Though I Walk Through the Valley (5/38)
Though I Walk through the Valley
Title:Though I Walk through the Valley (5/38)Series: Still Waters (Run Deep) (Part II of IV)
Author: melody_in_time
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Through S1 only
Disclaimer: I wish, I wish upon a star... but until that works, not mine and sadly no money made.
Warnings: Gratuitous drunkeness and correspondingly idiotic comments by those involved. Even Greg Lestrade some some really bit not good things when smashed off his arse.
Author's Notes: I've been procrastinating a bit with my study, and so present you with a choice. Would you like to have two chapters on Sunday, two next Wednesday, or two the Sunday after that? Entirely up to you guys, though I warn you ahead of time, depending how you choose to split it you may want to hurt me given the ends of the chapters... there may be a cliff hanger or two in there. Entirely up to you all though. Lucky dip and let me know what you want.
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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It was loud in here, and he didn’t like the lights. And the music! Okay the band was covering good songs, and he couldn’t help joining in for Summer of ’69, but was there any reason for it to be so loud? The speakers sounded awful cranked up so high, and the vocals could barely be heard over the cacophony produced by the other musicians. The bar was sticky, the air overheated, and it was way too crowded.
Greg missed his local, but it wasn’t for tonight.
Another drink was delivered at his silent request, Scotch on the rocks, double of course. He was on three already.
Glasses that was, not shots.
The dark gold liquid flowed smoothly down his throat. He’d lost the burning sensation after the second drink, which was not all that long ago to be honest. He wasn’t quite shooting them, but he couldn’t claim to be savouring them either. As if he was going to spend the money on anything worth savouring! Certainly the ice never had time to melt and pollute his precious alcohol.
He’d definitely been wrong, Greg decided as he ordered his fourth drink from the other bartender, who hadn’t served him yet and so wasn’t keeping count. Alcohol was definitely a better coping mechanism than work. Much better. Work only distracted him; this dulled the pain and if he just kept drinking long enough maybe it would go away entirely. He knew it would come back, accompanied by an epic hangover he had no doubt, but for tonight, and maybe tomorrow night, it would be gone.
So what if John found out? John was his friend, not his mother. What was the other Alpha going to do anyway? Yell at him? Be silently disapproving? Besides, it was Friday night and this was what people who weren’t pulling their sixtieth hour of work for the week did on Friday night for fun.
No, this was a much better plan than working late again. It’s not like the hours he’d been doing were appreciated. He should charge the bastards for just one week of his actual time - that’d send them scurrying and he could use the money. It was fucking ridiculous. He had an excellent conviction rate without Sherlock. With the detective’s help his closure rate was the best in the country. He knew that for a fact. He’d been told so by M- someone who’d know. He cleared more cold cases than any other DI, he sat on half a dozen NSY committees as a volunteer, and his fucking paperwork was up to fucking date and letter perfect so those bloody sods could just get screwed all the way to Hell.
No, drinking was clearly the better option. To oblivion even, and when he eventually rolled out of bed he’d start with a Bloody Mary and go from there, even if it was before noon, which it wasn’t going to be. No, the plan, such as it was, was not to sober up all weekend. Fix every hangover with the hair of the dog, and have two days.... two glorious pain free days, and probably a sick day on Monday. Arrogant sods at the office didn’t deserve to have him come in. He certainly wouldn’t be staying late! Nope, those days were fucking gone. Out the door at five past and anyone who complained could just suck his -
“Good Evening Lestrade.”
There were few sights more incomprehensible than that of Sherlock Holmes in a loud, dingy pub, especially as he looked just the same as always. Greg had no doubt that with the smallest modicum of effort Sherlock could have been anyone in this establishment, and no one would have been the wiser, but it was equally true that this was Sherlock Holmes, who was arrogant enough to out ego an Alpha, and there was no way he’d dress up, or down as the case may be, just to not look out of place in a pub.
So there he was. His hair was artfully tousled in a deliberately natural way which suggested hours of work in front of a mirror though for Sherlock sodding Holmes it was entirely natural, the bastard. Without turning his head Greg could already see three women and a long-haired Beta staring at Sherlock’s hair in undisguised longing and jealousy... or maybe they were staring at his arse so exquisitely displayed in the sharply tailored suits.
Sherlock had removed his great coat and was carrying it over one arm, the other arm crocked at the elbow to comfortably rest his hand in his pocket. By design or fluke the detective was wearing what Greg had mentally dubbed ‘the purple shirt of sex’ that set off his hair and skin to perfection without making him appear wane and ghostlike, much to the delight and approval of more than a few patrons of the bar who kept craning in an effort to catch a glimpse of Sherlock’s wrists, conveniently hidden by coat and jacket pocket. As always the blue scarf was wrapped around Sherlock’s neck and if the colours happened to clash just a little, it wasn’t bothering any of his admirers. All in all, Sherlock, from artfully curly hair to handmade shoes, just did not fit in.
Letting out a low growl that scared off three of the braver souls heading towards Sherlock, Greg swung back to the bar and ordered two scotches. The drinks arrived more promptly than any Greg had been served so far that night. He pushed one in Sherlock’s general direction and downed his. Sherlock sauntered the last few steps and lifted the offered glass to his lips. A single small sip later the glass was back on the bar, and expression of incredulous disgust on his face.
Naturally Sherlock was served before he’d even had the chance to raise a finger. Greg huffed and stole the abandoned glass while Sherlock proceeded to deduce that the bartender (Beta Dom, so far not good or bad as far as service went) was part of an underground gambling ring, recently reclaimed his bracelet from his Sub, was studying Maths at university and liked tuna, and ended with a demand for something drinkable. The Dom, who had originally looked a little bit star struck, slammed the drink down before the end of Sherlock’s spiel and stormed off without waiting for Sherlock to pay, ostensibly to serve another customer, but most likely just to get away. Greg doubted he’d be coming back and resigned himself to ordering lest Sherlock chase away all the bartenders.
It was always this way with Sherlock. He’d walk onto a crime scene to awe and lust (from the witnesses, not Greg’s team who had been insulted too many times, though occasionally the newer members threw him longing glances until they’d worked a few Sherlock crime scenes) and within seconds of opening his mouth managed to provoke the most even tempered of people into a blood rage. Sometimes Greg wondered why John let Sherlock out on his own as sooner or later, probably sooner, someone would try to kill him over his total and arrogant lack of manners or sense, but then even John, who loved Sherlock very very much, probably needed a break from him every now and then.
“Didn’t think you’d actually come.”
Evidently this drink met with Sherlock’s approval, or at least less disgust than the previous, as he kept it in his hand after the first testing sip.
“It’s not every day the text from my favourite detective inspector is a drunk meshing of keys rather than crime details.”
It was totally unfair how Sherlock’s deep voice resonated despite the noise, carrying his drawl to everyone around. A passing patron shivered and turned, obviously about to ask Sherlock out on the basis of his voice alone, but with Sherlock’s right hand holding the drink his bracelet was clearly visible so the threatened interaction was avoided. The play of expressions over the Sub’s face (disbelief, regret, possibly, no) was probably going to be repeated all night. Greg hoped they didn’t run into someone brassy enough to try for Sherlock anyway, despite wearing another Dom’s claim, else he’d be forced to defend Sherlock’s honour (or be hurt by John and ... John) and he wasn’t in the mood for a brawl.
Oh, who was he kidding? Sherlock could take care of himself and Greg was longing to punch someone. In absence of the pricks from work, a complete stranger in a bar would do.
“I’m your only-” Greg began, instinctive childhood reply to his Sire’s declaration of ‘favourite son’ on his lips, but stopped as alcohol inhibited brain caught up to mouth. Somehow ‘I’m your only DI’ made him feel too much like a pet. He didn’t like the idea of being Sherlock Holmes’s pet.
Unable to work out what to say, Greg took another gulp of Sherlock’s abandoned drink. He expected a comment, the raised eyebrow certainly said a lot, but Sherlock merely took a second small sip from his own glass.
Fine, if Sherlock wasn’t going to say anything then he could bloody well drink instead. Greg tipped the rest of the alcohol in his glass back as an example and snarled slightly as Sherlock failed to follow suit.
“Drink!” He growled, then flagged down the bartender for another two.
Sherlock merely sighed and nodded at the bartender over Greg’s head as if he were Greg’s keeper. As if he couldn’t see, Greg fumed. He was drunk, not blind, though he’d hopefully soon be blind drunk.
The requested drinks were placed on the bar and Sherlock fished out his wallet to pay.
“They have my credit card.” Greg snapped, more than a little insulted. He was an Alpha, he’d pay for the Omega’s drinks. He’d had enough of being treated by Omega Holmeses.
“I believe it is customary that when out drinking there should be an alternation of various rounds that are ‘my shout’.” Sherlock wrinkled his nose and pronounced the phrase the way most people reserved for foreign words.
This was obviously part of John’s socialisation program for Sherlock, Greg decided hazily, and it would be unbearably rude of him to interfere in his fellow Alpha’s training plan - especially when he had so much to gain by Sherlock’s progress. Fine, he’d let Sherlock pay, but he’d get the next one.
With a nod of his head Greg looked back up at Sherlock, who was still standing not sitting like a normal person, and suddenly wondered how much of that he’d said out loud. The slightly icy expression on Sherlock’s face certainly suggested he’d unintentionally verbalised his thoughts, but this was Sherlock and he didn’t need to say anything for Sherlock to know.
An exasperated sigh escaped the noirette’s lips. “How many have you had exactly?”
“Can’t you tell?” Greg leant forward into Sherlock’s personal space, grinning like a loon. The great Sherlock Holmes didn’t know!
A twitch developed around Sherlock’s eye. “I can narrow it down to a substantial amount, but the exact number relies on too many unknown variables for me to-”
“Tetchy, tetchy.” Greg admonished, waggling his finger and accidently bumping Sherlock’s chest. He paused and thought. “I’m not sure.”
He had been sure up until the last one, or maybe two, but he was starting to feel the delayed effects of his rapid consumption and things were becoming a little uncertain in the particulars.
“And they were still serving you?” Sherlock muttered under his breath as he collected the three glasses into his hand. “Are you still able to walk?”
“Of course!” Greg was affronted. He wasn’t that drunk. Yet.
“Time to prove it.” Sherlock took a step away from the bar and twisted to face Greg, waiting for him to follow.
Greg lifted his chin and defiantly slipped off his bar stool, which he instantly grabbed for support as the world spun and discoloured. Head rush! He tentatively took a step, then another.
The floor swayed with his shaky movements and only extreme will power kept him from windmilling his arms for balance. He was well, but distantly, aware that the floor was still, even if no one had informed the floor that it was, and he was not ready to be kicked out for drunkenness, which he had no doubt he would be if he proved he couldn’t, in fact, walk.
So he took another cautious step, kept his arms locked to his sides, and bridged the cavernous gap between him and Sherlock. Greg wasn’t quite sure what the look on Sherlock’s face was, interpretations of the minute tells that made up Holmesian facial expressions was apparently not a skill that survived three, no, four... maybe five, six max, double scotches in quick succession.
Sherlock didn’t say anything, not that Greg could hear anyway as the blood rushed through his ears with the music, and led the way out the back to a tiny outdoor seating area. Greg didn’t hold with these ‘beer gardens’, obviously a trashy foreign invention which had no place in traditional establishments, but then this wasn’t his local, wasn’t traditional, and thank Christ at least this meant he could have a smoke.
He had to admit his descent to a seated position on the wooden bench was more a collapse than a planned manoeuvre, but he was too busy patting down his pockets for the newly purchased packet of cigarettes to care. Ah, there it was. The plastic wrap was a matter of seconds, muscle memory never faded, and he was soon inhaling the sweet tobacco-y bliss. He inhaled again and spluttered, it had been a long time, and then rearranged on the bench so his back was leaning against the wall, legs splayed out along the wooden seats. He looked up to see Sherlock a millimetre away breathing in the smoke being emitted by the burning tobacco and paper roll in his hand.
“Want one?” He offered, packet extended.
Sherlock stole the cigarette from between Greg’s fingers and brought it to his own lips, where he paused with the filter barely touching his flesh. Greg gave his cigarette up for lost and moved to tap another from the pack. Without warning the carton was yanked from his grip and Sherlock stormed over to the rubbish bin where he proceeded to break every cigarette in turn before letting them fall into the waste, sending Greg evil glares and grumbling angrily as he did. Greg stared at his hand, Sherlock, and back to his hand uncomprehendingly. It had just occurred to his belaboured brain that he needed to stop Sherlock before he destroyed all the smokes when the Sub plonked angrily down on his bench across the table from Greg.
Right, no smoking then. Well, Sherlock couldn’t stop him drinking.
Greg slid one of the glasses carefully over the table slats towards him and then in scrupulous fairness slid the other two to Sherlock.
Sherlock had put his jacket back on, Greg realised as he watched the younger Sub pull his gloves on as well. Of course he had, it was bloody freezing out here, which was why other than a couple of diehard smokers huddled as close to the door as legally possible (hit up for cigarette? Too far from drink: No) there was no one else out here. Good thing too. Sherlock’s scarf had looked stupid around his neck without the coat.
Oh, of course. Greg relaxed back with a sigh and cradled his glass. The scarf. That’s why Sherlock had directed them outside, so he could continue to wear his scarf without arousing suspicions. This way even though people might wonder, especially given more than a few saw Sherlock’s bracelet and would know him for Sub, no one would know that he was an Omega.
It wasn’t so much that Sherlock was hiding his gender status as preventing an uncomfortable evening that was all. Pubs were, as Greg was well aware, full of less than intelligent individuals who tended towards... oh who was he kidding? In general, pubs like this one, chosen for its attitude towards drinking copious amounts of alcohol even after a patron should have been legally cut off, were full of drunk bigots and genderists so it was good Sherlock was for once choosing to be discrete.
The Omega was exorbitantly proud of his collar, knowing full well how striking the black leather was around his neck. More, Greg believed Sherlock was fiercely proud that he had a collar; that someone out there loved and cherished him enough to place it around his neck and formally swear to the world to look after him forever (or nowadays, until divorce do us part). Even when cases demanded Sherlock go incognito he wore his collar, though he had several versions which lacked the silver (apparently Sherlock didn’t like gold) Omega symbol clasped to the front for times it was...inconvenient, but even when it would be better to act as a Dom, or as a lone Unbound Sub, Sherlock refused to remove the thin leather strip. He would relinquish his bracelet to John, and only John, he would wear scarves or turtleneck tops or even, once, loosen the collar so it slid far enough down his neck to be covered up by a buttoned up shirt and tie, but he never, ever removed it.
Greg envied Sherlock his collar so much. He was glad Sherlock kept his scarf on. That way he didn’t have everything he could never have staring him provocatively in the face.
Had he said that out loud?
Oh well. He took another mouthful of his drink, reluctant to gulp it down now a further supply was no longer in easy reach. It wasn’t fair. Sherlock had everything and all he had was a crappy job and a huge secret that destroyed his life and why was Sherlock there anyway?
“Because you texted me and I was bored. John was about to throw me out for a walk anyway. Apparently I was being annoying.”
Had he said that out loud as well? Obviously. Why had he texted Sherlock? Sherlock at a pub. That was the most ridiuclus...ridicolous... stupid idea he’d ever heard. Oh right, because there was no one else because his team were idiots, his colleagues were backstabbing sods, his best friend wasn’t talking to him, John would take his salvation away and try to make him talk... and Sherlock knew. Sherlock would understand.
No one else would understand. He only had Sherlock.
How sad was that?
Greg frowned. He assumed Sherlock knew. Sherlock certainly knew about him, but did Sherlock know that Greg was a -
“Yes, of course. You hide it well, but it was rather obvious after that. I would have realised more quickly if I’d paid attention, but I had... assumed.”
Greg took a small sip, only a small one, and felt the liquid crash against his teeth. Like waves against a cliff, he thought dreamily.
Sherlock knew. Sherlock knew. He could talk to Sherlock about...him.
“What’s caused this, Greg?”
Him, hhhiiimmmm, My, My My. Greg swallowed a giggle. My Mycroft. My my Mycroft.
His face fell. Not his Mycroft. Not my My.
“Deduce it.” He spat at Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. Mycroft Holmes. Fucking Homeses screwing up his fucking life.
Why couldn’t Mycroft screw him instead of his life?
Sherlock shifted uncomfortably on his bench. Oh, right, out loud again.
“You’re clearly intoxicated, well beyond the amount you would normally imbue, and much earlier in the evening. Ergo, you left work on time, which is early for you. You’re drinking alone, not your usual fashion, and drinking for the alcohol not the social aspect or the taste, as evidenced by the quality, or lack thereof, of your drinks. That explains why you didn’t call John, but the Yarders gather for drinks every Friday near the precinct and when you’re free you usually join them. So you’re not just avoiding a lecture about excessive drinking, you’re avoiding company. Conclusion: something happened at work, something which has shaken your deep sense of loyalty and camaraderie with your peers, and you’ve turned to alcohol to dull the pain.”
“Bravo.” Greg muttered sarcastically into his ice.
“Additionally you called them backstabbing sods.” Sherlock casually raised his own glass to his lips and met Greg’s glare for implacable stare. “So talk, Lestrade.”
“Who says I want to talk? I would have invited John to talk.” Greg sneered, repressed anger bubbling to the forefront.
How dare they! He gave them everything, his life, his existence and they -
“No, you invited me, because you knew you wouldn’t have to. Is that what you want, Lestrade? For me to deduce what happened and tell you? Save you the effort of saying it?” Sherlock scoffed, lips twisted into a crude smirk.
Greg slumped down and tipped the last of the scotch down his throat, refusing to say anything. He dropped the glass carelessly on the table with a solid thunk, defiantly not looking over at Sherlock.
“Fine.” The Consulting Detective’s voice was sharp. “You’re pissed off because you feel betrayed by the Yard. Not one person, the institution as clearly shown by your utter disgust at the mention of the name and the lack of any overtime despite knowing a couple of your colleagues are currently struggling with cases. Not that you’ve helped them since their instantaneous dismissal of me eight months ago, but you’re not at the Yard picking up the slack either.
So the Yard has angered you. How does an organisation anger someone? Processes, procedures and superiors, particularly the last one which for you is an even greater betrayal as Packenham is both useless as a police officer, so how dare he question you regarding cases, and being an openly successful Sub he raises your jealousy and pride. He can do it, why shouldn’t you be able?
So, Packenham. You don’t have any major cases nor are you surrounded by colleagues all griping about the upstart Subs who try to order around Alphas, so a personal attack. Not an attack on the division per se, one that strikes at the heart of your self-image - your abilities as an inspector and dedication to the Yard. How am I doing, Detective Inspector?”
Greg set his jaw against Sherlock’s sarcasm and took a glorious mouthful of oblivion.
“Conclusion,” Sherlock continued on, melodious voice flowing more smoothly over the words than Greg’s drink down his throat. “Packenham called you up on your recent erratic behaviour and told you to fix yourself or you’d be out, despite your record, because the Yard can only keep dedicated officers, not irresponsible unreliable Alphas, and you know everyone at the Yard thinks you’ve unhinged and won’t stand by you, so total betrayal by the most important thing to you and the only thing that has stayed with you through your sad, lonely life.”
The Yard needs disciplined dedicated employees, Lestrade, not irresponsible hot heads who can’t keep themselves and their swollen Dominant heads clear. Do you hear me?
Did Sherlock even realise how perfect his words were, how as he spoke them the rich baritone was overlaid by a lighter whinier tone?
You’re a loose cannon, Lestrade, bringing that Omega in on your cases. Reckless, Unstable the both of you.
“Fuck you.” Greg enjoyed the shape of the words leaving. “Fuck you. There is no fucking way you could have known any of that. I don’t care how good you are... who told you? Who are you fucking talking to?”
“I know you.” Sherlock’s voice was quiet, but firm. “I know what’s important to you, I know your habits, I know,” his voice rose in volume proportionate to Greg’s snarl, “that results and protecting people are more important concepts than politics and glory, which is why you’ve never been promoted. I know-”
Greg seized the lapels of Sherlock’s jacket dragging him nose to nose. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking dare!”
Sherlock wrenched out of Greg’s grip and stood breathing heavily.
“All this shit,” Greg continued, “all this fucking shit I go through I go through for you!”
“Because you need me.” Sherlock sneered, tilting his chin imperiously and tossing his curls defiantly.
“I don’t sodding need you!” Greg bellowed. “I can do my job without you. I chose to have you help me, to solve more, but I don’t fucking need you and now you’re destroying my bloody life!”
Sherlock straightened. Objectively Greg knew the taller figure had gained only a couple of millimetres, but he suddenly seemed much taller. Sherlock loomed over Greg, a ferocious God with freezing burning eyes, appearing every inch the Dom Greg had mistaken him for. He fell back on his bench, not quite cowering, as Sherlock turned every inch of his fake Dominance on Greg and drove him down.
“Gregory Lestrade,” Greg was a deer caught in the headlights of Sherlock’s eyes, “do NOT try and turn this back on me. You chose to have my help because you care about saving lives and justice, and no matter how unpopular that choice, it was NOT what caused this, not this time. You caused this, you and your own actions.” Sherlock shrank a little, dropping the Dom act.
Greg gave a shudder of relief.
“Greg,” Sherlock’s hand paused in front of Greg’s face, clearly unsure of his welcome. “I understand this may be hard to comprehend, but I have recently been forced to accept that it is possible I might have some closer than previously credited acquaintances, and following this admission that there is the distinct possibility that for some unfathomable reason you may be one of them.”
Greg let out a choked laugh. Only Sherlock could make that sound like such an amazing compliment. Sherlock’s gloved finger brushed across his cheek and Greg belatedly realised that Sherlock was brushing away a lone tear.
“Greg, why are you acting like this? This isn’t you.”
These statements were the closest Greg had ever heard Sherlock come to saying he cared. His voice was so un-Sherlock, the Sub who operated on logic and despised emotion sounded so gentle and caring, that Greg couldn’t help letting a sob pass his lips and felt another humiliating tear track down over his nose. The drop suffered the same fate as its predecessor(s?) and was gently wiped away by Sherlock’s leather clad hand.
“Greg?”
A slight breeze blew through the outdoor area stinging damp skin; it was the first time Greg had actually felt the cold since they’d come outside. Maybe Sherlock’s little display had scared some of the alcohol out of him. Couldn’t have that.
“Are you sure you’re not a Switch?” His voice sounded raspy and he happily tipped back the large remainder of the scotch in his glass. He could feel it burn the whole way down his throat before settling in his stomach as a low pool of warmth.
“Very, unfortunately.” Sherlock’s voice was crisp and cool, like the air.
Well who wanted to be a Sub? Even with all the reforms your life still sucked. All the legal changes in the word couldn’t rid you of the gaping hole in your soul, just waiting for your Dom to come and take over your life and tell you want to do.
No, Greg didn’t blame Sherlock for wishing he’d been a Dom. Greg wished he’d been a proper Alpha too.
“I’ve been, uh, acting unpredictably lately.” Greg didn’t look at Sherlock as he spoke, preferring to look through the table slats and study the cold flagstones below.
Sherlock didn’t reply, but Greg was sure he was thinking, ‘Well obviously!’ It was a Sherlock thought.
“For a while now,” He continued, then stopped, unsure how to go on. ”For 2 months 12 days ...” Greg didn’t keep going, didn’t reveal he still knew to the exact hour how long it had been.
Sherlock didn’t say anything, though being a genius he obviously knew the significance just as he’d obviously already known the reason for Greg’s erratic behaviour before Greg had said anything. Greg supposed knowing wasn’t the point. Making Greg say it was the point. Sherlock already knew.
“I...” His throat convulsed and Greg had to swallow his word and start over. “I was called in today. I’m on notice. If I don’t clean up my behaviour, I’m out.”
Just like that. Twenty years of exemplary service, of overtime, of crime scenes in rain, hail and snow, of giving everything he had to the job since he couldn’t give it to a lover - all this gone in two months, twelve days and a handful of goddam hours. He should be angry, but anger was gone leaving empty behind.
“I know I need to...to prove that I haven’t cracked, to prove myself,” because apparently he hadn’t done enough of that already, “but I...I just... I can’t... I can’t help it.” He finally raised his eyes to meet Sherlock’s. No pity, thank God. “I don’t know how to... He’s destroyed me, Sherlock.”
There was no need to define who He was.
“It was fine before, you know. I could control it. I was me and I knew who that was and I was an Alpha and it didn’t matter that I was also a Sub because I could control it. Now... I don’t know what to do.” Greg was aware that he was babbling, almost begging the younger Sub for answers, but now that he’d started the words wouldn’t stop. “I was able to bury it, I was able to ignore it, but now I know and it’s screwed up my instincts. Everything’s wrong now! I lose grip and the Sub takes over and I almost drop to my knees in the office, and then I wrestle the Alpha back in, but it goes too far and I’m too Alpha and I can’t control what he does either and I’m not me. I’m not me anymore and I don’t know how to find me and my balance and I’m falling, I’m constantly falling, but the cliff’s so narrow that I climb up and fall off the other side and I don’t know what to-”
Greg took a swallow of his drink to stop the flow of words. His heart was racing, something he associated now with Mycroft’s presence. He realised his hand was shaking as he put the glass down and stared at it, transfixed, for several seconds. Adrenaline? Alcohol?
Did it matter?
“I just...” He closed his eyes, unable to face the words. “I don’t know what to do.”
It was out there. He couldn’t cope. He was failing, falling to pieces as his life splintered around him.
He took another mouthful. Good old alcohol. Alcohol was his true best friend and would never desert him, not like Mycroft.
“Mycroft.” He forced himself to say the name out loud, consciously this time, wrenching uncooperative tongue around oh so familiar syllables.
He took another drink.
“I don’t understand why he’s doing this.” Drink. “I told him, I t-told him that we’d just be friends. I would be fine with that, I would, I would c-cope with that.” Greg took a wracking breath. Apparently Mycroft didn’t have to be present to destroy his control. “I was lying, of course I was lying, but I was trying. God Sherlock, I was trying so hard, so hard for him. I didn’t care about me, I just wanted to try for him so he’d s-stay, so he wouldn’t leave. P-prove to him that I wasn’t some pathetic Alpha hanging around after Heat, that I could live my life and be his friend even if that’s not what I wanted. I, I, God Sherlock, I tried so hard!”
Greg took another sip out of the shaky glass. Only a sip, he’d need the rest as he continued. Couldn’t afford to waste his drink!
“I went out you know,” His voice was much better, more nonchalant, less stutters and teeth chattering breaks, “I went out to bars and pubs and tried to pick up as many Subs as I could and I had offers, oh I had offers! So many offers, and you know what, I couldn’t do it! I couldn’t take a single one of them home, though I tried and told myself I had to. One of them k-kissed me and I,” Greg took a large swallow at the memory of clawing, grasping hands, of desperation in the hallway to the bathrooms of the pub, of the sudden urge to vomit as the Subs lips had latched on to his.
He hadn’t been able to follow through. Less than a few seconds into the kiss he’d broken free and dashed into the men’s toilet where he hovered over the sink waiting for everything he’d eaten and drunk to re-emerge. It didn’t, but Greg couldn’t shake the horrible, oily feeling in his gut or the icy guilt in his chest. Neither of them were deserved. He and Mycroft were not in a relationship. They were nothing, which was clear, very, very clear, but still... Greg couldn’t do it.
He’d never been that good at casual sex to begin with so it didn’t surprise him he was worse when his heart was actively occupied elsewhere.
“I even, I...”
He’d given in after that, conceding that maybe his newly awaken Submissive tendencies needed something more substantial than he’d previously provided for himself. So for the first time ever he’d found himself in one of the anonymous dives he had so frequently raided while in Vice, searching with hungry anxious eyes for a Dom, any Dom. He’d drunk himself silly, flirted up a storm with Betas who looked like Mycroft, with Alphas that didn’t, even with a few women; blonde, brunette, tall, short, no one was off limits.
He’d come out of the club at 3 am feeling dirty, as if, more than betraying Mycroft and their non-existent relationship, he had betrayed himself by going there.
He’d also come out alone.
He couldn’t do it.
“I never when that far before, you know. I considered it, a few times I came close, but I always held back. It wasn’t for me, I wasn’t... That wasn’t me. I didn’t do that. I... But I did! For him, for him I gave up and went and tried, I tried so hard with everyone, just to...
“They would have had me you know. There was this blonde, gorgeous blonde. Big tits, amazing arse, shouldn’t have been there, way too gorgeous, but probably on the game so she was... absolutely fucking fantastic! And she was interested, kept flirting with me, kept buying me drinks. How many prostitutes buy their marks drinks?”’ Greg laughed bitterly into his scotch. “I couldn’t. I.. God I’m pathetic. So pathetic. Can’t even pick up a fling in a bar when they’re trying to pick up me! Because of him, all because of him. Because I fucking love him.
“There, I said it.” He swung his head and defiantly glared at Sherlock. “I love Mycroft Holmes.”
Sherlock kept his gaze. “Are you sure this isn’t just a hangover from Estrus? The two of you were close before so it wouldn’t be surprising if you were... confusing things.”
Greg let his head roll along the wall and fall languidly to the side. “I don’t know how long I’ve been in love with him...but I was before we screwed each other’s brains out for three days.” He took a sip. “That’s why I went over you know. I was so worried that something was wrong, that he’d been h-hurt. I know you remember last time. So I went, because I loved him. Because he was e-everything to me even,” he let out a bark of noise that was probably meant to be laughter, “even though I didn’t k-know that he was an Omega. I thought he was an Alpha. I’d never been in love with an Alpha... fancied them sexually, been drawn to them, but they’d always revolted me too and yet, there he was and I l-l-loved him, and if I l-loved him then I must be gay, right?
“I would have been gay for him. I would have, I would have done anything for him. And I have! I’ve been to his little events, I’ve smiled at his... when he told me...” Greg tried to take a large gulp, alcohol intake restricted by the ice in the glass. He was almost out. That wouldn’t do. “I broke resolutions of a lifetime, I q-questioned my very sexual identity, I went out and tried to sleep with every Dom, Dick, Harry and Jane who crossed my path because he wanted me to and I c-couldn’t and he-he, he just turns around and fucks his secretary like it’s of no consequence and easy and then expects me to s-smile about it while he-” Greg felt the little droplets hit his hand.
Crying, he was crying. He turned sharply to face Sherlock.
“Did you know? Did you know about her?” The uncomfortable expression on Sherlock’s face was enough of an answer. “Of course you did.” Greg couldn’t muster the effort to bring the alcohol to his mouth. He wondered if he could will it straight into his veins. “How long?”
“How long?” Sherlock’s voice was echoic.
“Don’t play dumb with me, genius. How long has he been fucking her? Screws her in the office I bet, over his desk.”
His head was clearer again. Apparently he could still get angry. Greg wondered if that was a good thing. Surely it would just be easier if he lost the ability to feel all together. It would mean he was almost drunk enough for one thing.
“Greg...”
“How long?” Greg snarled. He knew the answer wouldn’t make him happy, he didn’t need Sherlock to tell him that, just to give him an answer.
Had Mycroft moved on, or had he been a lying bastard their whole friendship?
Sherlock sighed. “Some time. Years.”
Years.
Well, that was that then. Mycroft had never told him, never even mentioned it, despite everything they’d done and shared (and Greg didn’t mean in bed). Course he hadn’t said anything, why would he tell Greg when he could just slowly watch Greg fall head over heels in love with him and laugh behind his hand all the time.
“Greg-”
“Doesn’t matter.” His voice was perhaps sharper than it should have been. “It doesn’t matter.”
He took a deep breath in.
“It actually doesn’t, you know?” His voice trembled. “I know, I knew, that nothing could ever happen between us. It’s just not possible, you know? And, and he doesn’t want it, doesn’t want me, and he’s made that very clear, so it doesn’t matter that I love him. And I knew that, I know that, and I...” He let out a gasping laugh, “I would have stood there next to him and smiled as he m-married her, but he didn’t even fucking tell me about her. In three years he’s never even m-mentioned her that way and I t-thought we were friends and now we’re not and...that hurts, Sherlock, it hurts so much. And, and, Christ, I...I miss him and it hurts. I miss keeping a list of s-stupid movies to force him to w-watch because everyone should have s-seen Star Wars; I miss listening to him t-talk about politics and art and the s-stock exchange; I miss texting him; I miss...”
Greg had to stop as he couldn’t breathe. His words were colliding with oxygen in his throat to create a hard lump that wouldn’t move, even when he tried to wash it down with alcohol he couldn’t swallow. Anger gone again, he knew he was crying, he could feel himself sobbing and the breeze catching the hot tracks on his cheeks and cooling them instantly.
Sherlock didn’t say anything, didn’t reach over to him, just sat there and gave him space. It was probably because he didn’t know what to do, but Greg appreciated the distance, the chance to pull himself together. So they sat there in silence, as Greg’s sobs slowly quieted and his tears reduced from floods to trickles. They didn’t stop. Greg wondered if they would ever stop. Maybe one day, when he managed to freeze his heart and push Mycroft to the shadows where he belonged.
The shadows of his heart.
“I am the Light and the Shadows, the first and the last, the Alpha and the Omega.” Greg murmured, head lolling on the brick wall as he stared at the corner of the empty garden. It had been a long time since he’d thought of that.
It was grey, all grey. How fitting the surroundings be grey, like his life. Even the trees: stunted little things trapped by pots, branches stretching to the sky, utterly devoid of leaves and all alone. If that wasn’t a goddam metaphor for him then Greg didn’t know what was.
He rolled his head along the wall to face Sherlock. “I’ve never asked, are you religious? I’m Catholic, a bad bad Catholic. Full of too much sin and not enough love, not enough love for Him, for He loved the world so much he gave us his only Son, the Alpha, the Omega and the Switch, the Holy Trinity of ruining my Sundays.” His words were clear again. Greg took a preventative mouthful. “I’ve never understood that ‘three in one’ crap. You can’t have God the Alpha, God the Omega and God the Genderless Switch. That’s three, not one. Bloody nice of him to give up his Omega though, don’t know how he did it. I can’t do it, and he’s not even my Omega. Not my My.”
Sherlock merely sat there, watching him with too seeing eyes. Greg just bet that Sherlock knew everything he’d ever done in Church to keep himself occupied during Mass, every time he’d skipped and lied to his parents at home that of course he was going to Church in London when he’d actually been racing around on a motorbike with other adolescents, thinking they were all such badasses.
“I bet you’re not religious. You’re too logical to be religious. Religion’s not logical, you know that. It’s stupid.”
Was this what it was like being Sherlock? Greg’s heart felt distant, disconnected to him. The emotions no longer overwhelmed and he found, despite drinking more, that it was contradictorily easier to speak. This was good. This was him getting there, setting himself free.
“Some of the greatest scientists of the age are quite adamantly religious.” Sherlock’s tone was his usual condescending arrogance. The normality helped settle something in Greg. Though his mind was drifting further and further from his control, at least his body now felt grounded.
“You don’t look Islamic, and you’re not wearing one of those veil thingamies so you can’t be, cause you’re in public and inciting lust cause you’re an Ommeeggaaa.” So maybe he wasn’t talking so clearly outside his own head. “And you can’t be Jewish cause you eat bacon and don’t wear a stupid little hat and your family is ooollllldddd and that means you must be C of E. I should hate you. I should,” Greg shook his head a bit to clear it. Things were getting more and more fuzzy and distant.
The action tilted him and he suddenly found himself leaning over the table, held up from collapse by Sherlock’s arm against his chest.
“You do realise that when you’re sober you are going to be absolutely horrified you even thought, let alone said these things? I believe they fall under the category of a bit not good.” Definitely amusement.
That wasn’t fair. Sherlock wasn’t meant to be amused, he was meant to be drunk like Greg! Greg was doing all the heavy lifting here. He went to tip back his glass to find it empty. Oh bugger, when had that happened? Very well, if Sherlock wasn’t going to pull his weight Greg could do it for him. He flailed around, until his arm banged into another glass and pulled it over.
Empty.
Confused Greg studied the table. All three glasses were empty… but he swore Sherlock hadn’t been drinking?
He must have missed it.
“I’ll get more!” He lurched to a standing and then forwards a couple of steps. No, forward, not right. Yes, that way.
His body seemed incredibly uncooperative and Greg decided he’d sit down so he could have an argument with it. He was in charge! It was his body and it would do what he wanted.
“I think you’ve had quite enough.”
Greg shook his head into the dark woollen material. “Can still think. Can still hurt.”
His brain sloshed around painfully in the sea of liquid he’d imbued. Why wouldn’t it go into his brain and stop him thinking? It wasn’t meant to surround his brain, it was meant to ... to... to stop it.
He kept his eyes closed tightly as he felt the greasy grip of nausea and the world spinning. Why was the world spinning? Oh, right, not enough alcohol.
“No, Greg, that’s not why at all.”
Yes it was, it obviously was, but Sherlock would help him, because Sherlock was his friend. Sherlock would get him more. More, more, more, so he didn’t have to think, didn’t have to feel, because Sherlock was his friend, his only friend, and Sherlock cared and Greg cared about Sherlock, so Sherlock would give him more.
“You are going to regret saying this when you’re sober.”
Well that wasn’t an issue as he wasn’t ever going to get sober. Sober was nowhere in the plan for the future.
“Come on, Greg, shoes off.”
Greg frowned into the soft white fluffiness. Why would he take off his shoes in public?
“We’re not in public, Greg. We’re home. Turn over so I can get your shoes off.”
Home? Why were they home? Greg was still conscious!
“Barely.”
If he frowned Greg could sort of remember being supported by Sherlock, of crying into his shoulder as they sat pressed together - “That would be in the cab, yes” - and then the fluffy white, that was his pillow!
“Brilliant deduction, Greg.”
Why had he agreed to come home? He wasn’t done yet. Oh yes, because he had more alcohol here and it was free. Free, free, free, and he could go and upend each bottle and pour it down his throat until oblivion.
“And the hospital for a stomach pump, which is not a pleasant experience I assure you.”
No, no stomach pump. Just let him lie there and marinade.
“Do you need a bucket?”
Why would he need a bucket?
“For vomiting into.”
Why would he vomit? That was just ridding himself of good alcohol. Alcohol.
In an attempt at nimbleness Greg lurched off the pillow and headed for his bedroom door. Unfortunately, in his state that meant he lurched off the bed, stumbled around a bit, and headed in the complete opposite direction to the door before crashing into Sherlock prevented him going further.
Greg sagged against him, unashamedly sniffling. “Why, Shherlck? Why?”
There was movement under his cheek. Was Sherlock purring? Greg felt himself being gently transferred to the other side of Sherlock’s chest so the younger Sub could reach into his jacket pocket and pull out his mobile.
“Apparently I’m all the rage tonight.” The Blackberry was returned to the pocket without a reply.
“I wish Mycroft texshted me still.”
“I know, Greg.”
Greg felt himself being lowered and was vaguely aware of the covers being pulled up and tucked in around him.
“I didn’t want him to go. I would have done anything.”
“I know.”
“I love him.”
“I know.”
“My My.” Greg let out a small sob and bit his lip. It hurt. “Not my My.”
“Go to sleep Greg.”
Without asking permission Greg’s eyelids shut and he passed out.
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Previous - Next
Don't forget to let me know when you want your extra chapter x
Title:Though I Walk through the Valley (5/38)Series: Still Waters (Run Deep) (Part II of IV)
Author: melody_in_time
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Through S1 only
Disclaimer: I wish, I wish upon a star... but until that works, not mine and sadly no money made.
Warnings: Gratuitous drunkeness and correspondingly idiotic comments by those involved. Even Greg Lestrade some some really bit not good things when smashed off his arse.
Author's Notes: I've been procrastinating a bit with my study, and so present you with a choice. Would you like to have two chapters on Sunday, two next Wednesday, or two the Sunday after that? Entirely up to you guys, though I warn you ahead of time, depending how you choose to split it you may want to hurt me given the ends of the chapters... there may be a cliff hanger or two in there. Entirely up to you all though. Lucky dip and let me know what you want.
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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It was loud in here, and he didn’t like the lights. And the music! Okay the band was covering good songs, and he couldn’t help joining in for Summer of ’69, but was there any reason for it to be so loud? The speakers sounded awful cranked up so high, and the vocals could barely be heard over the cacophony produced by the other musicians. The bar was sticky, the air overheated, and it was way too crowded.
Greg missed his local, but it wasn’t for tonight.
Another drink was delivered at his silent request, Scotch on the rocks, double of course. He was on three already.
Glasses that was, not shots.
The dark gold liquid flowed smoothly down his throat. He’d lost the burning sensation after the second drink, which was not all that long ago to be honest. He wasn’t quite shooting them, but he couldn’t claim to be savouring them either. As if he was going to spend the money on anything worth savouring! Certainly the ice never had time to melt and pollute his precious alcohol.
He’d definitely been wrong, Greg decided as he ordered his fourth drink from the other bartender, who hadn’t served him yet and so wasn’t keeping count. Alcohol was definitely a better coping mechanism than work. Much better. Work only distracted him; this dulled the pain and if he just kept drinking long enough maybe it would go away entirely. He knew it would come back, accompanied by an epic hangover he had no doubt, but for tonight, and maybe tomorrow night, it would be gone.
So what if John found out? John was his friend, not his mother. What was the other Alpha going to do anyway? Yell at him? Be silently disapproving? Besides, it was Friday night and this was what people who weren’t pulling their sixtieth hour of work for the week did on Friday night for fun.
No, this was a much better plan than working late again. It’s not like the hours he’d been doing were appreciated. He should charge the bastards for just one week of his actual time - that’d send them scurrying and he could use the money. It was fucking ridiculous. He had an excellent conviction rate without Sherlock. With the detective’s help his closure rate was the best in the country. He knew that for a fact. He’d been told so by M- someone who’d know. He cleared more cold cases than any other DI, he sat on half a dozen NSY committees as a volunteer, and his fucking paperwork was up to fucking date and letter perfect so those bloody sods could just get screwed all the way to Hell.
No, drinking was clearly the better option. To oblivion even, and when he eventually rolled out of bed he’d start with a Bloody Mary and go from there, even if it was before noon, which it wasn’t going to be. No, the plan, such as it was, was not to sober up all weekend. Fix every hangover with the hair of the dog, and have two days.... two glorious pain free days, and probably a sick day on Monday. Arrogant sods at the office didn’t deserve to have him come in. He certainly wouldn’t be staying late! Nope, those days were fucking gone. Out the door at five past and anyone who complained could just suck his -
“Good Evening Lestrade.”
There were few sights more incomprehensible than that of Sherlock Holmes in a loud, dingy pub, especially as he looked just the same as always. Greg had no doubt that with the smallest modicum of effort Sherlock could have been anyone in this establishment, and no one would have been the wiser, but it was equally true that this was Sherlock Holmes, who was arrogant enough to out ego an Alpha, and there was no way he’d dress up, or down as the case may be, just to not look out of place in a pub.
So there he was. His hair was artfully tousled in a deliberately natural way which suggested hours of work in front of a mirror though for Sherlock sodding Holmes it was entirely natural, the bastard. Without turning his head Greg could already see three women and a long-haired Beta staring at Sherlock’s hair in undisguised longing and jealousy... or maybe they were staring at his arse so exquisitely displayed in the sharply tailored suits.
Sherlock had removed his great coat and was carrying it over one arm, the other arm crocked at the elbow to comfortably rest his hand in his pocket. By design or fluke the detective was wearing what Greg had mentally dubbed ‘the purple shirt of sex’ that set off his hair and skin to perfection without making him appear wane and ghostlike, much to the delight and approval of more than a few patrons of the bar who kept craning in an effort to catch a glimpse of Sherlock’s wrists, conveniently hidden by coat and jacket pocket. As always the blue scarf was wrapped around Sherlock’s neck and if the colours happened to clash just a little, it wasn’t bothering any of his admirers. All in all, Sherlock, from artfully curly hair to handmade shoes, just did not fit in.
Letting out a low growl that scared off three of the braver souls heading towards Sherlock, Greg swung back to the bar and ordered two scotches. The drinks arrived more promptly than any Greg had been served so far that night. He pushed one in Sherlock’s general direction and downed his. Sherlock sauntered the last few steps and lifted the offered glass to his lips. A single small sip later the glass was back on the bar, and expression of incredulous disgust on his face.
Naturally Sherlock was served before he’d even had the chance to raise a finger. Greg huffed and stole the abandoned glass while Sherlock proceeded to deduce that the bartender (Beta Dom, so far not good or bad as far as service went) was part of an underground gambling ring, recently reclaimed his bracelet from his Sub, was studying Maths at university and liked tuna, and ended with a demand for something drinkable. The Dom, who had originally looked a little bit star struck, slammed the drink down before the end of Sherlock’s spiel and stormed off without waiting for Sherlock to pay, ostensibly to serve another customer, but most likely just to get away. Greg doubted he’d be coming back and resigned himself to ordering lest Sherlock chase away all the bartenders.
It was always this way with Sherlock. He’d walk onto a crime scene to awe and lust (from the witnesses, not Greg’s team who had been insulted too many times, though occasionally the newer members threw him longing glances until they’d worked a few Sherlock crime scenes) and within seconds of opening his mouth managed to provoke the most even tempered of people into a blood rage. Sometimes Greg wondered why John let Sherlock out on his own as sooner or later, probably sooner, someone would try to kill him over his total and arrogant lack of manners or sense, but then even John, who loved Sherlock very very much, probably needed a break from him every now and then.
“Didn’t think you’d actually come.”
Evidently this drink met with Sherlock’s approval, or at least less disgust than the previous, as he kept it in his hand after the first testing sip.
“It’s not every day the text from my favourite detective inspector is a drunk meshing of keys rather than crime details.”
It was totally unfair how Sherlock’s deep voice resonated despite the noise, carrying his drawl to everyone around. A passing patron shivered and turned, obviously about to ask Sherlock out on the basis of his voice alone, but with Sherlock’s right hand holding the drink his bracelet was clearly visible so the threatened interaction was avoided. The play of expressions over the Sub’s face (disbelief, regret, possibly, no) was probably going to be repeated all night. Greg hoped they didn’t run into someone brassy enough to try for Sherlock anyway, despite wearing another Dom’s claim, else he’d be forced to defend Sherlock’s honour (or be hurt by John and ... John) and he wasn’t in the mood for a brawl.
Oh, who was he kidding? Sherlock could take care of himself and Greg was longing to punch someone. In absence of the pricks from work, a complete stranger in a bar would do.
“I’m your only-” Greg began, instinctive childhood reply to his Sire’s declaration of ‘favourite son’ on his lips, but stopped as alcohol inhibited brain caught up to mouth. Somehow ‘I’m your only DI’ made him feel too much like a pet. He didn’t like the idea of being Sherlock Holmes’s pet.
Unable to work out what to say, Greg took another gulp of Sherlock’s abandoned drink. He expected a comment, the raised eyebrow certainly said a lot, but Sherlock merely took a second small sip from his own glass.
Fine, if Sherlock wasn’t going to say anything then he could bloody well drink instead. Greg tipped the rest of the alcohol in his glass back as an example and snarled slightly as Sherlock failed to follow suit.
“Drink!” He growled, then flagged down the bartender for another two.
Sherlock merely sighed and nodded at the bartender over Greg’s head as if he were Greg’s keeper. As if he couldn’t see, Greg fumed. He was drunk, not blind, though he’d hopefully soon be blind drunk.
The requested drinks were placed on the bar and Sherlock fished out his wallet to pay.
“They have my credit card.” Greg snapped, more than a little insulted. He was an Alpha, he’d pay for the Omega’s drinks. He’d had enough of being treated by Omega Holmeses.
“I believe it is customary that when out drinking there should be an alternation of various rounds that are ‘my shout’.” Sherlock wrinkled his nose and pronounced the phrase the way most people reserved for foreign words.
This was obviously part of John’s socialisation program for Sherlock, Greg decided hazily, and it would be unbearably rude of him to interfere in his fellow Alpha’s training plan - especially when he had so much to gain by Sherlock’s progress. Fine, he’d let Sherlock pay, but he’d get the next one.
With a nod of his head Greg looked back up at Sherlock, who was still standing not sitting like a normal person, and suddenly wondered how much of that he’d said out loud. The slightly icy expression on Sherlock’s face certainly suggested he’d unintentionally verbalised his thoughts, but this was Sherlock and he didn’t need to say anything for Sherlock to know.
An exasperated sigh escaped the noirette’s lips. “How many have you had exactly?”
“Can’t you tell?” Greg leant forward into Sherlock’s personal space, grinning like a loon. The great Sherlock Holmes didn’t know!
A twitch developed around Sherlock’s eye. “I can narrow it down to a substantial amount, but the exact number relies on too many unknown variables for me to-”
“Tetchy, tetchy.” Greg admonished, waggling his finger and accidently bumping Sherlock’s chest. He paused and thought. “I’m not sure.”
He had been sure up until the last one, or maybe two, but he was starting to feel the delayed effects of his rapid consumption and things were becoming a little uncertain in the particulars.
“And they were still serving you?” Sherlock muttered under his breath as he collected the three glasses into his hand. “Are you still able to walk?”
“Of course!” Greg was affronted. He wasn’t that drunk. Yet.
“Time to prove it.” Sherlock took a step away from the bar and twisted to face Greg, waiting for him to follow.
Greg lifted his chin and defiantly slipped off his bar stool, which he instantly grabbed for support as the world spun and discoloured. Head rush! He tentatively took a step, then another.
The floor swayed with his shaky movements and only extreme will power kept him from windmilling his arms for balance. He was well, but distantly, aware that the floor was still, even if no one had informed the floor that it was, and he was not ready to be kicked out for drunkenness, which he had no doubt he would be if he proved he couldn’t, in fact, walk.
So he took another cautious step, kept his arms locked to his sides, and bridged the cavernous gap between him and Sherlock. Greg wasn’t quite sure what the look on Sherlock’s face was, interpretations of the minute tells that made up Holmesian facial expressions was apparently not a skill that survived three, no, four... maybe five, six max, double scotches in quick succession.
Sherlock didn’t say anything, not that Greg could hear anyway as the blood rushed through his ears with the music, and led the way out the back to a tiny outdoor seating area. Greg didn’t hold with these ‘beer gardens’, obviously a trashy foreign invention which had no place in traditional establishments, but then this wasn’t his local, wasn’t traditional, and thank Christ at least this meant he could have a smoke.
He had to admit his descent to a seated position on the wooden bench was more a collapse than a planned manoeuvre, but he was too busy patting down his pockets for the newly purchased packet of cigarettes to care. Ah, there it was. The plastic wrap was a matter of seconds, muscle memory never faded, and he was soon inhaling the sweet tobacco-y bliss. He inhaled again and spluttered, it had been a long time, and then rearranged on the bench so his back was leaning against the wall, legs splayed out along the wooden seats. He looked up to see Sherlock a millimetre away breathing in the smoke being emitted by the burning tobacco and paper roll in his hand.
“Want one?” He offered, packet extended.
Sherlock stole the cigarette from between Greg’s fingers and brought it to his own lips, where he paused with the filter barely touching his flesh. Greg gave his cigarette up for lost and moved to tap another from the pack. Without warning the carton was yanked from his grip and Sherlock stormed over to the rubbish bin where he proceeded to break every cigarette in turn before letting them fall into the waste, sending Greg evil glares and grumbling angrily as he did. Greg stared at his hand, Sherlock, and back to his hand uncomprehendingly. It had just occurred to his belaboured brain that he needed to stop Sherlock before he destroyed all the smokes when the Sub plonked angrily down on his bench across the table from Greg.
Right, no smoking then. Well, Sherlock couldn’t stop him drinking.
Greg slid one of the glasses carefully over the table slats towards him and then in scrupulous fairness slid the other two to Sherlock.
Sherlock had put his jacket back on, Greg realised as he watched the younger Sub pull his gloves on as well. Of course he had, it was bloody freezing out here, which was why other than a couple of diehard smokers huddled as close to the door as legally possible (hit up for cigarette? Too far from drink: No) there was no one else out here. Good thing too. Sherlock’s scarf had looked stupid around his neck without the coat.
Oh, of course. Greg relaxed back with a sigh and cradled his glass. The scarf. That’s why Sherlock had directed them outside, so he could continue to wear his scarf without arousing suspicions. This way even though people might wonder, especially given more than a few saw Sherlock’s bracelet and would know him for Sub, no one would know that he was an Omega.
It wasn’t so much that Sherlock was hiding his gender status as preventing an uncomfortable evening that was all. Pubs were, as Greg was well aware, full of less than intelligent individuals who tended towards... oh who was he kidding? In general, pubs like this one, chosen for its attitude towards drinking copious amounts of alcohol even after a patron should have been legally cut off, were full of drunk bigots and genderists so it was good Sherlock was for once choosing to be discrete.
The Omega was exorbitantly proud of his collar, knowing full well how striking the black leather was around his neck. More, Greg believed Sherlock was fiercely proud that he had a collar; that someone out there loved and cherished him enough to place it around his neck and formally swear to the world to look after him forever (or nowadays, until divorce do us part). Even when cases demanded Sherlock go incognito he wore his collar, though he had several versions which lacked the silver (apparently Sherlock didn’t like gold) Omega symbol clasped to the front for times it was...inconvenient, but even when it would be better to act as a Dom, or as a lone Unbound Sub, Sherlock refused to remove the thin leather strip. He would relinquish his bracelet to John, and only John, he would wear scarves or turtleneck tops or even, once, loosen the collar so it slid far enough down his neck to be covered up by a buttoned up shirt and tie, but he never, ever removed it.
Greg envied Sherlock his collar so much. He was glad Sherlock kept his scarf on. That way he didn’t have everything he could never have staring him provocatively in the face.
Had he said that out loud?
Oh well. He took another mouthful of his drink, reluctant to gulp it down now a further supply was no longer in easy reach. It wasn’t fair. Sherlock had everything and all he had was a crappy job and a huge secret that destroyed his life and why was Sherlock there anyway?
“Because you texted me and I was bored. John was about to throw me out for a walk anyway. Apparently I was being annoying.”
Had he said that out loud as well? Obviously. Why had he texted Sherlock? Sherlock at a pub. That was the most ridiuclus...ridicolous... stupid idea he’d ever heard. Oh right, because there was no one else because his team were idiots, his colleagues were backstabbing sods, his best friend wasn’t talking to him, John would take his salvation away and try to make him talk... and Sherlock knew. Sherlock would understand.
No one else would understand. He only had Sherlock.
How sad was that?
Greg frowned. He assumed Sherlock knew. Sherlock certainly knew about him, but did Sherlock know that Greg was a -
“Yes, of course. You hide it well, but it was rather obvious after that. I would have realised more quickly if I’d paid attention, but I had... assumed.”
Greg took a small sip, only a small one, and felt the liquid crash against his teeth. Like waves against a cliff, he thought dreamily.
Sherlock knew. Sherlock knew. He could talk to Sherlock about...him.
“What’s caused this, Greg?”
Him, hhhiiimmmm, My, My My. Greg swallowed a giggle. My Mycroft. My my Mycroft.
His face fell. Not his Mycroft. Not my My.
“Deduce it.” He spat at Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. Mycroft Holmes. Fucking Homeses screwing up his fucking life.
Why couldn’t Mycroft screw him instead of his life?
Sherlock shifted uncomfortably on his bench. Oh, right, out loud again.
“You’re clearly intoxicated, well beyond the amount you would normally imbue, and much earlier in the evening. Ergo, you left work on time, which is early for you. You’re drinking alone, not your usual fashion, and drinking for the alcohol not the social aspect or the taste, as evidenced by the quality, or lack thereof, of your drinks. That explains why you didn’t call John, but the Yarders gather for drinks every Friday near the precinct and when you’re free you usually join them. So you’re not just avoiding a lecture about excessive drinking, you’re avoiding company. Conclusion: something happened at work, something which has shaken your deep sense of loyalty and camaraderie with your peers, and you’ve turned to alcohol to dull the pain.”
“Bravo.” Greg muttered sarcastically into his ice.
“Additionally you called them backstabbing sods.” Sherlock casually raised his own glass to his lips and met Greg’s glare for implacable stare. “So talk, Lestrade.”
“Who says I want to talk? I would have invited John to talk.” Greg sneered, repressed anger bubbling to the forefront.
How dare they! He gave them everything, his life, his existence and they -
“No, you invited me, because you knew you wouldn’t have to. Is that what you want, Lestrade? For me to deduce what happened and tell you? Save you the effort of saying it?” Sherlock scoffed, lips twisted into a crude smirk.
Greg slumped down and tipped the last of the scotch down his throat, refusing to say anything. He dropped the glass carelessly on the table with a solid thunk, defiantly not looking over at Sherlock.
“Fine.” The Consulting Detective’s voice was sharp. “You’re pissed off because you feel betrayed by the Yard. Not one person, the institution as clearly shown by your utter disgust at the mention of the name and the lack of any overtime despite knowing a couple of your colleagues are currently struggling with cases. Not that you’ve helped them since their instantaneous dismissal of me eight months ago, but you’re not at the Yard picking up the slack either.
So the Yard has angered you. How does an organisation anger someone? Processes, procedures and superiors, particularly the last one which for you is an even greater betrayal as Packenham is both useless as a police officer, so how dare he question you regarding cases, and being an openly successful Sub he raises your jealousy and pride. He can do it, why shouldn’t you be able?
So, Packenham. You don’t have any major cases nor are you surrounded by colleagues all griping about the upstart Subs who try to order around Alphas, so a personal attack. Not an attack on the division per se, one that strikes at the heart of your self-image - your abilities as an inspector and dedication to the Yard. How am I doing, Detective Inspector?”
Greg set his jaw against Sherlock’s sarcasm and took a glorious mouthful of oblivion.
“Conclusion,” Sherlock continued on, melodious voice flowing more smoothly over the words than Greg’s drink down his throat. “Packenham called you up on your recent erratic behaviour and told you to fix yourself or you’d be out, despite your record, because the Yard can only keep dedicated officers, not irresponsible unreliable Alphas, and you know everyone at the Yard thinks you’ve unhinged and won’t stand by you, so total betrayal by the most important thing to you and the only thing that has stayed with you through your sad, lonely life.”
The Yard needs disciplined dedicated employees, Lestrade, not irresponsible hot heads who can’t keep themselves and their swollen Dominant heads clear. Do you hear me?
Did Sherlock even realise how perfect his words were, how as he spoke them the rich baritone was overlaid by a lighter whinier tone?
You’re a loose cannon, Lestrade, bringing that Omega in on your cases. Reckless, Unstable the both of you.
“Fuck you.” Greg enjoyed the shape of the words leaving. “Fuck you. There is no fucking way you could have known any of that. I don’t care how good you are... who told you? Who are you fucking talking to?”
“I know you.” Sherlock’s voice was quiet, but firm. “I know what’s important to you, I know your habits, I know,” his voice rose in volume proportionate to Greg’s snarl, “that results and protecting people are more important concepts than politics and glory, which is why you’ve never been promoted. I know-”
Greg seized the lapels of Sherlock’s jacket dragging him nose to nose. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking dare!”
Sherlock wrenched out of Greg’s grip and stood breathing heavily.
“All this shit,” Greg continued, “all this fucking shit I go through I go through for you!”
“Because you need me.” Sherlock sneered, tilting his chin imperiously and tossing his curls defiantly.
“I don’t sodding need you!” Greg bellowed. “I can do my job without you. I chose to have you help me, to solve more, but I don’t fucking need you and now you’re destroying my bloody life!”
Sherlock straightened. Objectively Greg knew the taller figure had gained only a couple of millimetres, but he suddenly seemed much taller. Sherlock loomed over Greg, a ferocious God with freezing burning eyes, appearing every inch the Dom Greg had mistaken him for. He fell back on his bench, not quite cowering, as Sherlock turned every inch of his fake Dominance on Greg and drove him down.
“Gregory Lestrade,” Greg was a deer caught in the headlights of Sherlock’s eyes, “do NOT try and turn this back on me. You chose to have my help because you care about saving lives and justice, and no matter how unpopular that choice, it was NOT what caused this, not this time. You caused this, you and your own actions.” Sherlock shrank a little, dropping the Dom act.
Greg gave a shudder of relief.
“Greg,” Sherlock’s hand paused in front of Greg’s face, clearly unsure of his welcome. “I understand this may be hard to comprehend, but I have recently been forced to accept that it is possible I might have some closer than previously credited acquaintances, and following this admission that there is the distinct possibility that for some unfathomable reason you may be one of them.”
Greg let out a choked laugh. Only Sherlock could make that sound like such an amazing compliment. Sherlock’s gloved finger brushed across his cheek and Greg belatedly realised that Sherlock was brushing away a lone tear.
“Greg, why are you acting like this? This isn’t you.”
These statements were the closest Greg had ever heard Sherlock come to saying he cared. His voice was so un-Sherlock, the Sub who operated on logic and despised emotion sounded so gentle and caring, that Greg couldn’t help letting a sob pass his lips and felt another humiliating tear track down over his nose. The drop suffered the same fate as its predecessor(s?) and was gently wiped away by Sherlock’s leather clad hand.
“Greg?”
A slight breeze blew through the outdoor area stinging damp skin; it was the first time Greg had actually felt the cold since they’d come outside. Maybe Sherlock’s little display had scared some of the alcohol out of him. Couldn’t have that.
“Are you sure you’re not a Switch?” His voice sounded raspy and he happily tipped back the large remainder of the scotch in his glass. He could feel it burn the whole way down his throat before settling in his stomach as a low pool of warmth.
“Very, unfortunately.” Sherlock’s voice was crisp and cool, like the air.
Well who wanted to be a Sub? Even with all the reforms your life still sucked. All the legal changes in the word couldn’t rid you of the gaping hole in your soul, just waiting for your Dom to come and take over your life and tell you want to do.
No, Greg didn’t blame Sherlock for wishing he’d been a Dom. Greg wished he’d been a proper Alpha too.
“I’ve been, uh, acting unpredictably lately.” Greg didn’t look at Sherlock as he spoke, preferring to look through the table slats and study the cold flagstones below.
Sherlock didn’t reply, but Greg was sure he was thinking, ‘Well obviously!’ It was a Sherlock thought.
“For a while now,” He continued, then stopped, unsure how to go on. ”For 2 months 12 days ...” Greg didn’t keep going, didn’t reveal he still knew to the exact hour how long it had been.
Sherlock didn’t say anything, though being a genius he obviously knew the significance just as he’d obviously already known the reason for Greg’s erratic behaviour before Greg had said anything. Greg supposed knowing wasn’t the point. Making Greg say it was the point. Sherlock already knew.
“I...” His throat convulsed and Greg had to swallow his word and start over. “I was called in today. I’m on notice. If I don’t clean up my behaviour, I’m out.”
Just like that. Twenty years of exemplary service, of overtime, of crime scenes in rain, hail and snow, of giving everything he had to the job since he couldn’t give it to a lover - all this gone in two months, twelve days and a handful of goddam hours. He should be angry, but anger was gone leaving empty behind.
“I know I need to...to prove that I haven’t cracked, to prove myself,” because apparently he hadn’t done enough of that already, “but I...I just... I can’t... I can’t help it.” He finally raised his eyes to meet Sherlock’s. No pity, thank God. “I don’t know how to... He’s destroyed me, Sherlock.”
There was no need to define who He was.
“It was fine before, you know. I could control it. I was me and I knew who that was and I was an Alpha and it didn’t matter that I was also a Sub because I could control it. Now... I don’t know what to do.” Greg was aware that he was babbling, almost begging the younger Sub for answers, but now that he’d started the words wouldn’t stop. “I was able to bury it, I was able to ignore it, but now I know and it’s screwed up my instincts. Everything’s wrong now! I lose grip and the Sub takes over and I almost drop to my knees in the office, and then I wrestle the Alpha back in, but it goes too far and I’m too Alpha and I can’t control what he does either and I’m not me. I’m not me anymore and I don’t know how to find me and my balance and I’m falling, I’m constantly falling, but the cliff’s so narrow that I climb up and fall off the other side and I don’t know what to-”
Greg took a swallow of his drink to stop the flow of words. His heart was racing, something he associated now with Mycroft’s presence. He realised his hand was shaking as he put the glass down and stared at it, transfixed, for several seconds. Adrenaline? Alcohol?
Did it matter?
“I just...” He closed his eyes, unable to face the words. “I don’t know what to do.”
It was out there. He couldn’t cope. He was failing, falling to pieces as his life splintered around him.
He took another mouthful. Good old alcohol. Alcohol was his true best friend and would never desert him, not like Mycroft.
“Mycroft.” He forced himself to say the name out loud, consciously this time, wrenching uncooperative tongue around oh so familiar syllables.
He took another drink.
“I don’t understand why he’s doing this.” Drink. “I told him, I t-told him that we’d just be friends. I would be fine with that, I would, I would c-cope with that.” Greg took a wracking breath. Apparently Mycroft didn’t have to be present to destroy his control. “I was lying, of course I was lying, but I was trying. God Sherlock, I was trying so hard, so hard for him. I didn’t care about me, I just wanted to try for him so he’d s-stay, so he wouldn’t leave. P-prove to him that I wasn’t some pathetic Alpha hanging around after Heat, that I could live my life and be his friend even if that’s not what I wanted. I, I, God Sherlock, I tried so hard!”
Greg took another sip out of the shaky glass. Only a sip, he’d need the rest as he continued. Couldn’t afford to waste his drink!
“I went out you know,” His voice was much better, more nonchalant, less stutters and teeth chattering breaks, “I went out to bars and pubs and tried to pick up as many Subs as I could and I had offers, oh I had offers! So many offers, and you know what, I couldn’t do it! I couldn’t take a single one of them home, though I tried and told myself I had to. One of them k-kissed me and I,” Greg took a large swallow at the memory of clawing, grasping hands, of desperation in the hallway to the bathrooms of the pub, of the sudden urge to vomit as the Subs lips had latched on to his.
He hadn’t been able to follow through. Less than a few seconds into the kiss he’d broken free and dashed into the men’s toilet where he hovered over the sink waiting for everything he’d eaten and drunk to re-emerge. It didn’t, but Greg couldn’t shake the horrible, oily feeling in his gut or the icy guilt in his chest. Neither of them were deserved. He and Mycroft were not in a relationship. They were nothing, which was clear, very, very clear, but still... Greg couldn’t do it.
He’d never been that good at casual sex to begin with so it didn’t surprise him he was worse when his heart was actively occupied elsewhere.
“I even, I...”
He’d given in after that, conceding that maybe his newly awaken Submissive tendencies needed something more substantial than he’d previously provided for himself. So for the first time ever he’d found himself in one of the anonymous dives he had so frequently raided while in Vice, searching with hungry anxious eyes for a Dom, any Dom. He’d drunk himself silly, flirted up a storm with Betas who looked like Mycroft, with Alphas that didn’t, even with a few women; blonde, brunette, tall, short, no one was off limits.
He’d come out of the club at 3 am feeling dirty, as if, more than betraying Mycroft and their non-existent relationship, he had betrayed himself by going there.
He’d also come out alone.
He couldn’t do it.
“I never when that far before, you know. I considered it, a few times I came close, but I always held back. It wasn’t for me, I wasn’t... That wasn’t me. I didn’t do that. I... But I did! For him, for him I gave up and went and tried, I tried so hard with everyone, just to...
“They would have had me you know. There was this blonde, gorgeous blonde. Big tits, amazing arse, shouldn’t have been there, way too gorgeous, but probably on the game so she was... absolutely fucking fantastic! And she was interested, kept flirting with me, kept buying me drinks. How many prostitutes buy their marks drinks?”’ Greg laughed bitterly into his scotch. “I couldn’t. I.. God I’m pathetic. So pathetic. Can’t even pick up a fling in a bar when they’re trying to pick up me! Because of him, all because of him. Because I fucking love him.
“There, I said it.” He swung his head and defiantly glared at Sherlock. “I love Mycroft Holmes.”
Sherlock kept his gaze. “Are you sure this isn’t just a hangover from Estrus? The two of you were close before so it wouldn’t be surprising if you were... confusing things.”
Greg let his head roll along the wall and fall languidly to the side. “I don’t know how long I’ve been in love with him...but I was before we screwed each other’s brains out for three days.” He took a sip. “That’s why I went over you know. I was so worried that something was wrong, that he’d been h-hurt. I know you remember last time. So I went, because I loved him. Because he was e-everything to me even,” he let out a bark of noise that was probably meant to be laughter, “even though I didn’t k-know that he was an Omega. I thought he was an Alpha. I’d never been in love with an Alpha... fancied them sexually, been drawn to them, but they’d always revolted me too and yet, there he was and I l-l-loved him, and if I l-loved him then I must be gay, right?
“I would have been gay for him. I would have, I would have done anything for him. And I have! I’ve been to his little events, I’ve smiled at his... when he told me...” Greg tried to take a large gulp, alcohol intake restricted by the ice in the glass. He was almost out. That wouldn’t do. “I broke resolutions of a lifetime, I q-questioned my very sexual identity, I went out and tried to sleep with every Dom, Dick, Harry and Jane who crossed my path because he wanted me to and I c-couldn’t and he-he, he just turns around and fucks his secretary like it’s of no consequence and easy and then expects me to s-smile about it while he-” Greg felt the little droplets hit his hand.
Crying, he was crying. He turned sharply to face Sherlock.
“Did you know? Did you know about her?” The uncomfortable expression on Sherlock’s face was enough of an answer. “Of course you did.” Greg couldn’t muster the effort to bring the alcohol to his mouth. He wondered if he could will it straight into his veins. “How long?”
“How long?” Sherlock’s voice was echoic.
“Don’t play dumb with me, genius. How long has he been fucking her? Screws her in the office I bet, over his desk.”
His head was clearer again. Apparently he could still get angry. Greg wondered if that was a good thing. Surely it would just be easier if he lost the ability to feel all together. It would mean he was almost drunk enough for one thing.
“Greg...”
“How long?” Greg snarled. He knew the answer wouldn’t make him happy, he didn’t need Sherlock to tell him that, just to give him an answer.
Had Mycroft moved on, or had he been a lying bastard their whole friendship?
Sherlock sighed. “Some time. Years.”
Years.
Well, that was that then. Mycroft had never told him, never even mentioned it, despite everything they’d done and shared (and Greg didn’t mean in bed). Course he hadn’t said anything, why would he tell Greg when he could just slowly watch Greg fall head over heels in love with him and laugh behind his hand all the time.
“Greg-”
“Doesn’t matter.” His voice was perhaps sharper than it should have been. “It doesn’t matter.”
He took a deep breath in.
“It actually doesn’t, you know?” His voice trembled. “I know, I knew, that nothing could ever happen between us. It’s just not possible, you know? And, and he doesn’t want it, doesn’t want me, and he’s made that very clear, so it doesn’t matter that I love him. And I knew that, I know that, and I...” He let out a gasping laugh, “I would have stood there next to him and smiled as he m-married her, but he didn’t even fucking tell me about her. In three years he’s never even m-mentioned her that way and I t-thought we were friends and now we’re not and...that hurts, Sherlock, it hurts so much. And, and, Christ, I...I miss him and it hurts. I miss keeping a list of s-stupid movies to force him to w-watch because everyone should have s-seen Star Wars; I miss listening to him t-talk about politics and art and the s-stock exchange; I miss texting him; I miss...”
Greg had to stop as he couldn’t breathe. His words were colliding with oxygen in his throat to create a hard lump that wouldn’t move, even when he tried to wash it down with alcohol he couldn’t swallow. Anger gone again, he knew he was crying, he could feel himself sobbing and the breeze catching the hot tracks on his cheeks and cooling them instantly.
Sherlock didn’t say anything, didn’t reach over to him, just sat there and gave him space. It was probably because he didn’t know what to do, but Greg appreciated the distance, the chance to pull himself together. So they sat there in silence, as Greg’s sobs slowly quieted and his tears reduced from floods to trickles. They didn’t stop. Greg wondered if they would ever stop. Maybe one day, when he managed to freeze his heart and push Mycroft to the shadows where he belonged.
The shadows of his heart.
“I am the Light and the Shadows, the first and the last, the Alpha and the Omega.” Greg murmured, head lolling on the brick wall as he stared at the corner of the empty garden. It had been a long time since he’d thought of that.
It was grey, all grey. How fitting the surroundings be grey, like his life. Even the trees: stunted little things trapped by pots, branches stretching to the sky, utterly devoid of leaves and all alone. If that wasn’t a goddam metaphor for him then Greg didn’t know what was.
He rolled his head along the wall to face Sherlock. “I’ve never asked, are you religious? I’m Catholic, a bad bad Catholic. Full of too much sin and not enough love, not enough love for Him, for He loved the world so much he gave us his only Son, the Alpha, the Omega and the Switch, the Holy Trinity of ruining my Sundays.” His words were clear again. Greg took a preventative mouthful. “I’ve never understood that ‘three in one’ crap. You can’t have God the Alpha, God the Omega and God the Genderless Switch. That’s three, not one. Bloody nice of him to give up his Omega though, don’t know how he did it. I can’t do it, and he’s not even my Omega. Not my My.”
Sherlock merely sat there, watching him with too seeing eyes. Greg just bet that Sherlock knew everything he’d ever done in Church to keep himself occupied during Mass, every time he’d skipped and lied to his parents at home that of course he was going to Church in London when he’d actually been racing around on a motorbike with other adolescents, thinking they were all such badasses.
“I bet you’re not religious. You’re too logical to be religious. Religion’s not logical, you know that. It’s stupid.”
Was this what it was like being Sherlock? Greg’s heart felt distant, disconnected to him. The emotions no longer overwhelmed and he found, despite drinking more, that it was contradictorily easier to speak. This was good. This was him getting there, setting himself free.
“Some of the greatest scientists of the age are quite adamantly religious.” Sherlock’s tone was his usual condescending arrogance. The normality helped settle something in Greg. Though his mind was drifting further and further from his control, at least his body now felt grounded.
“You don’t look Islamic, and you’re not wearing one of those veil thingamies so you can’t be, cause you’re in public and inciting lust cause you’re an Ommeeggaaa.” So maybe he wasn’t talking so clearly outside his own head. “And you can’t be Jewish cause you eat bacon and don’t wear a stupid little hat and your family is ooollllldddd and that means you must be C of E. I should hate you. I should,” Greg shook his head a bit to clear it. Things were getting more and more fuzzy and distant.
The action tilted him and he suddenly found himself leaning over the table, held up from collapse by Sherlock’s arm against his chest.
“You do realise that when you’re sober you are going to be absolutely horrified you even thought, let alone said these things? I believe they fall under the category of a bit not good.” Definitely amusement.
That wasn’t fair. Sherlock wasn’t meant to be amused, he was meant to be drunk like Greg! Greg was doing all the heavy lifting here. He went to tip back his glass to find it empty. Oh bugger, when had that happened? Very well, if Sherlock wasn’t going to pull his weight Greg could do it for him. He flailed around, until his arm banged into another glass and pulled it over.
Empty.
Confused Greg studied the table. All three glasses were empty… but he swore Sherlock hadn’t been drinking?
He must have missed it.
“I’ll get more!” He lurched to a standing and then forwards a couple of steps. No, forward, not right. Yes, that way.
His body seemed incredibly uncooperative and Greg decided he’d sit down so he could have an argument with it. He was in charge! It was his body and it would do what he wanted.
“I think you’ve had quite enough.”
Greg shook his head into the dark woollen material. “Can still think. Can still hurt.”
His brain sloshed around painfully in the sea of liquid he’d imbued. Why wouldn’t it go into his brain and stop him thinking? It wasn’t meant to surround his brain, it was meant to ... to... to stop it.
He kept his eyes closed tightly as he felt the greasy grip of nausea and the world spinning. Why was the world spinning? Oh, right, not enough alcohol.
“No, Greg, that’s not why at all.”
Yes it was, it obviously was, but Sherlock would help him, because Sherlock was his friend. Sherlock would get him more. More, more, more, so he didn’t have to think, didn’t have to feel, because Sherlock was his friend, his only friend, and Sherlock cared and Greg cared about Sherlock, so Sherlock would give him more.
“You are going to regret saying this when you’re sober.”
Well that wasn’t an issue as he wasn’t ever going to get sober. Sober was nowhere in the plan for the future.
“Come on, Greg, shoes off.”
Greg frowned into the soft white fluffiness. Why would he take off his shoes in public?
“We’re not in public, Greg. We’re home. Turn over so I can get your shoes off.”
Home? Why were they home? Greg was still conscious!
“Barely.”
If he frowned Greg could sort of remember being supported by Sherlock, of crying into his shoulder as they sat pressed together - “That would be in the cab, yes” - and then the fluffy white, that was his pillow!
“Brilliant deduction, Greg.”
Why had he agreed to come home? He wasn’t done yet. Oh yes, because he had more alcohol here and it was free. Free, free, free, and he could go and upend each bottle and pour it down his throat until oblivion.
“And the hospital for a stomach pump, which is not a pleasant experience I assure you.”
No, no stomach pump. Just let him lie there and marinade.
“Do you need a bucket?”
Why would he need a bucket?
“For vomiting into.”
Why would he vomit? That was just ridding himself of good alcohol. Alcohol.
In an attempt at nimbleness Greg lurched off the pillow and headed for his bedroom door. Unfortunately, in his state that meant he lurched off the bed, stumbled around a bit, and headed in the complete opposite direction to the door before crashing into Sherlock prevented him going further.
Greg sagged against him, unashamedly sniffling. “Why, Shherlck? Why?”
There was movement under his cheek. Was Sherlock purring? Greg felt himself being gently transferred to the other side of Sherlock’s chest so the younger Sub could reach into his jacket pocket and pull out his mobile.
“Apparently I’m all the rage tonight.” The Blackberry was returned to the pocket without a reply.
“I wish Mycroft texshted me still.”
“I know, Greg.”
Greg felt himself being lowered and was vaguely aware of the covers being pulled up and tucked in around him.
“I didn’t want him to go. I would have done anything.”
“I know.”
“I love him.”
“I know.”
“My My.” Greg let out a small sob and bit his lip. It hurt. “Not my My.”
“Go to sleep Greg.”
Without asking permission Greg’s eyelids shut and he passed out.
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