Though I Walk Through the Valley (3/38)
Though I Walk through the Valley
Title: Though I Walk through the Valley (3/38)
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: Still unaetaed or brit-picked, but hopefully there aren't too many errors nonetheless. If you're holding out for a break in the angst I'm afraid it's going ot be a couple more chapters. We do get Mycroft's POV next chapter though!
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 stared at the phone in his hand forcing himself to just slow everything down and categorise what he was feeling. Most obvious was the adrenaline rush. He could almost hear the chemical reactions exploding through his body. He could definitely feel their effects. There was a large heaping of guilt took churning in his stomach. And sad, he felt sad. Heartbroken even, though that wasn’t unusual these days.
And relieved.
The last one terrified him the most and made him honestly feel like excusing himself to bawl his eyes out in the station bathroom, un-Alpha like as that may be.
He’d just cancelled on Mycroft, and he felt relieved. Relieved. Relived that the monthly budget meeting was going to run massively overtime and that he had an excuse not to meet Mycroft.
Were things really that bad?
With difficulty he dragged his attention back to the riveting discussion about who had been exceeding their overtime budgets, which were bogus and unrealistic anyway. If Greg charged even a third of the overtime he did... well, his budget would be blown in a week without any help from his team at all. He wondered absently whether he could charge staying late for the meeting as overtime and smiled at the irony of it.
The room was packed with entirely unenthusiastic participants, the lucky of whom had managed to snag seats. The rest were leaning against walls shifting their weight awkwardly from side to side and trying not to slump too much when the Detective Chief Superintendent looked in their direction.
Greg secretly enjoyed the respect (and fear) the Super inspired. Okay, Packenham had maybe received his position more because his Uncle was in government than any true detective abilities, but he was also the first ever Beta Sub to rise so high in the Yard and Greg enjoyed the smug feeling that two years later the fellow Sub was not only still at his post, but was thriving and had even managed to wrangle some improvements for their division. Served all the doubters right, in his opinion, and about bloody time. It had taken an adjustment period, but by now all the Alpha grumbling and Dominant posturing had subsided to the occasional night in the pub where some of the lads got a little too enthusiastic. Greg would have preferred someone with a little more credit while in the ranks had got the post, but no one could deny that awful cop though he had been, Packenham was a brilliant organiser.
Didn’t mean Greg liked the guy. Respected him, obeyed him, even felt proud of him, but he didn’t like him as a person. Packenham reminded him too much of a weasel for Greg to really like him, but there was no rule saying he had to like his boss, so that was fine, all fine.
His mobile buzzed softly in his hand, but Greg managed not to look until the Super’s attention had wondered over to Gregson who looked like he was about to fall off his chair sideways any second he was listing so much. Greg refused to feel any sympathy for the other Alpha. If he would just call Sherlock then he wouldn’t need to be pulling twenty-four hour shifts attempting to track down his murderer. Greg was fairly sure Sherlock had been tracking the case in the papers and already knew, but was keeping his opinion to himself after the last time he’d attempted to help Gregson unasked had ended up with him being thrown into the cells on a trumped up drugs charge. The drugs tests proved that Sherlock was completely clean and when he’d been let out the Omega had spent the next half an hour in Greg’s office reeling off his deductions, and in the process proving one man in lock-up innocent and convicting three others of crimes they weren’t being held for.
At that point John had burst in and Greg had surrendered his office to allow the frantic Dom to reassure himself that his Sub was alright. Greg had taken the chance to pop out to the coffee machine to re-caffeinate as the glass walls of his office were not doing much to hide how John was reassuring himself Sherlock was in one piece, but had been saved from the shoddy Yard stuff by Mycroft’s PA who had pressed a steaming fresh cup from the local coffee shop into his hand instead.
Mycroft himself had apparently been going to town on Gregson.
Greg had spent longer after Mycroft had finished his creepy overprotective older brother routine calming the Dom down before he tried the same on Sherlock, which would not have gone well, than he’d had to spend with Sherlock after the Sub had been released, but then, in those days, spending time with Mycroft, especially time with Mycroft where he dropped almost all his barriers and was ranting and raving and pacing with his umbrella waving wildly, was good.
Had Mycroft already been sleeping with her? No, it didn’t matter.
Taking advantage of the brief window of opportunity he unlocked his phone and opened the message.
If you need we can put a hold on meeting until your schedule clears. Merely inform me when you’re free. ~ MH
Greg flinched. Distantly he was aware of an increase in noise but it all flowed past without recognition. Oh, oh. So this... he gulped.
“Lestrade?”He started as a hand was laid on his shoulder. DI Whiting gave him a concerned look.
“Right, um,” Greg looked around, expecting a room of questioning stares. Instead he saw pushed back chairs and general kaffluful as people attempted to get out the door as fast as possible. “Um?”
Whiting straightened and let his hand fall from Greg’s shoulders. Alphas generally weren’t big on casual physical contact with each other, the Dom in them finding it too challenging. Greg appreciated this as he wasn’t big on it either for his own reasons. It was easier to keep up his act without physical touch.
“The Super called a coffee break after Dimmock started yawning.”
Greg frowned. Hadn’t he just been yelling at Gregson?
“Think it was a bit much on top of Gregson.” Whiting was speaking very carefully and still half wearing his own concerned frown. “Lestrade, are you okay?”
“Huh, yeah, fine, fine.” Greg jumped to his feet. “I’m just going to go, you know, wash my face. Ten minutes yeah?”
“Fifteen. Are you-”
“Jesus H Christ, I am fine!” Greg stormed out of the room, elbowing a couple of people out of the way in his haste to make it through the door.
He automatically turned right towards the smaller bathrooms at the back of the building - much dingier, but never anyone in there - and let his feet carry him.
So, what was that? Was that Mycroft saying he wanted to stop seeing Greg, or was it him being genuinely considerate and offering to work around Greg’s schedule? Greg’s not particularly full schedule, which Mycroft must know, or was it Mycroft trying to work out whether Greg wanted to see him?
He grimly splashed water on his face, pausing with his head in his hands longer than he really wanted to think about before dropping them to the edge of the sink. He remained there, slumped over the dreary unit, trying like mad not to think.
Or feel.
Or be.
Objectively he knew why all this was happening. Friendships the world over were screwed up by one night stands, and this had been a little bit more than a one night stand.
Sort of.
It had gone longer.
It meant more.
To him.
Anyway, the point was objectively he knew there would be problems, things to be resolved, and had someone come to him in the same situation his advice would have been to sit down and talk it out patiently. He’d love to be able to follow his own advice, but after Mycroft’s abrupt treatment of the matter on the dreaded morning after, and his emergency meeting which suddenly appeared the next time Greg attempted to bring it up, it was fairly clear talking was not going to happen for a while.
If ever. After all, they couldn’t get through one awkwardly formal meal without lingering tense silences. Greg missed the casual Chinese, the movie nights, the bowling (once and only once, but still) so much it was a literal ache.
It was no mystery why they’d gone. Mycroft had experienced a shock, his life turned upside down and in response he’d fled to safety - the world of razor sharp fancy meals and formal attire that was his stronghold, just as it had been when he’d been attempting to cow Greg about Sherlock. This was a power play designed to intimidate Greg and reassure Mycroft. Greg doubted Mycroft even realised that the really swish suits (the ones worth three months of Greg’s wages not one) were back to sole possession of Thursdays as Mycroft brought their relationship to a position he felt he could control.
He’d seen Mycroft in track pants once. Only once after an unscheduled dive into the Thames after Sherlock (John had been restrained by officers who hadn’t known to stop Mycroft as well and Greg had been too far away to reach the Omega in time to stop him himself), but he had seen it. Once upon a time, Mycroft had trusted him that much.
He wanted that back. Oh the sex had been good (fantastic, amazing, mind blowing), but he knew a romantic relationship wasn’t possible. Neither of them could reveal themselves to the public without serious repercussions, potentially deadly ones for Mycroft given the political stage he played on, and if Greg had been willing for the world to think him gay it just wasn’t possible for Mycroft to make the same sacrifice with his job. That was assuming Mycroft even wanted a romantic relationship, and he had made it very clear he didn’t. He had a girlfriend for Christ’s sake. A very attractive, very proficient, very young girlfriend.
Greg wondered absently whether Omegas could sire children on a woman. He couldn’t recall even hearing of such a case, but who knew.
He let his thoughts tumble wildly for a few more minutes, catching fragments of thought as they rushed past in his mind: I’m old, we need to clean this bathroom, he’s amazing, buy milk, check Trent’s alibi, I love him, I can’t live without him.
Greg drew a firm line at the last thought and dragged himself out of his mental stupor. This was ridiculous. No matter what he felt for Mycroft, he was a forty year old professional policeman, not a sixteen year old school kid. There was no need at all to be so melodramatic. They weren’t Bonded and even if the worst should happen he could and would live a productive life without Mycroft Holmes.
‘But a happy one?’ His mind asked.
No, he acknowledged, not a happy one. Denying that he’d lost his heart to the Omega Dom and that he wasn’t getting it back was as stupid as the overly melodramatic thoughts he’d been having.
He knew that. He’d be pragmatic. He could cope.
Greg felt his mind draw back to a week ago as he’d stood watching Mycroft’s car leave him behind, just like the Omega himself, and accepted that he had his answer. He didn’t know who would stop fighting first... but he knew it wouldn’t be him.
Mycroft was the most important relationship he’d ever had, and even if it meant grinding his heart to ash, sitting in the back of the church as Mycroft married her, even if it sucked him dry, he would do it.
He loved him. He could never leave him, and he would fight for their friendship until he died.
With trembling fingers he texted Mycroft back.
Nonsense. Next week, my shout. - GL
He stared at his phone a few more moments, listening the beat of his heart in his constricted chest as he did so often these days, and then returned it to his pocket.
“Lestrade? You in there?” Whiting pushed the door open and gave Greg a quizzical look. “We’re about to start back.”
“All right.” Greg belatedly realised the tap was still running and turned it off, and then back on again to splash his face one last time. “I’ll be right there.”
“We’re waiting for you, so be, you know, quick.”
“I’ll be there.” Greg mumbled into his hands.
The water felt good running down his face and neck. He didn’t care it was soaking his shirt collar or dribbling down his back.
The tap turned off. “Lestrade, Greg, what’s going on?”
Greg turned a glare on Whiting, but the other Alpha didn’t back off the way Sally or the Betas on his team did.
“Don’t glare at me. You were the best until three months ago.” 2 months, 11 days Greg mentally corrected. 2 months, 10 days since the Yard would have seen him. “Now you’re all over the place, you’re snappish, and you look like shit. The only reason the Chief and the Super haven’t pulled you in for a chat is that you’ve kept your stats up - improved some of them even.”
Work, even paperwork, when he could focus on it helped keep his mind off other things. So whenever he could focus, why not? It’s not like he had anyone to go home to, and it beat drinking himself into oblivion. Too great a chance of John noticing that anyway, the younger Alpha being almost fanatically observant of Alcoholism after his sister.
Work, on the other hand, John accepted as a ready excuse. He was Bonded to Sherlock and had a rather irregular view on what constituted proper and appropriate working hours after Afghanistan. As long as Greg kept him in the dark about exactly how like Sherlock his current routines were, John wouldn’t give him any grief. There was no one else who would notice or care. Mycroft certainly hadn’t commented, or shown up to drag him out of the office like he used to, takeaway in hand.
“So what’s up?” Whiting finished. He didn’t move, keeping one hand on the tap deliberately in Greg’s personal space, blocking the way to the door.
“It’s nothing.”
Greg dried his face on his sleeve and pushed away from the bench, making it very clear with his body language that he wasn’t going to talk. The move had the added benefit of giving himself more distance between the two of them, reducing the Sub’s need to please the Dom by pouring everything out at his request and relaxing the Alpha whose space was threatened. Greg did not do well in close proximity to other Alphas at all.
“Right.” Whiting sighed, but took the withdrawal as an entirely acceptable act. “We’re not that close, so fair enough, but Greg, consider this a friendly bit of advice: talk to someone, cause the Chief is serious about pulling you in if you don’t improve soon.”
“It’s not affecting my work!” Greg snarled defensively.
The work was all he had, his lifeline that was keeping him above the water as he fought to regain his previous precarious equilibrium. There were times he hated Mycroft for waking up his Sub side. He was having a lot of trouble putting it away again, which was a bit not good in a station full of Alphas and other Doms.
“It’s making you almost impossible to work with. You’re unpredictable.”
Of course he was unpredictable, vacillating between Alpha, and Sub, and overcompensation.
Greg pushed passed and headed back to the meeting. He didn’t need to hear this. He was trying, Goddamit.
“Greg!” There was just enough dominance in Whiting’s call Greg had to turn, though he made it appear nonchalant and by choice, and raised an annoyed eyebrow. “Be careful. An unpredictable Alpha is a liability, you know that. Settle down or you’ll be out.”
Greg turned and walked off without a word, his fingers curling into fists, heart in his mouth. Was he really that bad lately?
He already knew the answer.
Shit.
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As I said, Mycroft on Sunday!
Previous - Next
Title: Though I Walk through the Valley (3/38)
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: Still unaetaed or brit-picked, but hopefully there aren't too many errors nonetheless. If you're holding out for a break in the angst I'm afraid it's going ot be a couple more chapters. We do get Mycroft's POV next chapter though!
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 stared at the phone in his hand forcing himself to just slow everything down and categorise what he was feeling. Most obvious was the adrenaline rush. He could almost hear the chemical reactions exploding through his body. He could definitely feel their effects. There was a large heaping of guilt took churning in his stomach. And sad, he felt sad. Heartbroken even, though that wasn’t unusual these days.
And relieved.
The last one terrified him the most and made him honestly feel like excusing himself to bawl his eyes out in the station bathroom, un-Alpha like as that may be.
He’d just cancelled on Mycroft, and he felt relieved. Relieved. Relived that the monthly budget meeting was going to run massively overtime and that he had an excuse not to meet Mycroft.
Were things really that bad?
With difficulty he dragged his attention back to the riveting discussion about who had been exceeding their overtime budgets, which were bogus and unrealistic anyway. If Greg charged even a third of the overtime he did... well, his budget would be blown in a week without any help from his team at all. He wondered absently whether he could charge staying late for the meeting as overtime and smiled at the irony of it.
The room was packed with entirely unenthusiastic participants, the lucky of whom had managed to snag seats. The rest were leaning against walls shifting their weight awkwardly from side to side and trying not to slump too much when the Detective Chief Superintendent looked in their direction.
Greg secretly enjoyed the respect (and fear) the Super inspired. Okay, Packenham had maybe received his position more because his Uncle was in government than any true detective abilities, but he was also the first ever Beta Sub to rise so high in the Yard and Greg enjoyed the smug feeling that two years later the fellow Sub was not only still at his post, but was thriving and had even managed to wrangle some improvements for their division. Served all the doubters right, in his opinion, and about bloody time. It had taken an adjustment period, but by now all the Alpha grumbling and Dominant posturing had subsided to the occasional night in the pub where some of the lads got a little too enthusiastic. Greg would have preferred someone with a little more credit while in the ranks had got the post, but no one could deny that awful cop though he had been, Packenham was a brilliant organiser.
Didn’t mean Greg liked the guy. Respected him, obeyed him, even felt proud of him, but he didn’t like him as a person. Packenham reminded him too much of a weasel for Greg to really like him, but there was no rule saying he had to like his boss, so that was fine, all fine.
His mobile buzzed softly in his hand, but Greg managed not to look until the Super’s attention had wondered over to Gregson who looked like he was about to fall off his chair sideways any second he was listing so much. Greg refused to feel any sympathy for the other Alpha. If he would just call Sherlock then he wouldn’t need to be pulling twenty-four hour shifts attempting to track down his murderer. Greg was fairly sure Sherlock had been tracking the case in the papers and already knew, but was keeping his opinion to himself after the last time he’d attempted to help Gregson unasked had ended up with him being thrown into the cells on a trumped up drugs charge. The drugs tests proved that Sherlock was completely clean and when he’d been let out the Omega had spent the next half an hour in Greg’s office reeling off his deductions, and in the process proving one man in lock-up innocent and convicting three others of crimes they weren’t being held for.
At that point John had burst in and Greg had surrendered his office to allow the frantic Dom to reassure himself that his Sub was alright. Greg had taken the chance to pop out to the coffee machine to re-caffeinate as the glass walls of his office were not doing much to hide how John was reassuring himself Sherlock was in one piece, but had been saved from the shoddy Yard stuff by Mycroft’s PA who had pressed a steaming fresh cup from the local coffee shop into his hand instead.
Mycroft himself had apparently been going to town on Gregson.
Greg had spent longer after Mycroft had finished his creepy overprotective older brother routine calming the Dom down before he tried the same on Sherlock, which would not have gone well, than he’d had to spend with Sherlock after the Sub had been released, but then, in those days, spending time with Mycroft, especially time with Mycroft where he dropped almost all his barriers and was ranting and raving and pacing with his umbrella waving wildly, was good.
Had Mycroft already been sleeping with her? No, it didn’t matter.
Taking advantage of the brief window of opportunity he unlocked his phone and opened the message.
If you need we can put a hold on meeting until your schedule clears. Merely inform me when you’re free. ~ MH
Greg flinched. Distantly he was aware of an increase in noise but it all flowed past without recognition. Oh, oh. So this... he gulped.
“Lestrade?”He started as a hand was laid on his shoulder. DI Whiting gave him a concerned look.
“Right, um,” Greg looked around, expecting a room of questioning stares. Instead he saw pushed back chairs and general kaffluful as people attempted to get out the door as fast as possible. “Um?”
Whiting straightened and let his hand fall from Greg’s shoulders. Alphas generally weren’t big on casual physical contact with each other, the Dom in them finding it too challenging. Greg appreciated this as he wasn’t big on it either for his own reasons. It was easier to keep up his act without physical touch.
“The Super called a coffee break after Dimmock started yawning.”
Greg frowned. Hadn’t he just been yelling at Gregson?
“Think it was a bit much on top of Gregson.” Whiting was speaking very carefully and still half wearing his own concerned frown. “Lestrade, are you okay?”
“Huh, yeah, fine, fine.” Greg jumped to his feet. “I’m just going to go, you know, wash my face. Ten minutes yeah?”
“Fifteen. Are you-”
“Jesus H Christ, I am fine!” Greg stormed out of the room, elbowing a couple of people out of the way in his haste to make it through the door.
He automatically turned right towards the smaller bathrooms at the back of the building - much dingier, but never anyone in there - and let his feet carry him.
So, what was that? Was that Mycroft saying he wanted to stop seeing Greg, or was it him being genuinely considerate and offering to work around Greg’s schedule? Greg’s not particularly full schedule, which Mycroft must know, or was it Mycroft trying to work out whether Greg wanted to see him?
He grimly splashed water on his face, pausing with his head in his hands longer than he really wanted to think about before dropping them to the edge of the sink. He remained there, slumped over the dreary unit, trying like mad not to think.
Or feel.
Or be.
Objectively he knew why all this was happening. Friendships the world over were screwed up by one night stands, and this had been a little bit more than a one night stand.
Sort of.
It had gone longer.
It meant more.
To him.
Anyway, the point was objectively he knew there would be problems, things to be resolved, and had someone come to him in the same situation his advice would have been to sit down and talk it out patiently. He’d love to be able to follow his own advice, but after Mycroft’s abrupt treatment of the matter on the dreaded morning after, and his emergency meeting which suddenly appeared the next time Greg attempted to bring it up, it was fairly clear talking was not going to happen for a while.
If ever. After all, they couldn’t get through one awkwardly formal meal without lingering tense silences. Greg missed the casual Chinese, the movie nights, the bowling (once and only once, but still) so much it was a literal ache.
It was no mystery why they’d gone. Mycroft had experienced a shock, his life turned upside down and in response he’d fled to safety - the world of razor sharp fancy meals and formal attire that was his stronghold, just as it had been when he’d been attempting to cow Greg about Sherlock. This was a power play designed to intimidate Greg and reassure Mycroft. Greg doubted Mycroft even realised that the really swish suits (the ones worth three months of Greg’s wages not one) were back to sole possession of Thursdays as Mycroft brought their relationship to a position he felt he could control.
He’d seen Mycroft in track pants once. Only once after an unscheduled dive into the Thames after Sherlock (John had been restrained by officers who hadn’t known to stop Mycroft as well and Greg had been too far away to reach the Omega in time to stop him himself), but he had seen it. Once upon a time, Mycroft had trusted him that much.
He wanted that back. Oh the sex had been good (fantastic, amazing, mind blowing), but he knew a romantic relationship wasn’t possible. Neither of them could reveal themselves to the public without serious repercussions, potentially deadly ones for Mycroft given the political stage he played on, and if Greg had been willing for the world to think him gay it just wasn’t possible for Mycroft to make the same sacrifice with his job. That was assuming Mycroft even wanted a romantic relationship, and he had made it very clear he didn’t. He had a girlfriend for Christ’s sake. A very attractive, very proficient, very young girlfriend.
Greg wondered absently whether Omegas could sire children on a woman. He couldn’t recall even hearing of such a case, but who knew.
He let his thoughts tumble wildly for a few more minutes, catching fragments of thought as they rushed past in his mind: I’m old, we need to clean this bathroom, he’s amazing, buy milk, check Trent’s alibi, I love him, I can’t live without him.
Greg drew a firm line at the last thought and dragged himself out of his mental stupor. This was ridiculous. No matter what he felt for Mycroft, he was a forty year old professional policeman, not a sixteen year old school kid. There was no need at all to be so melodramatic. They weren’t Bonded and even if the worst should happen he could and would live a productive life without Mycroft Holmes.
‘But a happy one?’ His mind asked.
No, he acknowledged, not a happy one. Denying that he’d lost his heart to the Omega Dom and that he wasn’t getting it back was as stupid as the overly melodramatic thoughts he’d been having.
He knew that. He’d be pragmatic. He could cope.
Greg felt his mind draw back to a week ago as he’d stood watching Mycroft’s car leave him behind, just like the Omega himself, and accepted that he had his answer. He didn’t know who would stop fighting first... but he knew it wouldn’t be him.
Mycroft was the most important relationship he’d ever had, and even if it meant grinding his heart to ash, sitting in the back of the church as Mycroft married her, even if it sucked him dry, he would do it.
He loved him. He could never leave him, and he would fight for their friendship until he died.
With trembling fingers he texted Mycroft back.
Nonsense. Next week, my shout. - GL
He stared at his phone a few more moments, listening the beat of his heart in his constricted chest as he did so often these days, and then returned it to his pocket.
“Lestrade? You in there?” Whiting pushed the door open and gave Greg a quizzical look. “We’re about to start back.”
“All right.” Greg belatedly realised the tap was still running and turned it off, and then back on again to splash his face one last time. “I’ll be right there.”
“We’re waiting for you, so be, you know, quick.”
“I’ll be there.” Greg mumbled into his hands.
The water felt good running down his face and neck. He didn’t care it was soaking his shirt collar or dribbling down his back.
The tap turned off. “Lestrade, Greg, what’s going on?”
Greg turned a glare on Whiting, but the other Alpha didn’t back off the way Sally or the Betas on his team did.
“Don’t glare at me. You were the best until three months ago.” 2 months, 11 days Greg mentally corrected. 2 months, 10 days since the Yard would have seen him. “Now you’re all over the place, you’re snappish, and you look like shit. The only reason the Chief and the Super haven’t pulled you in for a chat is that you’ve kept your stats up - improved some of them even.”
Work, even paperwork, when he could focus on it helped keep his mind off other things. So whenever he could focus, why not? It’s not like he had anyone to go home to, and it beat drinking himself into oblivion. Too great a chance of John noticing that anyway, the younger Alpha being almost fanatically observant of Alcoholism after his sister.
Work, on the other hand, John accepted as a ready excuse. He was Bonded to Sherlock and had a rather irregular view on what constituted proper and appropriate working hours after Afghanistan. As long as Greg kept him in the dark about exactly how like Sherlock his current routines were, John wouldn’t give him any grief. There was no one else who would notice or care. Mycroft certainly hadn’t commented, or shown up to drag him out of the office like he used to, takeaway in hand.
“So what’s up?” Whiting finished. He didn’t move, keeping one hand on the tap deliberately in Greg’s personal space, blocking the way to the door.
“It’s nothing.”
Greg dried his face on his sleeve and pushed away from the bench, making it very clear with his body language that he wasn’t going to talk. The move had the added benefit of giving himself more distance between the two of them, reducing the Sub’s need to please the Dom by pouring everything out at his request and relaxing the Alpha whose space was threatened. Greg did not do well in close proximity to other Alphas at all.
“Right.” Whiting sighed, but took the withdrawal as an entirely acceptable act. “We’re not that close, so fair enough, but Greg, consider this a friendly bit of advice: talk to someone, cause the Chief is serious about pulling you in if you don’t improve soon.”
“It’s not affecting my work!” Greg snarled defensively.
The work was all he had, his lifeline that was keeping him above the water as he fought to regain his previous precarious equilibrium. There were times he hated Mycroft for waking up his Sub side. He was having a lot of trouble putting it away again, which was a bit not good in a station full of Alphas and other Doms.
“It’s making you almost impossible to work with. You’re unpredictable.”
Of course he was unpredictable, vacillating between Alpha, and Sub, and overcompensation.
Greg pushed passed and headed back to the meeting. He didn’t need to hear this. He was trying, Goddamit.
“Greg!” There was just enough dominance in Whiting’s call Greg had to turn, though he made it appear nonchalant and by choice, and raised an annoyed eyebrow. “Be careful. An unpredictable Alpha is a liability, you know that. Settle down or you’ll be out.”
Greg turned and walked off without a word, his fingers curling into fists, heart in his mouth. Was he really that bad lately?
He already knew the answer.
Shit.
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As I said, Mycroft on Sunday!
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