherlock, elegant, annoying and all too knowledgeable Sherlock who had told Greg he’d come by on Monday to give his statement, had done just that. He’d thrown open the door in his usual fashion and had stopped, head to one side. Greg could see him cataloguing the evidence, see the smirk and eyebrow as he knew that Greg had spent the weekend with an Omega in Heat, see the sudden eye widening and jaw dropping amazement as Sherlock realised that that Omega had been his brother.
“Is that so?” He’d asked, eyebrow high, still in the doorway.
Alpha or no, Greg hadn’t been able to keep looking at him. Instead he slouched in his chair and let his gaze travel as it wished becoming stuck under his desk looking at his drawers.
“Yeah.” He’d answered in a raspy voice.
Greg had never appreciated Sherlock more than then when the other Sub, for once showing come comprehension of human emotions, had left the subject there.
Greg still didn’t know how Sherlock had known, maybe there had been a visible bite mark (he wouldn’t put it past Sherlock to be able to identify all his acquaintances by the imprint of their teeth), but the Sub had never brought it up again. When it came down to it he supposed that even Sherlock had some things he didn’t really want to know about his DI and older brother, especially together.
“Leave it alone, Freak. He’s having problems and we don’t need you adding to them.”
“Please-”
“Or have you not noticed. The great Sherlock Holmes oblivious because he can’t feel so he doesn’t see.”
“Au contraire, Sally. I’m just observant enough to know what’s going on.”
The door opened and Sherlock twirled through, slamming it in Sally’s face before she got another word in. He glanced at Greg and then looked away, vaguely guilty.
“Hi.” Greg had to say something.
He’d lost his erection, thank Christ, but he just knew there were traces of what had happened all over him. Not that he could ever see, but Sherlock could probably tell by the creasing in his trousers or something.
“Lestrade. Good, case files? I will of course be taking them home to look at. I’m drowning in the stupidity of your subordinates here.” Sherlock recovered and strolled over to Greg’s desk removing his gloves in the exact way Greg’s fantasy Mycroft had just done.
The sight made Greg’s heart throb, but he pushed it away.
He was forty, he was a professional and he was at work. It had been two months (two months, seven days and fifteen hours. From arriving at Mycroft’s house, that was. It had been two months, four days and eighteen hours since his heart broke.)
“Um, files, case files, um.” He scrambled around his desk looking for the files. “Here.”
He held out the one file before him, which he still hadn’t read, and winced at the incredulous eyebrow his offering was greeted with.
Sherlock looked so much like his brother when he did that.
“Just the one? I had no idea the Yard had been so efficient lately.” Sherlock drawled, casually tucking his gloves into his coat pocket. There was the slightest toss of the curls as Sherlock gracefully collapsed into the chair opposite.
He knew, oh he knew why Greg was so flustered. ‘Pull it together.’ He scolded himself. ‘You’re an Alpha, for goodness sake.’
He peeked up at Sherlock guiltily. “Sally’s got them.”
The sceptical, slightly amused, expression was replaced with an all-out terrifying glare. With a wordless sound somewhere between a growl, a groan and a curse Sherlock snatched the file out of Greg’s hand and stalked off to do battle with Sally over what she viewed, quite correctly, as police property.
He paused in the doorway, and shot Greg a fast blank look.
“Have a good dinner tonight.” Sherlock slipped out the door and with a flourish was gone to wreak havoc on the unsuspecting Yard.
Great, just great. That was just what he needed.
Pity from Sherlock Holmes.
Brilliant.
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Previous - Next
The chapters will get longer as we go up through the story, but they start a little short. See you Friday/Sunday!