Fic: Though I Walk Through the Valley (10/38)
Though I Walk through the Valley
Title:Though I Walk through the Valley (10/38)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.
Author's Notes: Glad to know that so many people liked the last chapter. For those of you feeling a little bit more sympathetic, or at least like you have a better understanding of Mycroft's turmoil, try to keep that in mind as we go. Needless to say, as predicted by some people he will go through periods of panic and that will... not go so well for Greg. All I ask is don't hate him completely. Just ooonnneeee little redeemable spark somewhere deep in side, that's all I ask for.
No warnings for this part specifically. I will say that the first paragraph is best read in a slightly bouncy tone, else it runs on a bit 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 10 - Chapter 11 - Chapter 12 - Chapter 13 - Chapter 14 - Chapter 15 - Chapter 16 - Chapter 17 - Chapter 18 - Chapter 19 - Chapter 20
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The resounding click of his pen as Greg retracted the nib following the successful completion of another bout of paperwork was the perfect complement to his otherwise upbeat mood. He chucked the file in his out tray, indulged in a quick bongo session on the edge of his desk, spun his chair 360°, and picked up the next pile of papers with a cheerful whistle.
Catching sight of Sally Donovan standing in the doorway wearing a facial expression more usually reserved for some of Sherlock’s more outlandish deductions, Greg cleared his throat and attempted to tone it down. Being relegated to paperwork while an internal assessment of his fitness to continue as a homicide Detective was conducted was probably not meant to result in whistling.
It was just so hard! Life suddenly was amazing, and it wasn’t like he was scared of the review. It was all planned. Everything had been accounted for. Mycroft was a literal genius at these things. It would be fine.
First thing Monday morning he’d dragged himself before his DCI, doing his best to look subdued and contrite as he fronted up to gambling that he was now willing to admit was an addiction. He would get help, therapy, take leave, whatever it took, because he realised now that it was out of control and hurting the people he cared about and his job performance.
Greg’s appeal to his DCI rather than straight to Packenham was a deliberate move as less authority or not, unlike Packenham DCI Mulgrave had a well hidden history of addiction. His vice had been alcohol, not gambling like Greg was claiming, but it was enough for Greg’s cries of remorse and promises of redemption to evoke an instant sympathetic connection despite their frequently rocky relationship. Within an hour Mulgrave had been assuring Packenham that if given the chance to bring his ‘habits’ and finances under control, Greg’s behaviour would follow.
“Stress.” Mulgrave had said. Caused by the financial straits Greg had found himself in. “Just stress. He was a first class officer before this, you know.”
As if he’d never butted head with Greg over staffing, cases, paperwork, Sherlock etc before.
Ten minutes later Greg had been sitting back in the same chair in front of Packenham’s desk he’d been in on Friday, trying to act terrified. It wasn’t too hard as Mycroft was neither omniscient nor omnipotent in reality (though effectively close enough as to make no difference) and sitting in that chair every possible thing that could go wrong had seemed certain to happen. Packenham could just as easily make an example of Greg as he could use him for ‘New Scotland Yard’s Compassion: Mental Health of Officers Top Priority’ headlines.
Greg, now, in retrospect, could say that he never should have doubted. After a short and obviously prepared, standardised, probably written, checked and authorised by the press secretaries, speech about how the ‘Yard is committed to its officers’ (despite being ready to fire him on Friday), and detailing ‘measures to help with your rehabilitation’ (which thankfully Greg wouldn’t need because everyone knew they were pants), and stressing ‘that you will have to improve your behaviour’ with a hasty ‘but we will support you all the way’ (as long as you recover quickly, quietly and don’t relapse), Greg was released back to his desk on review.
By the time he’d reached his desk the rumours had started. By lunchtime two hours later they were even relatively correct, though a few more sensational stories (he heard one about a drug overdose because he was unable to cope with his unrequited love for an unspecified Sub, which was almost too close to the truth for comfort, but he suspected they were making insinuations about the wrong Holmes brother) still persisted.
Mycroft’s cover story, originally designed to provide Greg a reason to move in with him, had the enormously beneficial side effect of justifying Greg’s recent behaviour and he appeared instantly forgiven and welcomed back into the fold, even repairing bridges destroyed by Greg’s unwavering support of Sherlock following his revelation. Addiction was something understood intimately by the Yard - if you didn’t have it, you were fighting it tooth and nail, aware of the very real danger of it in your future should you slip, or had already been to rehab. Alcohol was most common - it was too easy to get into the habit of needing a stiff drink after a crap day or gruesome crime scene, and for that one to turn into two or three until you were downing a bottle a night so you could sleep without corpses begging in your dreams.
Drugs happened too, prescription drugs such as sleep aids more commonly than the illicit ones hunted by Vice, though that was more common than anyone liked to admit. Even with the new tighter procedures it was all too easy for a pinch here or a pinch there to go missing, and everyone knew there had been a few times where off duty officers had been quietly let out the backdoor during Vice raids to avoid being officially found at the scene by their friends and colleagues.
Gambling was less commonly admitted to - a card game with friends, even for money? No problem. Underground gambling tournaments? Devilish fun on the wild side of the law. Flutters on the horses? Everyone did it. The football results? Well, that was a must! It wasn’t quite the same as the others by nature, you were unlikely to be warned for placing a bet on the cricket before work, but you would be for showing up drunk, and that made it the perfect addiction for someone with no prior warnings for inebriation on the job.
Greg just hoped no one asked what area of gambling had been his weakness. It was unlikely anyone would be insensitive enough to ask, but if they did he was planning to run with something related to football as he was an avid follower of the Premier League and could at least reel off the kind of information he needed to until he was able to extract himself from the conversation.
“Are you sure you’re okay, Sir?” Sally looked reluctant to ask, probably because the memories of Greg’s reactions to that question recently were all too fresh in her mind.
“Uh yeah, fine, just fine.” Greg picked up his pen and twirled it in readiness for writing.
“Are you sure?”
He undoubtedly deserved that, so he smiled at her in what was hopefully a reassuring manner. “Yes, Donovan, really okay.”
She eyed him disbelievingly. “You’re acting differently.”
“You mean I’m happy.” Greg pointed his pen at her and gave a teasing grin.
Apparently this was the opposite of reassuring because Sally pulled the chair closer to the edge of the desk and sat down, leaning earnestly on her crossed arms. “You’re on review, Sir. Really, it’s okay if you’re not alright.”
“I am alright, Donovan. Really, I am.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Just happy?”
“Yes.”
“Not high or having a complete mental breakdown that has you acting like a lunatic?”
Okay, fair, he was whistling over paperwork.
“Just happy.”
“Because you’re on review?” Sally was clearly one step away from booking him in for extra sessions with the police shrink.
Greg sighed and leant back in his swivel chair, enjoying the rocking motion as it adjusted for his momentum. “Look, I know I’ve been, well, a pain in the arse lately, and it’s just...” He faltered slightly, unsure quite how to express his quite genuine sentiments.
“It’s just?” Sally’s fingers were twitching against the light blue fabric of her shirt.
She’d had a manicure recently. She did always dress well, and if the heelevery now and then s were maybe a little flashy for crime scenes at least she wasn’t in stilettos, or fully made over every day. It was a balance PC Jackson in the Juvenile Crimes Squad had yet to find.
“I feel like I actually have some control again. Over my life. It’s not perfect, I mean, it’s crap, but I feel now like I can do something about that.”
It was entirely true. Things weren’t perfect. They could be considered far from perfect still, but for the first time in almost three months Greg didn’t feel like a warzone. He hadn’t quite reclaimed his equilibrium, and wasn’t sure he ever could given that part of him was now going to fight a lot harder to be heard than it ever had before, but finally the two sides of his soul were resting. Together. He no longer felt the need to drop to his knees in front of the stronger station Doms or act overly pig headedly from Alpha drive. Not quite ying yang, but enough he could function again. Enough he felt like himself again. He imagined it was a similar feeling to one that an addict who had lost control of their addiction and then suddenly been given the opportunity and ability to take it back might feel.
To her credit Sally did look like she was trying to understand. She just... didn’t.
“Look, life’s shit, work’s shit, my finances are, well, shit, but at least now I can say it’s shit and maybe start to do something about it. Step 1 and all that crap.”
“I suppose.” Sally looked reluctant to believe him, or maybe she was just reluctant to believe in his change of heart.
Fair enough, especially was Greg was going to have to fake a few behavioural relapses to avoid looking like some kind of fake miracle cure. Given that his problem was real, though not actually an addiction, Greg imagined he wouldn’t have to fake too hard and they’d burst into his life when they wanted to anyway, but in the meantime he probably wasn’t being hugely convincing.
He did feel bad about deceiving her, especially whenever she threw him a guilty look when she thought he couldn’t see, clearly blaming herself for not seeing the signs and helping him earlier. There was no reason she should feel bad. His problems had been nothing she would believe, and even if she had, nothing she could have helped with.
But she did.
“Sally,” Greg leaned across the table and brushed a thumb comfortingly along the edge of her shirt sleeve, a gesture rather than an actual touch, “I’ll be okay, I promise. I’m getting help and have a strong support network. I’ll be fine.”
She sighed and glared at him. “You’d better be.” Or else. She stood, collected her files and walked out without saying more.
Yep, Greg felt like an arse.
The problem, he thought as he returned to his paperwork with slightly less enthusiasm, was that there was no other way to work things, not if he wanted the chanced to have Mycroft. The only reasons two, non-gay, adult Doms would move in together were money or relationship problems which necessitated a loss of living space, and Greg wasn’t in a relationship, let alone one where he’d be required to give up his flat to his partner. All that left was money problems, and while he was hardly rolling in it, he was well enough off that such a drastic move was not on the cards.
Unless they changed that.
The quickest and easiest way to do that would be gambling. Well, the quickest and easiest way that only affected Greg. Apparently the actual quickest and easiest way, in the short term, would have been for Mycroft to crash the economy, but that, he had said with a perfectly straight face, required too much effort to sort again afterwards. Greg had chosen to ignore this display of his (boyfriend? Partner? Lover?) Mycroft’s power and made a note to grab and read some books on addiction from the library.
…and to learn how to play a few more card games. He suspected a real addict would know more than one variation of poker and snap.
What was Mycroft? Friend, soon to be house-mate, Dom? Mycroft had made it very clear that he wouldn’t be formalising that aspect of their relationship, even in private. Lover? He loved Mycroft, but Mycroft wasn’t in love with him. Greg didn’t doubt Mycroft cared about him, maybe even loved him, but he wasn’t in love with him, so was that enough to make them lovers? Or were they just friends with benefits? Friends having a child together?
Greg smothered a grin. He always ended up with a dopy grin on his face at the thought of the baby. Would he be an Alpha or an Omega? Mycroft would undoubtedly prefer an Alpha son to carry on the family line, but Greg didn’t think he cared either way.
He couldn’t wait until Thursday. He’d left Mycroft’s that night only an hour or so after Mycroft had spoken to Sherlock. They’d spent that hour talking through the plan, determining a bankruptcy schedule for Greg and what would occur in the meantime, and that wasn’t long enough. It would never be long enough.
Unfortunately they had to stay low key, unfortunately there could be nothing to suggest their relationship was more than it was, and unfortunately that meant that their schedule could not obviously change. As much as Greg wanted to spend hours in Mycroft’s presence, basking in the knowledge that his Omega (and Mycroft was his, though he would probably deny it) was there, he couldn’t.
So he’d left Saturday night after one last passionate snog in the hallway up against the wall and gone home, where he lay in bed until light had begun to creep over the floor giggling in wonder. If anyone had seen him he would have been deathly embarrassed, a grown Alpha rolling around his bed gleefully hugging his pillow to his chest giggling at random moments, but there was no one to see.
He wished there had been, wished there was someone he could call to tell, share the news that was filling his chest to bursting - his Omega, his child - but he couldn’t. Well, there was Sherlock, but at the time John wouldn’t have appreciated a 1, 2, 3 AM wake-up call and given Sherlock had seen his breakdown into alcoholic tears and then deduced over the phone that Greg had just shagged his brother and was lying there naked... well, Greg still wasn’t ready to face the younger Holmes Omega yet, bursting chest or not.
He had eventually fallen asleep for a couple of hours before his body refused to lie still any longer. Feeling too jittery to stay indoors Greg had headed out for his first run in a month and then had cracked out push ups and sit ups until he crashed on the floor gasping for breath. His muscles were still killing him four days later so he did slightly regret the enthusiasm he’d employed at the time.
It probably hadn’t helped that he’d compounded his physical fitness exertions with a sudden need to comprehensively complete the tasks he’d started on Saturday. It had taken over twelve hours with no lunch break, but by nine o’clock that night Greg had collapsed on the sofa in the knowledge that every room in the flat had been sorted, tidied, scrubbed, bleached, dusted, vacuumed and disinfected as applicable. He had taken five large trash bags to the bins and had another three of donation items at the door. He’d moved all the furniture to vacuum underneath and had located a missing CD, an overdue library book, several pieces of jewellery that could only have been Josephine’s (now in the donation bag), which said a lot about how long since he had cleaned the flat properly, and about £10 in change. With the £8 he’d found taking the couch apart to clean it, dinner that night had essentially been free.
One more day, one more day, just one more day, till he got to meet Mycroft. It was harder than he thought not to send an endless stream of texts.
The sound of raised voices drifted through the door, but it wasn’t enough to grab Greg’s attention from his baby induced reverie until his door was thrown open, at which point his pen dug into, and through, the page he was writing on.
“Freak!” Sally’s indignant voice rang in Greg’s ears as he reluctantly raised his head.
It wasn’t Sherlock at the door (thank God) though from the sound of Sally’s raised voice he was just out of view in the bullpen. No, standing wild eyed in Greg’s doorway was John Watson.
Ah.
He’d hoped to make it a week before the rumours had hit Baker Street.
“John.”
It was always possible they were here for some other reason. Maybe Sherlock had come up with a theory for a cold case and... let John drag him reluctantly to the Yard and stood back while John barged into Greg’s office?
Yeah, no, they were here exactly why Greg didn’t want them to be.
How on Earth was he going to look Sherlock in the eye?
“Greg.” John didn’t look like he was going to keep going, indecision warring with determination.
Greg sighed and leant back in his chair, attempting a rather bland smile. “What can I do for you, John?”
Moving from the door to the desk was a clear delaying tactic as John tried to work out how to broach the subject. Sherlock slunk through the door behind him and settled as unobtrusively as humanly possible in a corner. Clearly this little excursion was not his idea, but then Sherlock would have worked out the whole plan with the first mention of the rumours.
“Why didn’t you say you were so badly off?”
John was not one to beat around the bush, something Greg was usually very appreciative of, but he wouldn’t have minded some meaningless small talk as they dodged around this issue. John’s eyes bored pleadingly into him, and he swallowed.
The eyes, oh Christ, the eyes.
“Pardon?” Greg fully intended to feign ignorance and bluff his way through as much of this conversation as possible.
He wasn’t ready to deal with John yet, had thought he’d have longer to work out a plausible set of responses to match his new background story and another chance to confirm details with Mycroft, details that didn’t matter when dealing with the Yard, but became very important when dealing with John because John was his friend and John would ask. The closest anyone at the Yard had come to pushing had been Sally five minutes ago.
John straightened from his emotive lean over Greg’s desk, some of the easy going attitude falling away.
“Right, fine.”
Greg winced. That was the ‘I’m disappointed in you and incredibly hurt, but am going to keep helping because it’s the right thing to do though you don’t deserve it, you prat’ flat tone of voice that Greg associated with Sherlock being particularly heartless about a case. Greg didn’t like having it directed at him.
“If that’s what you want.” John spun around and took two steps towards the door before spinning back, storming over and slamming his hands down on Greg’s desk. “No, we are not doing this. We are your friends, Greg.”
Greg went to open his mouth and say something, but shut it with a click at Sherlock’s subtle headshake behind John’s back.
“I agreed to wait for you to come to us about the gambling, but this is too far.”
Wait, this wasn’t about the gambling? Oh shit, had Sherlock told John about the baby? Was that why John was upset?
Why would that upset John?
Maybe the drinking. Maybe Sherlock had let slip about Greg’s depressed alcoholic binge the other night.
“Greg,” John’s voice was very calm, with the tinniest hint of pleading demand underneath, “why didn’t you come to us for help when it got so bad?”
“I, uh, it’s not that bad?” Greg was struggling to work out exactly what he was getting in trouble for.
John’s eyes flashed. Wrong answer. “Really? Really, Greg? You’re so badly off you’re having to sell your flat to pay off your debts and it’s not that bad?”
Oh. How on Earth had that made it to 221B already? He’d only let it drop that morning and it hadn’t even made it around the whole of the Yard yet.
“What?!?!” Sally’s indignant/shocked/angry/disbelieving squark rang out from the doorway.
The open door that she slammed in at least one person’s face. With her on the inside of course.
Well, it’d be all over the Yard in about ten minutes now.
“You’re doing what, Guv? Why didn’t you mention this?” Sally stalked up to the edge of the desk and planted her palms squarely on its surface, shoulder to shoulder with John.
Two angry Doms leaning over his desk.
Great, just great. Thank Christ now that he had a Dom, sort of, maybe, he was better able to resist as the Sub was willing to curl away and let the Alpha deal, content that these weren’t their Dom. A week ago he’d have been on the floor already.
At least only one of them was radiating dominance. It was a little unnerving, the fact that for all anger and hurt was rolling off him in waves, John wasn’t actually projecting any dominance. It was impressive self-control, even better than Mycroft’s in its own way. Mycroft appeared to lose elements of his control under emotional rather than intellectual stress; John’s improved.
Greg bared his wrists placatingly, turning his hands palm up on his arm rests, hoping the move would be subconsciously soothing and help calm them down. “It’s not that big a deal-”
“Not that ‘big a deal’? This is a huge deal, guv. Where are you going to live, a hotel? You’re selling your place because you don’t have any money!”
“You’ll come and live at Baker Street.” John tapped his thumb earnestly against the desk. “Sherlock’s been using the spare room as a lab, but it’ll be easy enough to clean it out so you can use it.”
“What? Live with the Freak? No, Sir, you’ll come and stay with me.”
John straightened and crossed his arms angrily in front of his chest, angling to face Sally. Sherlock may not have objected to the insult, but John very much did. He was usually good at ignoring it, most likely at Sherlock’s request, but today...
“Great idea, Sally. Two Doms sharing a living space. That’ll work well.” John always sounded so reasonable when he was being sarcastic.
Sally did not. “Oh, because moving in with you is a much better idea.”
“Excuse-”
“I’m Bonded!”
“To the Freak! You think anyone would want to live with body parts in the fridge when they have a choice?” Sally stood to her full heel augmented height and stuck out her chest, shoulders back and down.
Dominant posturing, and John, easy going, cuddly jumper wearing John, was actually squaring his feet and lifting his shoulders to respond.
Shit.
Greg shot a glance at Sherlock hoping the Sub could maybe do something to ease back his Dom, but Sherlock was trying his hardest to merge with the wall, his facial expression a peculiar mix of boredom and ‘oh God, please get me out of here, I really don’t want to be here’ panic and awkwardness.
No help from that quarter then.
“Um-”
“At least with us he’ll get a room.”
“I have a spare room and it’s not directly above your room so he won’t have to listen to the two of you have sex!”
“No, he’ll get to listen to you and Anderson instead!” That was not a mental image Greg had needed, thanks so much John. “At least we don’t work for him!”
“Don’t...” Sally spluttered.
“Hey-” Greg tried again, but Sally regained her ability to speak (shout) practically before he’d started.
“No, it’ll just make it easier for that Omega to hound him. ‘I’m bored. Give me a case.’ ‘Get me a murder.’.”
“Well-”
Greg stuck two fingers in his mouth and let out an ear splitting whistle, developed specially for use at football games. Unlike his polite attempts at breaking into the conversation, this caused the two warring Doms to swing their attention, and their bodies, back to him.
“Hi, you done? Don’t,” he held up a hand in warning as Sally went to speak, “answer that. Now, as I was trying to tell you arrangements have been made.” He paused glaring at John until the Alpha Dom closed his mouth, swallowing whatever he’d been going to say. “I’m moving in with Mycroft.”
The reaction was instantaneous.
“Mycroft-” “The Freak’s brother?” “He’s a Dom, you’ll kill each-” “The Freak’s brother???” “within a week!” “No, guv, don’t be-” “Greg-” “stupid, you can’t-” “that’s a bad-” “move in with him!” “idea. You’ll destroy your-” “He’s the Freak’sn-” “friendship-” “brother and-”
“Hey, hey, hey, hey, HEY!” Greg bashed his hand repeatedly on the desk until he had their attention back. “Sally, he is my best friend, and while I thank you for your offer I really couldn’t move in with an officer in my team. John, Mycroft and I will be fine.”
John raised an incredulous eyebrow. “You’re both unbonded Alphas and you think you can just move into his house and things will be fine? You’ve barely been speaking recently. That’s not going to magically go away.”
“Number 1,” Greg held up a finger, “you can not talk given you moved into a flat share believing Sherlock was an Alpha Dom. Number 2,” finger, “we’re both barely home anyway, and with his commitments Mycroft’s already scheduled to spend five of the next twelve months overseas. This saves him finding a way to take care of the house. Number 3, not that this is any of your business, but recent events have resolved our issues and we are once again properly on speaking terms. Happy now?”
How the hell had John noticed that anyway? Had he been that obvious or was Sherlock rubbing off on his Alpha?
John narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Fixed? Just like that?”
Greg shrugged, not really sure what to say. ‘Mycroft got his head out of his arse and decided maybe shagging like rabbits would be okay’ didn’t quite... work.
“The gambling. He knew.”
That was good, Greg could work with that without even having to.
“Of course he knew,” John kept muttering under his breath, “he’s Mycroft Holmes. Did you know?” John turned and pointed an accusing finger at Sherlock, whose face was completely and utterly schooled boredom, no hint of earlier discomfort. “Did you, Sherlock?”
Sherlock’s gaze was locked with John’s so John probably didn’t see the panicked fluttering of Sherlock’s fingers against the wall.
Greg’s mouth went dry.
“I did not know he had apparently turned to gambling, no.”
“Really?” John’s voice was hard and more than a little dangerous. “You weren’t aware?”
“I was aware Lestrade was having difficulties and that there were resulting relationship issues with my brother, a relationship I try to ignore to my fullest because it is utterly incomprehensible that anyone could stand Mycroft long enough to be friends,” sneer, “with him. I was not aware of any gambling.” Sherlock lifted his chin imperiously and kept his eyes locked with John’s, something Greg could not have managed in the circumstances.
It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t quite the truth either.
Oh shit.
“You said you knew.” Sally snarled. “Last time you barged in. flinging your arrogant ‘I’m so much better than you because I know everything’ freakishness around. Why didn’t you do something?” Her voice lifted rather than depended through the impersonation. It sounded ridiculous.
Sherlock, like Mycroft, was an excellent actor and his most accomplished and developed role was complete and utter burke. He smirked at Sally, tilting his head to the side so he could look at her provocatively through sinfully long eyelashes, and gave an exaggerated and thoroughly unapologetic shrug.
John’s shoulders relaxed and he shook his head in bemused resignation as apparently acting out to annoy Sally made it more, not less, likely Sherlock was telling the truth about not knowing. With Sherlock, it did perversely make sense. “You are a total git sometimes, you know?”
There was a knock on the door. Both John and Sally turned to face it and Greg tried frantically to catch Sherlock’s eye to apologise, but the younger Submissive had pressed as far back into the corner as possible and had his eyes down. He wasn’t doing anything as obvious as gripping his collar, but he did have a death hold on his right wrist (or more specifically, on the bracelet under the coat on his right wrist) and Greg didn’t think his paleness was entirely due to the harsh office fluorescents.
How had he and Mycroft not thought of this, that by requiring Sherlock to keep their secret they were forcing him to lie to his Bound and Bonded Dominant? Sherlock was barely skating the line now and if John pushed would have to fall one way or another.
Greg had no doubt that Mycroft would be expecting Sherlock to side with him. Mycroft never demanded anything less than total loyalty from those around him and wouldn’t consider less than a year of Bonding anywhere close to over thirty years of family. For that matter Sherlock might believe so too. Greg had no doubt that when the chips were down Sherlock would spill everything, he certainly hoped he would, but by the time Sherlock broke down, being too damn stubborn by half as he had just proven staring down two angry Doms, he may very well have done irreparable damage to his relationship.
Trust was a big issue for John, especially as early on in their friendship Sherlock had left him out of so much (sneaking off to meet mad bombers sprang instantly to mind). It was possible he’d take Sherlock’s deception, technically truthful or not, much more seriously than mere words, which Sherlock appeared very aware of, visibly caught between loyalty to his lover and his brother.
Plus Greg just bet that at some point in the last almost thirty years since Mycroft hit puberty he’d Dommed the ‘do NOT tell’ into Sherlock too, probably more than once.
Shit, shit, damn and blast.
The knock on the door turned out to be Anderson, who froze at the sight of John and Sherlock in the office.
“It can wait. I’ll just...” He gesticulated over his shoulder and left, still wary of John after being forced to the floor last time he’d seen him.
Sally tossed back her curls and strolled after him without another word. Greg was going to have to have to talk to her again, he could tell. Her body language clearly radiated ‘very not happy’.
Well, that was later’s problem.
John, now’s problem, settled down in the chair in front of Greg with a sigh. Maybe he had been using some Dominance in his anger because he seemed suddenly much smaller and less imposing. Sherlock stayed where he was, affecting nonchalance against the wall, though Greg thought he was possibly trembling with the adrenaline and fear that came from defying your Dom even through a technicality.
“So how’d you find out?” Greg asked. The two of them hadn’t been to the Yard since his little revelation and it certainly hadn’t come from him or Mycroft.
“Molly. Saw her at Bart’s earlier in the week and then she texted me this morning when she heard.” John picked at the wrist of his Aran jumper, pulling it up just far enough on his right arm for Greg to get the tiniest glimpse of John’s own bracelet.
John always refused to wear it on his left wrist as, being left handed, his right was his non-dominant hand and thus it’s proper place. The fact that, as most of society was right handed, this inadvertently reinforced the illusion that he was a Submissive wasn’t something that bothered him. Greg had often wished he was that brave when it came to defying society’s expectations.
He’d forgotten about Molly. Undoubtedly one of the other DIs or DSs had been to the morgue for a body that day. Greg’s money was on Dimmock. He found Molly relaxing to talk to and probably spilled the whole story.
“Right, yeah.”
This was awkward. Really awkward. There was a reason he’d wanted time to talk to Mycroft before this.
“You’re really going to move in with Mycroft?” John had always been a bit wary of the elder Holmes, had never quite forgiven him for the kidnapping when he first met Sherlock (and quite regularly afterwards). Greg suspected it was a dominant territorial thing between the two of them.
Greg shrugged. “Yeah well, it’s only temporary and he’s got the room. No offence, but you two would” defeat the point of this charade “be loud.”
John just nodded. “That’s true.”
Because Greg had really needed the additional information about their sex life. Oh well, with any luck he’d have his own sex life now for the first time in years.
He wondered whether it was John or Sherlock who was loud.
No, he didn’t, he really did NOT want to know.
“Well,” John stood, “if you need, if it becomes too much, just come over, yeah? Even if it’s just for the night. Even without dynamic issues living with a Holmes can be...” he winced. “Let’s just say I’ve slept on borrowed couches a few times.”
“Yeah, will do.”
John wasn’t going to push. John wasn’t going to push. Oh thank you any and all Gods.
Made Greg feel a bit guilty about expecting such a poor reaction, truth be told. Well, what was a bit more guilt on top of the heaping he already felt for actively lying to his close friend (and forcing said friend’s Sub to lie to him).
With a parting nod, John walked out, but Sherlock hung back. As soon as John was out of sight a slim card materialised between gloved fingers.
“I assume I can trust you with this back?” Sherlock let the card fall into Greg’s outstretched hand.
“Sherlock,-”
I’m sorry. I’m so so so, sorry. I didn’t even think and I know that this, today, was hard and that I’m forcing you to do something you don’t want to do and putting everything you’ve got, everything I’ve envied so much, in danger and have done so completely recklessly and thoughtlessly and -
“-Thank you.”
Thank you for helping me, and being so amazing, and kicking your brother’s arse so he didn’t destroy what could be so fantastic between us and for keeping my secret and his secret and our secret even though we don’t deserve you to.
Sherlock nodded once and left, left hand clutched tight around his wrist.
Greg swallowed heavily and dropped his head into his hands.
Shit.
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Previous - Next
I'll just give you a little bit more information about the story structure quickly since people didn't seem to be sure. This "Book", if you want to think of the story that way, is definitely not done. In terms of chapter count, we're now ~ 1/3 of the way; for words we've just tipped over a quarter. If you imagine a fantasy book, how some of them have parts inside the books, that's what we've just reached the end of. There are three in this book.
Just for your additional info:
- There are four books in this series. I'm currently writing three while posting this, though I dare not make any estimations as to dates for completion or length yet
- There will be an additional "Part V" (though probably "Part III" by the numbering on AO3) where I put in extra essays about the world, pictures, all that kind of thing. I like visual aids, and I have a OneNote file full of them
- Sherlock and John will certainly be in this story, and you'll see little bits as we go through, but their journey will transition to the forefront more in Book III and most certainly take centre stage in Book IV
Title:Though I Walk through the Valley (10/38)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.
Author's Notes: Glad to know that so many people liked the last chapter. For those of you feeling a little bit more sympathetic, or at least like you have a better understanding of Mycroft's turmoil, try to keep that in mind as we go. Needless to say, as predicted by some people he will go through periods of panic and that will... not go so well for Greg. All I ask is don't hate him completely. Just ooonnneeee little redeemable spark somewhere deep in side, that's all I ask for.
No warnings for this part specifically. I will say that the first paragraph is best read in a slightly bouncy tone, else it runs on a bit 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 10 - Chapter 11 - Chapter 12 - Chapter 13 - Chapter 14 - Chapter 15 - Chapter 16 - Chapter 17 - Chapter 18 - Chapter 19 - Chapter 20
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The resounding click of his pen as Greg retracted the nib following the successful completion of another bout of paperwork was the perfect complement to his otherwise upbeat mood. He chucked the file in his out tray, indulged in a quick bongo session on the edge of his desk, spun his chair 360°, and picked up the next pile of papers with a cheerful whistle.
Catching sight of Sally Donovan standing in the doorway wearing a facial expression more usually reserved for some of Sherlock’s more outlandish deductions, Greg cleared his throat and attempted to tone it down. Being relegated to paperwork while an internal assessment of his fitness to continue as a homicide Detective was conducted was probably not meant to result in whistling.
It was just so hard! Life suddenly was amazing, and it wasn’t like he was scared of the review. It was all planned. Everything had been accounted for. Mycroft was a literal genius at these things. It would be fine.
First thing Monday morning he’d dragged himself before his DCI, doing his best to look subdued and contrite as he fronted up to gambling that he was now willing to admit was an addiction. He would get help, therapy, take leave, whatever it took, because he realised now that it was out of control and hurting the people he cared about and his job performance.
Greg’s appeal to his DCI rather than straight to Packenham was a deliberate move as less authority or not, unlike Packenham DCI Mulgrave had a well hidden history of addiction. His vice had been alcohol, not gambling like Greg was claiming, but it was enough for Greg’s cries of remorse and promises of redemption to evoke an instant sympathetic connection despite their frequently rocky relationship. Within an hour Mulgrave had been assuring Packenham that if given the chance to bring his ‘habits’ and finances under control, Greg’s behaviour would follow.
“Stress.” Mulgrave had said. Caused by the financial straits Greg had found himself in. “Just stress. He was a first class officer before this, you know.”
As if he’d never butted head with Greg over staffing, cases, paperwork, Sherlock etc before.
Ten minutes later Greg had been sitting back in the same chair in front of Packenham’s desk he’d been in on Friday, trying to act terrified. It wasn’t too hard as Mycroft was neither omniscient nor omnipotent in reality (though effectively close enough as to make no difference) and sitting in that chair every possible thing that could go wrong had seemed certain to happen. Packenham could just as easily make an example of Greg as he could use him for ‘New Scotland Yard’s Compassion: Mental Health of Officers Top Priority’ headlines.
Greg, now, in retrospect, could say that he never should have doubted. After a short and obviously prepared, standardised, probably written, checked and authorised by the press secretaries, speech about how the ‘Yard is committed to its officers’ (despite being ready to fire him on Friday), and detailing ‘measures to help with your rehabilitation’ (which thankfully Greg wouldn’t need because everyone knew they were pants), and stressing ‘that you will have to improve your behaviour’ with a hasty ‘but we will support you all the way’ (as long as you recover quickly, quietly and don’t relapse), Greg was released back to his desk on review.
By the time he’d reached his desk the rumours had started. By lunchtime two hours later they were even relatively correct, though a few more sensational stories (he heard one about a drug overdose because he was unable to cope with his unrequited love for an unspecified Sub, which was almost too close to the truth for comfort, but he suspected they were making insinuations about the wrong Holmes brother) still persisted.
Mycroft’s cover story, originally designed to provide Greg a reason to move in with him, had the enormously beneficial side effect of justifying Greg’s recent behaviour and he appeared instantly forgiven and welcomed back into the fold, even repairing bridges destroyed by Greg’s unwavering support of Sherlock following his revelation. Addiction was something understood intimately by the Yard - if you didn’t have it, you were fighting it tooth and nail, aware of the very real danger of it in your future should you slip, or had already been to rehab. Alcohol was most common - it was too easy to get into the habit of needing a stiff drink after a crap day or gruesome crime scene, and for that one to turn into two or three until you were downing a bottle a night so you could sleep without corpses begging in your dreams.
Drugs happened too, prescription drugs such as sleep aids more commonly than the illicit ones hunted by Vice, though that was more common than anyone liked to admit. Even with the new tighter procedures it was all too easy for a pinch here or a pinch there to go missing, and everyone knew there had been a few times where off duty officers had been quietly let out the backdoor during Vice raids to avoid being officially found at the scene by their friends and colleagues.
Gambling was less commonly admitted to - a card game with friends, even for money? No problem. Underground gambling tournaments? Devilish fun on the wild side of the law. Flutters on the horses? Everyone did it. The football results? Well, that was a must! It wasn’t quite the same as the others by nature, you were unlikely to be warned for placing a bet on the cricket before work, but you would be for showing up drunk, and that made it the perfect addiction for someone with no prior warnings for inebriation on the job.
Greg just hoped no one asked what area of gambling had been his weakness. It was unlikely anyone would be insensitive enough to ask, but if they did he was planning to run with something related to football as he was an avid follower of the Premier League and could at least reel off the kind of information he needed to until he was able to extract himself from the conversation.
“Are you sure you’re okay, Sir?” Sally looked reluctant to ask, probably because the memories of Greg’s reactions to that question recently were all too fresh in her mind.
“Uh yeah, fine, just fine.” Greg picked up his pen and twirled it in readiness for writing.
“Are you sure?”
He undoubtedly deserved that, so he smiled at her in what was hopefully a reassuring manner. “Yes, Donovan, really okay.”
She eyed him disbelievingly. “You’re acting differently.”
“You mean I’m happy.” Greg pointed his pen at her and gave a teasing grin.
Apparently this was the opposite of reassuring because Sally pulled the chair closer to the edge of the desk and sat down, leaning earnestly on her crossed arms. “You’re on review, Sir. Really, it’s okay if you’re not alright.”
“I am alright, Donovan. Really, I am.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Just happy?”
“Yes.”
“Not high or having a complete mental breakdown that has you acting like a lunatic?”
Okay, fair, he was whistling over paperwork.
“Just happy.”
“Because you’re on review?” Sally was clearly one step away from booking him in for extra sessions with the police shrink.
Greg sighed and leant back in his swivel chair, enjoying the rocking motion as it adjusted for his momentum. “Look, I know I’ve been, well, a pain in the arse lately, and it’s just...” He faltered slightly, unsure quite how to express his quite genuine sentiments.
“It’s just?” Sally’s fingers were twitching against the light blue fabric of her shirt.
She’d had a manicure recently. She did always dress well, and if the heelevery now and then s were maybe a little flashy for crime scenes at least she wasn’t in stilettos, or fully made over every day. It was a balance PC Jackson in the Juvenile Crimes Squad had yet to find.
“I feel like I actually have some control again. Over my life. It’s not perfect, I mean, it’s crap, but I feel now like I can do something about that.”
It was entirely true. Things weren’t perfect. They could be considered far from perfect still, but for the first time in almost three months Greg didn’t feel like a warzone. He hadn’t quite reclaimed his equilibrium, and wasn’t sure he ever could given that part of him was now going to fight a lot harder to be heard than it ever had before, but finally the two sides of his soul were resting. Together. He no longer felt the need to drop to his knees in front of the stronger station Doms or act overly pig headedly from Alpha drive. Not quite ying yang, but enough he could function again. Enough he felt like himself again. He imagined it was a similar feeling to one that an addict who had lost control of their addiction and then suddenly been given the opportunity and ability to take it back might feel.
To her credit Sally did look like she was trying to understand. She just... didn’t.
“Look, life’s shit, work’s shit, my finances are, well, shit, but at least now I can say it’s shit and maybe start to do something about it. Step 1 and all that crap.”
“I suppose.” Sally looked reluctant to believe him, or maybe she was just reluctant to believe in his change of heart.
Fair enough, especially was Greg was going to have to fake a few behavioural relapses to avoid looking like some kind of fake miracle cure. Given that his problem was real, though not actually an addiction, Greg imagined he wouldn’t have to fake too hard and they’d burst into his life when they wanted to anyway, but in the meantime he probably wasn’t being hugely convincing.
He did feel bad about deceiving her, especially whenever she threw him a guilty look when she thought he couldn’t see, clearly blaming herself for not seeing the signs and helping him earlier. There was no reason she should feel bad. His problems had been nothing she would believe, and even if she had, nothing she could have helped with.
But she did.
“Sally,” Greg leaned across the table and brushed a thumb comfortingly along the edge of her shirt sleeve, a gesture rather than an actual touch, “I’ll be okay, I promise. I’m getting help and have a strong support network. I’ll be fine.”
She sighed and glared at him. “You’d better be.” Or else. She stood, collected her files and walked out without saying more.
Yep, Greg felt like an arse.
The problem, he thought as he returned to his paperwork with slightly less enthusiasm, was that there was no other way to work things, not if he wanted the chanced to have Mycroft. The only reasons two, non-gay, adult Doms would move in together were money or relationship problems which necessitated a loss of living space, and Greg wasn’t in a relationship, let alone one where he’d be required to give up his flat to his partner. All that left was money problems, and while he was hardly rolling in it, he was well enough off that such a drastic move was not on the cards.
Unless they changed that.
The quickest and easiest way to do that would be gambling. Well, the quickest and easiest way that only affected Greg. Apparently the actual quickest and easiest way, in the short term, would have been for Mycroft to crash the economy, but that, he had said with a perfectly straight face, required too much effort to sort again afterwards. Greg had chosen to ignore this display of his (boyfriend? Partner? Lover?) Mycroft’s power and made a note to grab and read some books on addiction from the library.
…and to learn how to play a few more card games. He suspected a real addict would know more than one variation of poker and snap.
What was Mycroft? Friend, soon to be house-mate, Dom? Mycroft had made it very clear that he wouldn’t be formalising that aspect of their relationship, even in private. Lover? He loved Mycroft, but Mycroft wasn’t in love with him. Greg didn’t doubt Mycroft cared about him, maybe even loved him, but he wasn’t in love with him, so was that enough to make them lovers? Or were they just friends with benefits? Friends having a child together?
Greg smothered a grin. He always ended up with a dopy grin on his face at the thought of the baby. Would he be an Alpha or an Omega? Mycroft would undoubtedly prefer an Alpha son to carry on the family line, but Greg didn’t think he cared either way.
He couldn’t wait until Thursday. He’d left Mycroft’s that night only an hour or so after Mycroft had spoken to Sherlock. They’d spent that hour talking through the plan, determining a bankruptcy schedule for Greg and what would occur in the meantime, and that wasn’t long enough. It would never be long enough.
Unfortunately they had to stay low key, unfortunately there could be nothing to suggest their relationship was more than it was, and unfortunately that meant that their schedule could not obviously change. As much as Greg wanted to spend hours in Mycroft’s presence, basking in the knowledge that his Omega (and Mycroft was his, though he would probably deny it) was there, he couldn’t.
So he’d left Saturday night after one last passionate snog in the hallway up against the wall and gone home, where he lay in bed until light had begun to creep over the floor giggling in wonder. If anyone had seen him he would have been deathly embarrassed, a grown Alpha rolling around his bed gleefully hugging his pillow to his chest giggling at random moments, but there was no one to see.
He wished there had been, wished there was someone he could call to tell, share the news that was filling his chest to bursting - his Omega, his child - but he couldn’t. Well, there was Sherlock, but at the time John wouldn’t have appreciated a 1, 2, 3 AM wake-up call and given Sherlock had seen his breakdown into alcoholic tears and then deduced over the phone that Greg had just shagged his brother and was lying there naked... well, Greg still wasn’t ready to face the younger Holmes Omega yet, bursting chest or not.
He had eventually fallen asleep for a couple of hours before his body refused to lie still any longer. Feeling too jittery to stay indoors Greg had headed out for his first run in a month and then had cracked out push ups and sit ups until he crashed on the floor gasping for breath. His muscles were still killing him four days later so he did slightly regret the enthusiasm he’d employed at the time.
It probably hadn’t helped that he’d compounded his physical fitness exertions with a sudden need to comprehensively complete the tasks he’d started on Saturday. It had taken over twelve hours with no lunch break, but by nine o’clock that night Greg had collapsed on the sofa in the knowledge that every room in the flat had been sorted, tidied, scrubbed, bleached, dusted, vacuumed and disinfected as applicable. He had taken five large trash bags to the bins and had another three of donation items at the door. He’d moved all the furniture to vacuum underneath and had located a missing CD, an overdue library book, several pieces of jewellery that could only have been Josephine’s (now in the donation bag), which said a lot about how long since he had cleaned the flat properly, and about £10 in change. With the £8 he’d found taking the couch apart to clean it, dinner that night had essentially been free.
One more day, one more day, just one more day, till he got to meet Mycroft. It was harder than he thought not to send an endless stream of texts.
The sound of raised voices drifted through the door, but it wasn’t enough to grab Greg’s attention from his baby induced reverie until his door was thrown open, at which point his pen dug into, and through, the page he was writing on.
“Freak!” Sally’s indignant voice rang in Greg’s ears as he reluctantly raised his head.
It wasn’t Sherlock at the door (thank God) though from the sound of Sally’s raised voice he was just out of view in the bullpen. No, standing wild eyed in Greg’s doorway was John Watson.
Ah.
He’d hoped to make it a week before the rumours had hit Baker Street.
“John.”
It was always possible they were here for some other reason. Maybe Sherlock had come up with a theory for a cold case and... let John drag him reluctantly to the Yard and stood back while John barged into Greg’s office?
Yeah, no, they were here exactly why Greg didn’t want them to be.
How on Earth was he going to look Sherlock in the eye?
“Greg.” John didn’t look like he was going to keep going, indecision warring with determination.
Greg sighed and leant back in his chair, attempting a rather bland smile. “What can I do for you, John?”
Moving from the door to the desk was a clear delaying tactic as John tried to work out how to broach the subject. Sherlock slunk through the door behind him and settled as unobtrusively as humanly possible in a corner. Clearly this little excursion was not his idea, but then Sherlock would have worked out the whole plan with the first mention of the rumours.
“Why didn’t you say you were so badly off?”
John was not one to beat around the bush, something Greg was usually very appreciative of, but he wouldn’t have minded some meaningless small talk as they dodged around this issue. John’s eyes bored pleadingly into him, and he swallowed.
The eyes, oh Christ, the eyes.
“Pardon?” Greg fully intended to feign ignorance and bluff his way through as much of this conversation as possible.
He wasn’t ready to deal with John yet, had thought he’d have longer to work out a plausible set of responses to match his new background story and another chance to confirm details with Mycroft, details that didn’t matter when dealing with the Yard, but became very important when dealing with John because John was his friend and John would ask. The closest anyone at the Yard had come to pushing had been Sally five minutes ago.
John straightened from his emotive lean over Greg’s desk, some of the easy going attitude falling away.
“Right, fine.”
Greg winced. That was the ‘I’m disappointed in you and incredibly hurt, but am going to keep helping because it’s the right thing to do though you don’t deserve it, you prat’ flat tone of voice that Greg associated with Sherlock being particularly heartless about a case. Greg didn’t like having it directed at him.
“If that’s what you want.” John spun around and took two steps towards the door before spinning back, storming over and slamming his hands down on Greg’s desk. “No, we are not doing this. We are your friends, Greg.”
Greg went to open his mouth and say something, but shut it with a click at Sherlock’s subtle headshake behind John’s back.
“I agreed to wait for you to come to us about the gambling, but this is too far.”
Wait, this wasn’t about the gambling? Oh shit, had Sherlock told John about the baby? Was that why John was upset?
Why would that upset John?
Maybe the drinking. Maybe Sherlock had let slip about Greg’s depressed alcoholic binge the other night.
“Greg,” John’s voice was very calm, with the tinniest hint of pleading demand underneath, “why didn’t you come to us for help when it got so bad?”
“I, uh, it’s not that bad?” Greg was struggling to work out exactly what he was getting in trouble for.
John’s eyes flashed. Wrong answer. “Really? Really, Greg? You’re so badly off you’re having to sell your flat to pay off your debts and it’s not that bad?”
Oh. How on Earth had that made it to 221B already? He’d only let it drop that morning and it hadn’t even made it around the whole of the Yard yet.
“What?!?!” Sally’s indignant/shocked/angry/disbelieving squark rang out from the doorway.
The open door that she slammed in at least one person’s face. With her on the inside of course.
Well, it’d be all over the Yard in about ten minutes now.
“You’re doing what, Guv? Why didn’t you mention this?” Sally stalked up to the edge of the desk and planted her palms squarely on its surface, shoulder to shoulder with John.
Two angry Doms leaning over his desk.
Great, just great. Thank Christ now that he had a Dom, sort of, maybe, he was better able to resist as the Sub was willing to curl away and let the Alpha deal, content that these weren’t their Dom. A week ago he’d have been on the floor already.
At least only one of them was radiating dominance. It was a little unnerving, the fact that for all anger and hurt was rolling off him in waves, John wasn’t actually projecting any dominance. It was impressive self-control, even better than Mycroft’s in its own way. Mycroft appeared to lose elements of his control under emotional rather than intellectual stress; John’s improved.
Greg bared his wrists placatingly, turning his hands palm up on his arm rests, hoping the move would be subconsciously soothing and help calm them down. “It’s not that big a deal-”
“Not that ‘big a deal’? This is a huge deal, guv. Where are you going to live, a hotel? You’re selling your place because you don’t have any money!”
“You’ll come and live at Baker Street.” John tapped his thumb earnestly against the desk. “Sherlock’s been using the spare room as a lab, but it’ll be easy enough to clean it out so you can use it.”
“What? Live with the Freak? No, Sir, you’ll come and stay with me.”
John straightened and crossed his arms angrily in front of his chest, angling to face Sally. Sherlock may not have objected to the insult, but John very much did. He was usually good at ignoring it, most likely at Sherlock’s request, but today...
“Great idea, Sally. Two Doms sharing a living space. That’ll work well.” John always sounded so reasonable when he was being sarcastic.
Sally did not. “Oh, because moving in with you is a much better idea.”
“Excuse-”
“I’m Bonded!”
“To the Freak! You think anyone would want to live with body parts in the fridge when they have a choice?” Sally stood to her full heel augmented height and stuck out her chest, shoulders back and down.
Dominant posturing, and John, easy going, cuddly jumper wearing John, was actually squaring his feet and lifting his shoulders to respond.
Shit.
Greg shot a glance at Sherlock hoping the Sub could maybe do something to ease back his Dom, but Sherlock was trying his hardest to merge with the wall, his facial expression a peculiar mix of boredom and ‘oh God, please get me out of here, I really don’t want to be here’ panic and awkwardness.
No help from that quarter then.
“Um-”
“At least with us he’ll get a room.”
“I have a spare room and it’s not directly above your room so he won’t have to listen to the two of you have sex!”
“No, he’ll get to listen to you and Anderson instead!” That was not a mental image Greg had needed, thanks so much John. “At least we don’t work for him!”
“Don’t...” Sally spluttered.
“Hey-” Greg tried again, but Sally regained her ability to speak (shout) practically before he’d started.
“No, it’ll just make it easier for that Omega to hound him. ‘I’m bored. Give me a case.’ ‘Get me a murder.’.”
“Well-”
Greg stuck two fingers in his mouth and let out an ear splitting whistle, developed specially for use at football games. Unlike his polite attempts at breaking into the conversation, this caused the two warring Doms to swing their attention, and their bodies, back to him.
“Hi, you done? Don’t,” he held up a hand in warning as Sally went to speak, “answer that. Now, as I was trying to tell you arrangements have been made.” He paused glaring at John until the Alpha Dom closed his mouth, swallowing whatever he’d been going to say. “I’m moving in with Mycroft.”
The reaction was instantaneous.
“Mycroft-” “The Freak’s brother?” “He’s a Dom, you’ll kill each-” “The Freak’s brother???” “within a week!” “No, guv, don’t be-” “Greg-” “stupid, you can’t-” “that’s a bad-” “move in with him!” “idea. You’ll destroy your-” “He’s the Freak’sn-” “friendship-” “brother and-”
“Hey, hey, hey, hey, HEY!” Greg bashed his hand repeatedly on the desk until he had their attention back. “Sally, he is my best friend, and while I thank you for your offer I really couldn’t move in with an officer in my team. John, Mycroft and I will be fine.”
John raised an incredulous eyebrow. “You’re both unbonded Alphas and you think you can just move into his house and things will be fine? You’ve barely been speaking recently. That’s not going to magically go away.”
“Number 1,” Greg held up a finger, “you can not talk given you moved into a flat share believing Sherlock was an Alpha Dom. Number 2,” finger, “we’re both barely home anyway, and with his commitments Mycroft’s already scheduled to spend five of the next twelve months overseas. This saves him finding a way to take care of the house. Number 3, not that this is any of your business, but recent events have resolved our issues and we are once again properly on speaking terms. Happy now?”
How the hell had John noticed that anyway? Had he been that obvious or was Sherlock rubbing off on his Alpha?
John narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Fixed? Just like that?”
Greg shrugged, not really sure what to say. ‘Mycroft got his head out of his arse and decided maybe shagging like rabbits would be okay’ didn’t quite... work.
“The gambling. He knew.”
That was good, Greg could work with that without even having to.
“Of course he knew,” John kept muttering under his breath, “he’s Mycroft Holmes. Did you know?” John turned and pointed an accusing finger at Sherlock, whose face was completely and utterly schooled boredom, no hint of earlier discomfort. “Did you, Sherlock?”
Sherlock’s gaze was locked with John’s so John probably didn’t see the panicked fluttering of Sherlock’s fingers against the wall.
Greg’s mouth went dry.
“I did not know he had apparently turned to gambling, no.”
“Really?” John’s voice was hard and more than a little dangerous. “You weren’t aware?”
“I was aware Lestrade was having difficulties and that there were resulting relationship issues with my brother, a relationship I try to ignore to my fullest because it is utterly incomprehensible that anyone could stand Mycroft long enough to be friends,” sneer, “with him. I was not aware of any gambling.” Sherlock lifted his chin imperiously and kept his eyes locked with John’s, something Greg could not have managed in the circumstances.
It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t quite the truth either.
Oh shit.
“You said you knew.” Sally snarled. “Last time you barged in. flinging your arrogant ‘I’m so much better than you because I know everything’ freakishness around. Why didn’t you do something?” Her voice lifted rather than depended through the impersonation. It sounded ridiculous.
Sherlock, like Mycroft, was an excellent actor and his most accomplished and developed role was complete and utter burke. He smirked at Sally, tilting his head to the side so he could look at her provocatively through sinfully long eyelashes, and gave an exaggerated and thoroughly unapologetic shrug.
John’s shoulders relaxed and he shook his head in bemused resignation as apparently acting out to annoy Sally made it more, not less, likely Sherlock was telling the truth about not knowing. With Sherlock, it did perversely make sense. “You are a total git sometimes, you know?”
There was a knock on the door. Both John and Sally turned to face it and Greg tried frantically to catch Sherlock’s eye to apologise, but the younger Submissive had pressed as far back into the corner as possible and had his eyes down. He wasn’t doing anything as obvious as gripping his collar, but he did have a death hold on his right wrist (or more specifically, on the bracelet under the coat on his right wrist) and Greg didn’t think his paleness was entirely due to the harsh office fluorescents.
How had he and Mycroft not thought of this, that by requiring Sherlock to keep their secret they were forcing him to lie to his Bound and Bonded Dominant? Sherlock was barely skating the line now and if John pushed would have to fall one way or another.
Greg had no doubt that Mycroft would be expecting Sherlock to side with him. Mycroft never demanded anything less than total loyalty from those around him and wouldn’t consider less than a year of Bonding anywhere close to over thirty years of family. For that matter Sherlock might believe so too. Greg had no doubt that when the chips were down Sherlock would spill everything, he certainly hoped he would, but by the time Sherlock broke down, being too damn stubborn by half as he had just proven staring down two angry Doms, he may very well have done irreparable damage to his relationship.
Trust was a big issue for John, especially as early on in their friendship Sherlock had left him out of so much (sneaking off to meet mad bombers sprang instantly to mind). It was possible he’d take Sherlock’s deception, technically truthful or not, much more seriously than mere words, which Sherlock appeared very aware of, visibly caught between loyalty to his lover and his brother.
Plus Greg just bet that at some point in the last almost thirty years since Mycroft hit puberty he’d Dommed the ‘do NOT tell’ into Sherlock too, probably more than once.
Shit, shit, damn and blast.
The knock on the door turned out to be Anderson, who froze at the sight of John and Sherlock in the office.
“It can wait. I’ll just...” He gesticulated over his shoulder and left, still wary of John after being forced to the floor last time he’d seen him.
Sally tossed back her curls and strolled after him without another word. Greg was going to have to have to talk to her again, he could tell. Her body language clearly radiated ‘very not happy’.
Well, that was later’s problem.
John, now’s problem, settled down in the chair in front of Greg with a sigh. Maybe he had been using some Dominance in his anger because he seemed suddenly much smaller and less imposing. Sherlock stayed where he was, affecting nonchalance against the wall, though Greg thought he was possibly trembling with the adrenaline and fear that came from defying your Dom even through a technicality.
“So how’d you find out?” Greg asked. The two of them hadn’t been to the Yard since his little revelation and it certainly hadn’t come from him or Mycroft.
“Molly. Saw her at Bart’s earlier in the week and then she texted me this morning when she heard.” John picked at the wrist of his Aran jumper, pulling it up just far enough on his right arm for Greg to get the tiniest glimpse of John’s own bracelet.
John always refused to wear it on his left wrist as, being left handed, his right was his non-dominant hand and thus it’s proper place. The fact that, as most of society was right handed, this inadvertently reinforced the illusion that he was a Submissive wasn’t something that bothered him. Greg had often wished he was that brave when it came to defying society’s expectations.
He’d forgotten about Molly. Undoubtedly one of the other DIs or DSs had been to the morgue for a body that day. Greg’s money was on Dimmock. He found Molly relaxing to talk to and probably spilled the whole story.
“Right, yeah.”
This was awkward. Really awkward. There was a reason he’d wanted time to talk to Mycroft before this.
“You’re really going to move in with Mycroft?” John had always been a bit wary of the elder Holmes, had never quite forgiven him for the kidnapping when he first met Sherlock (and quite regularly afterwards). Greg suspected it was a dominant territorial thing between the two of them.
Greg shrugged. “Yeah well, it’s only temporary and he’s got the room. No offence, but you two would” defeat the point of this charade “be loud.”
John just nodded. “That’s true.”
Because Greg had really needed the additional information about their sex life. Oh well, with any luck he’d have his own sex life now for the first time in years.
He wondered whether it was John or Sherlock who was loud.
No, he didn’t, he really did NOT want to know.
“Well,” John stood, “if you need, if it becomes too much, just come over, yeah? Even if it’s just for the night. Even without dynamic issues living with a Holmes can be...” he winced. “Let’s just say I’ve slept on borrowed couches a few times.”
“Yeah, will do.”
John wasn’t going to push. John wasn’t going to push. Oh thank you any and all Gods.
Made Greg feel a bit guilty about expecting such a poor reaction, truth be told. Well, what was a bit more guilt on top of the heaping he already felt for actively lying to his close friend (and forcing said friend’s Sub to lie to him).
With a parting nod, John walked out, but Sherlock hung back. As soon as John was out of sight a slim card materialised between gloved fingers.
“I assume I can trust you with this back?” Sherlock let the card fall into Greg’s outstretched hand.
“Sherlock,-”
I’m sorry. I’m so so so, sorry. I didn’t even think and I know that this, today, was hard and that I’m forcing you to do something you don’t want to do and putting everything you’ve got, everything I’ve envied so much, in danger and have done so completely recklessly and thoughtlessly and -
“-Thank you.”
Thank you for helping me, and being so amazing, and kicking your brother’s arse so he didn’t destroy what could be so fantastic between us and for keeping my secret and his secret and our secret even though we don’t deserve you to.
Sherlock nodded once and left, left hand clutched tight around his wrist.
Greg swallowed heavily and dropped his head into his hands.
Shit.
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I'll just give you a little bit more information about the story structure quickly since people didn't seem to be sure. This "Book", if you want to think of the story that way, is definitely not done. In terms of chapter count, we're now ~ 1/3 of the way; for words we've just tipped over a quarter. If you imagine a fantasy book, how some of them have parts inside the books, that's what we've just reached the end of. There are three in this book.
Just for your additional info:
- There are four books in this series. I'm currently writing three while posting this, though I dare not make any estimations as to dates for completion or length yet
- There will be an additional "Part V" (though probably "Part III" by the numbering on AO3) where I put in extra essays about the world, pictures, all that kind of thing. I like visual aids, and I have a OneNote file full of them
- Sherlock and John will certainly be in this story, and you'll see little bits as we go through, but their journey will transition to the forefront more in Book III and most certainly take centre stage in Book IV