Chapter Text
When Greg awoke he was immediately aware that something was different. He lay there, nose buried in Mycroft’s hair, as he tried to figure what was going on.
Wait. Mycroft’s hair?
Only years of training to conceal his instinctive responses kept Greg from leaping out of bed, keeping his reaction instead to the slightest stiffening of his body. His brain happily supplied him with images: him under Mycroft, the toys they’d used, him taking Mycroft from behind with the Omega on all fours...
Omega. That was right. Mycroft was an Omega. His perfect Omega.
That was the difference, Greg realised. For the first time since he’d caught the whiff of pheromones on Thursday he was clear headed. Lifting his nose from Mycroft’s hair he took a deep breath. The room was completely devoid of pheromones. The Estrus cycle was over.
He let his head drop down on the pillow and tried to process everything.
He’d gone to dinner, as per every Thursday. Check.
Mycroft had cancelled. Check.
He’d come around to see what was wrong. Check
He’d come inside and they’d...Greg swallowed as his mind happily supplied information about a LOT of sex. Far too much sex, Greg realised, to have only been one night. He knew vaguely that Heat usually lasted for several days, but had no clue as to the amount of time he and Mycroft had spent together in chemical induced bliss.
His arms tightened around the sleeping Omega in his arms. Was that a bad thing that they’d slept together? His heart and body answered with a resounding NO.
His friend, his love, his Dom, his Omega.
Mycroft was perfect, everything Greg had ever hoped and wished for.
There was a slight stirring in his arms. Greg held still, pretending to be asleep in order to allow his friend to come awake and process things like he had. He regretted the fact that Mycroft was waking up so soon after he himself had, but there would be other times to enjoy the feeling of Mycroft wrapped in his arms.
The Dom stiffened as he returned to consciousness, brain obviously working things out much quicker than Greg had.
“Good morning.” Greg murmured contentedly as he gently nosed the back of Mycroft’s neck.
Mycroft yanked away rolling quickly out of bed and, coming to his feet next to a chair, pulled on a dressing gown with record speed. Greg felt his stomach drop at the horror that was extraordinarily clear on Mycroft’s face.
“My...” He started, not able to get far before his throat closed up as the Dom took two steps backwards. Away from him.
“My,” He tried again. “My, please say something.”
Mycroft’s right hand trembled, then clenched into a fist.
“My, please, you’re scaring me.” Greg knew he was begging, but every part of him was shuddering over the very clear rejection.
“There’s a bathroom at the end of the hall. Towels should be inside.” The Omega turned and barrelled through a connecting door off to Greg’s left.
From the sound of a shower which instantly filled Greg’s hearing, it was an ensuite bathroom and Mycroft had either dived straight under the spray or turned it on to cover the sounds of him freaking out. Assuming Mycroft Holmes ever did something so pedestrian as ‘freak out’.
Greg swallowed, then swallowed again as he felt his soul collapse. He forced himself to lever out of the bed, pausing for longer than he should have on his knees as he tried to work out what had just happened. He stepped off the bed, taking the sheet with him, wrapping it around his waist as a sort of shield.
He didn’t know what it was for. His heart was already bleeding.
He gathered up his clothes from the floor. Carpet, he noted absently, a tan mottled with cream and gold that should have clashed horribly with the warm brown and gold walls, but somehow drew the colours together so the ornate wallpaper worked, fading from the eye in the presence of the more overpowering walls.
In however many days, he hadn’t noticed until now.
Refusing to look back and find out what colour the bed he’d just spent the best part of his life in was, he walked out of the room. End of the hall. The door opened easily, no jammed frames for Mycroft, and revealed a black and cream bathroom with a free standing footed bath, lion shaped taps, and ruby towels. He ignored the bath, his mind providing too many images of what could be done in there with the Omega he’d just watch run away from him, and stepped into the shower instead.
The water stung as it washed over his body making him aware of abrasions and other injuries he hadn’t previously noted. The shower had clear glass walls, looking strangely modern in its tiny corner of the otherwise traditional space, that allowed him full view of the enormous mirror over the hand basin. His back was covered with red lines. He recognised the majority of them as nail marks, though there were a couple that looked like they came from a crop of some sort. He didn’t remember those. He barely remembered the lines covering his buttocks from the riding crop, his brain providing a memory of bliss and ease as Mycroft took everything away and made him relax.
He swallowed hard and forcefully moved his eyes away. Unfortunately, this meant his gaze fell on his neck, which was covered in bruises. Quite clearly Mycroft had spent quite a long and desperate time there. A bite mark stood out on his bicep, he remembered getting that, but he didn’t remember the matching bite mark on his shoulder. Nor did he remember the love bites on his thighs, though they evoked the memory of a mind-blowing period in Mycroft’s mouth as the Omega worked him back to full hardness to take him again.
He moved his head under the spray and didn’t turn around to look at his front. Until he knew what was going to happen, the memories were too painful.
~*~
Greg walked down the passage in his stockinged feet, boots in one hand. He hadn’t been sure on whether Mycroft had a ‘no shoes in the house’ policy or not, so better safe than sorry. He’d already decided he wasn’t going to go back and wait for Mycroft in the bedroom, but the door he’d left open was now firmly shut so he was clearly not welcome back in there anyway. Instead he followed the red carpet runner down the stairs and back towards the front of the house he was at least vaguely familiar with.
The house looked very different without the pheromone induced haze. Clearly traditional architecture and deep dark tones were Mycroft’s preferred style. The thought made Greg’s heart twinge.
He placed his boots by the front door and drifted over to stand in the doorway of the room he’d been hustled into Thursday night. The light coming in the window was bathing the room in a gentle glow and providing a decent view of the sunset, considering the high buildings all around. He’d been here at least twenty four hours then.
He remembered the chair, still toppled over on its side, and even remembered that it was leather. Apparently it was chocolate brown leather same as the three seater settee with old fashioned brass press studs at the base and along the arms. There was a second chair he didn’t recall at all placed in line with the upturned one, and several antique tables decorated with decanters and books. More books lined the walls in heavy, old fashioned book cases, all of them leather bound, unlike Greg’s cheap paperbacks for his occasional free moments. The carpet was forest green and his eyes fell to the spot where he must have previously lain sprawled. The fireplace was cold, but not empty. Had there been a fire going when he had arrived? Greg couldn’t remember.
He slowly walked into the room and righted the chair, letting his fingers trail along the high winged back where Mycroft’s own fingers had clenched in an effort to resist Greg. He refused tears, though it took work. Sentimentality was going to get him nowhere, and there was nothing to say that once Mycroft got over the shock there would be any reason for them. They were after all, uniquely compatible. Neither would ever find anyone else ever who would fit them so well.
Greg moved back to the settee he’d perched on in what felt like another life and gingerly sat on the edge, feeling as if he were intruding on the space. There was still hope, it wasn’t all over. After all, if they’d bonded...
‘Ah, but you didn’t, did you?’ Sherlock was back in his head.
Greg was forced to accept the truth of the words and force tears back again. He didn’t know what a Bond felt like, no one did until they experienced it, but he knew instinctively that he and Mycroft hadn’t created one.
“Would you care for some tea?” Mycroft stood in the doorway, completely and impeccably dressed in another three piece suit.
“Ah, sure.” Greg stood with deliberate casualness.
“The kitchen is this way.”
Greg followed the retreating figure down past the staircase and a number of shut doors before Mycroft opened one and stepped through. The kitchen was a food lover’s dream, with a large stove and massive fridge. Greg felt his lips twist into a smile at the thought of what his Uncle and cousins, all of whom had gone into the culinary trade, would say of the room. The cooking gene had skipped his branch of the family, though he had been relentlessly drilled in the basics and knew enough to appreciate the space. Enough to know he could never have used half the available tools to even half their full potential.
Mycroft opened one of the cupboards and removed a floral tea set. Greg smothered a dark grin at the sight of the delicate smattering of pink roses over the tea pot and china cups and saucers. The silence as Mycroft boiled the water and seasoned the pot grew and grew, until he had to break it somehow.
“No servants then?” Mycroft turned partially to face him and raised an eyebrow. “Well, from what little I’ve heard your family seemed the type.”
The comment was acknowledged and left, letting the obvious lack of staff speak for itself, though Greg refused to believe Mycroft himself cleaned the stove. More likely he never used it and subsisted off take away and fancy dinners at the office.
The tea pot was placed on a silver tray with the cups, milk and sugar before Mycroft hesitated, clearly trying to decide where they would be going to drink the tea. Greg quickly plonked himself down at the kitchen table, refusing to be shuffled off to the ‘parlour’ like a stuffy formal guest rather than a friend. He just bet this place had a parlour. He also bet it wasn’t the sitting room he was in earlier. That seemed too... masculine and he imagined it may have once been a library or billiards room. From his limited understanding parlours tended to be much more delicate in decor.
Mycroft joined him at the table and awkwardly sat in the chair opposite Greg. The cups were arranged on the plate so when the tray was set down, they were automatically in front of the room’s occupants. Holmesian forethought, Greg thought with a sad internal smirk and shake of his head. Mycroft still didn’t say anything, apparently content to sit there in silence while the tea brewed in the pot. Greg was not so patient, and the tense and uncomfortable atmosphere was not how he was used to spending his time with Mycroft.
“You’re the only person I know who wears their suit jacket inside their own house.” Greg winced as he realised what he’d said, but, being a fairly typical mouth-before-brain comment he would make, it seemed to soothe Mycroft slightly and the Omega let out a tight smile.
“I hate to prove you wrong Gregory,” Greg’s mind bombarded him with the more intimate ways his name had recently past Mycroft’s lips, “but I do believe that my brother occasionally does the same.”
Greg rolled his eyes, giving his throat time to unlock, having tightened with previously supplied thoughts. “Fine, you Holmeses are the only people I know who wear suit jackets inside your homes.”
Mycroft let out a strained laugh and poured the tea. His movements as he spooned sugar and added milk to their cups were obviously and painfully controlled. They sat there with their tea cooling in front of them, neither of them lifting the cups to take a drink. Greg knew he should be hungry, knew that he hadn’t eaten now for an extended period of time, but the thought of even the tea made him feel sick.
The silence continued.
“It’s Sunday.” Mycroft’s voice was clear and crisp.
“Oh.” Greg paused. That meant he hadn’t eaten in almost four whole days.
“Alphas’ and Omegas’ metabolisms slow during an Estrus cycle. The excess energy required for mating is provided, but all other bodily functions reduce, often leading to recollection issues. Despite this you’ll probably find yourself ravenous in an hour or so and will have lost some weight.” Mycroft sounded like he was reciting from a text book. He possibly was.
There didn’t seem to be anything to reply that Greg could force past his lips so the silence fell again. He picked up his tea cup, brought it to his lips, put it down without drinking, lifted it again, and then set it down and crossed his arms to stop fidgeting with it.
“So,” Greg kept his eyes on the tea pot, “you’re an Omega.”
“Yes.”
“Not an Alpha.”
“Yes.”
“Right.” He took a breath. “Who else knows? About you’re being an Omega, I mean.”
Greg hoped the list would be small. The idea that other people knew and he hadn’t hurt.
“My parents, Mummy and Sherlock, of course, the family doctor, and my assistant.”
Each name felt like a shard of ice being forced into Greg’s heart, burning and freezing as it went.
“Right.”
The silence fell again. Mycroft changed the direction of the handle on his cup.
“What about you?”
“What?” Greg’s eyes shot up off the kettle at the sudden and unexpected sound of Mycroft’s voice.
Mycroft raised his eyes from their own resting spot beyond his tea cup to meet them. “Who knows you’re not a Dominant?”
Greg swallowed and broke the eye contact. Mycroft’s gaze wasn’t accusing, but it might as well have been. He hadn’t told him either and so had no right to be upset himself.
“No one.” He admitted. “You’re the first person to ever find out.”
Mycroft nodded in Greg’s peripheral vision.
“How did you manage it?” Greg asked. “I mean, for me it was easy. Everyone assumed that because I was an Alpha I was a Dom.”
Mycroft leant back in his chair and his gaze wondered off over the wall. “You know of course that even though it’s not possible to tell gender or dynamic until puberty, there is always some indication in children’s personalities of their sexuality, especially if they’re likely to fall very high or very low on the dominance scale.”
Greg nodded, though his practical experience with children was limited to his own memories.
“It was clear through my childhood I was going to be a Dominant, everything about the way I acted apparently made this fact very obvious to the world.”
That Greg could easily imagine. As dominant as Mycroft was as an adult, there must have been a bleed through into his childhood well beyond that normal for most people.
“Then when Sherlock was born it was deemed settled. I was over protective, I was possessive, I was everything a Dominant Alpha elder brother was expected to be. Then I turned eleven and it was revealed I was an Omega, not an Alpha as expected. It was... a shock.”
The measured tone of voice suggested that Mycroft was under exaggerating the situation. Greg could only imagine how Mycroft had felt having developed his self-image his whole childhood and then having it torn down around him. At least when Greg received his revelation it was more a gradual acceptance than a bolt outright characterisation.
Of course, unlike Greg, who had only to deal with himself, Mycroft would have had his family to handle. Greg knew nothing of the extended Holmes family beyond the occasional mention of Mummy, but he doubted their reactions had been easy to deal with. Omegas were treasured as second sons, but not overly appreciated as heirs.
Mycroft’s hands moved to loosely link on the edge of the table. They were steady and calm. “It was decided that everyone had been incorrect, that I obviously just had a very forthright child’s personality and that that would suitably adjust when I hit adolescence. It didn’t, and it was understood by the time I was fifteen that it wasn’t going to.”
The hands unlinked and the fingers crossed back the other way.
“It hadn’t been announced that I was an Omega due to the confusion, so it was decided that it wouldn’t be. I was an Omega and I was a Dominant. I couldn’t be both. Only one would fulfil my role in the family and allow me fulfil our hereditary governmental duties to the Crown .”
Greg nodded. “So you stayed an Alpha, as society already assumed you were.”
There was a subtle agreement from Mycroft. “I’m sure you can imagine... the problems that would have arisen should I have been revealed as an Omega.”
Greg nodded again. As an Omega there would have been no way Mycroft could have gone into government. Even if all the prejudices hadn’t worked against him, even if he had been accepted as equal by his peers on the national and international political stages, he would have been too vulnerable. If the political world knew Mycroft was an Omega the almost 100% Alpha profession would have tried to use him. Every time he went into Heat, he would have been in danger as every politician who wanted something, and even those who didn’t, attempted to manoeuvre into his bed to mate him, to Bond him and to take his power base as their own. Foreign nations would have sent people, not to kill him, but to kidnap him, to try and force a Bond that would allow them access to his knowledge and power. Every move he made, every person he spoke to, would have been suspect and no one could have been trusted. Even politicians and bureaucrats required allies to get things done, and Mycroft would have been able to trust none of them.
“You could have not taken up the post.” Greg felt the need to say it, because he had a sinking feeling he knew that Mycroft’s previous statement was more than a casual comment on his past, but was instead the final conclusion of a discussion they hadn’t yet had, and he had to argue with it somehow.
“There was no one else. Sherlock was nine by the time my dynamic was known for sure and already showing clear signs of being an Omega Submissive, not an Alpha, though he did fight it.”
As a Dom, Mycroft could never have lived with the Alpha Dominant he would have been required to Mate with to pass the family position to his Bound and Bonded mate. With Mycroft alive, even if Sherlock had managed a relationship the position could never have passed to his partner either.
Mycroft’s hand moved to put another spoonful of sugar in his untouched tea.
Greg felt a lump in his throat. He pushed it away and looked up, forcing a cheery look which only slightly died at the serious and reserved visage which greeted him.
“You know I always did blame you for Sherlock’s less than submissive behaviour. I thought it was just reaction to having a dominant elder brother, you know, pushing back.”
Mycroft shook his head. “Partially. It’s also that,” there was a pause as Mycroft searched for the right words.
“He wanted to be a Dom, didn’t he?” Greg had long suspected this.
Mycroft nodded. “It’s more than the fact he felt it would give him more options in life. He...he admired me. He wanted to be like me. To him my sexuality is amazing, because it’s unique. It’s not normal, not boring.” Mycroft’s face softened, as it always did when he spoke about his younger brother without said brother present. “He hates me for being what he wanted to be, because he can’t be it. To him this is freedom, the ability to do as I like and choose rather than fold to biology that wants to force a certain role. He sees independence.”
Mycroft didn’t sound very free.
“He seems happy with John, though?” Greg offered.
Mycroft turned his face back to meet Greg’s gaze.
“Doctor Watson has been a godsend. Sherlock refused to have any relationships previously, too afraid that his Dom would force him to give up his interests and conform to societal expectations. He may claim not hide his sexuality, but he does employ a very large and thick smoke screen to keep people from realising on the off chance someone became too close and used their relationship to stop him from doing whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted.” Mycroft let a tight forced smile dance across his lips. “John will never do that and he is more than dominant enough to comfortably handle Sherlock’s masks and reach the Submissive inside.”
Greg felt his own affectionate grin stretching his lips, but it faltered slightly on his face.
“John wants to have kids.” He blurted out and flushed immediately. That was told to him in confidence, drunken confidence or not.
Mycroft merely nodded. “I know.”
Greg waited to see if there was anything else. There wasn’t. “Sherlock doesn’t.”
Mycroft raised his eyebrow. “Is that your opinion, is it?”
Greg raised his own eyebrow, refusing to not back down from the challenge. Submissive and Alpha. “It’s Sherlock. Half the time he forgets John at a crime scene, let alone a baby. There is no way he’ll stop work long enough to give birth, forget caring for the child afterwards. He’s just...” Greg struggled to find the words, “not parental!”
Mycroft looked away, gaze fastening again on the wall. “It may surprise you to know, Gregory, that at the very time you were having a drunken heart to heart with John, - yes, I do know all about that - Sherlock was sitting where you are now close to tears because he was scared he’d permanently destroyed his fertility with the less than regular chemicals he’d been taking to suppress his cycle, and would consequently never be able to have a child.”
Startled Greg leant back in his chair, feeling the soft thud as his back hit the firm surface in the sharp stings on his back. “Really?” He knew his voice was disbelieving, but, really? Sherlock? Upset? About kids?
Mycroft kept his gaze on the wall. “Coming out of Heat bonded to John was the best thing that has ever happened to Sherlock. Coming out of it without a child, depressed him beyond anything I’ve ever seen in him before, though he hid it well. If not for the Bond, he would almost certainly have sunk back into drugs.” Mycroft’s voice trailed off to a murmur. “He always did prefer interacting with children to adults. Said they hadn’t been conditioned to be stupid yet.”
“Does John know that? Because the Alpha I talked to was sure Sherlock didn’t want a child, and it was tearing him apart.”
Mycroft sighed and drummed his fingers on the table. “I try to stay out of their private life as much as possible unless Sherlock needs me. They are happy in all other respects, and with luck the matter will resolve itself soon. They’re Bonded, Sherlock is bound to go back into Estrus before much longer, and hopefully this time there will be a child.”
Greg nodded. He felt slightly like one of those bobbing dogs people kept in their cars with all the nodding he’d been doing, but the conversation was so stilted that it was hard to reply with more than an acknowledgement.
He stopped and fiddled with the tea cup instead.
The silence stretched thin again until the sounds made by his tea cup in its saucer were deafening.
“So, what about us then?” Greg heard himself ask. He mentally kicked himself as he did not, under any circumstances, want the answer to that. He knew the answer; Mycroft had made it clear.
Mycroft sighed. “There is no us, Gregory.”
Greg’s heart was stuck in his throat. It was the only possible reason it was so hard to breathe, why he couldn’t talk.
Mycroft’s voice was gentle and very tight as he kept going. “We didn’t Bond, surely you’re aware of that.”
“Yes.” Greg rasped, though the sentence was like a knife to the gut. He’d known, of course, he’d thought about it already, but he’d hoped, how he’d hoped.
“Then that’s that.”
“Right.”
He would not beg. He absolutely would not fall to his knees on the floor and beg Mycroft to reconsider. He was an Alpha, he had his pride, and if that’s the only thing he had to keep him going he would use it.
“Nothing will change.”
There was the sound of a vow in Mycroft’s voice. Friends, Mycroft still wanted to be friends. That was good. It was something at least.
“Friends then.” Greg kept his voice detached. He would not let Mycroft know that he was tearing Greg apart, sentence by sentence, word by word.
“Of course. This was merely an unfortunate and costly error on my behalf. I do apologise.”
The idea of it being a mistake, the idea that something that to Greg was so perfect, was being apologised for was heart wrenching and Greg gripped the tea cup to prevent himself curling up in a ball.
“Why’d you wait so long to cancel?” Greg had to know.
Mycroft must have known Greg would come round to check on him, must have known. It had been a plea then, a hope that Greg would, and Greg needed to hear him say it; needed Mycroft to say he had cancelled late because he had wanted Greg.
“My doctor and I were trialling a new experimental suppressant; I react to the conventional ones, and this one is less potent with more manageable side effects. I had been warned that I might experience a pseudo cycle for a few hours because of the lower dosage. By the time I realised it wasn’t going to stop, and that it was an actual Estrus cycle...well, I don’t need to tell you.”
Greg let his chin drop despondently. Not him then. Not a silent plea for attention, a hidden declaration of feelings, just science, timing and bad luck.
Mycroft stood and took his tea cup to the sink where he poured the undrunk liquid down the sink, a clear indication that the conversation was over.
Friends, Greg repeated the word numbly. He could do friends. He would do friends even if it killed him if it was the only piece of Mycroft he could have.
He slowly stood as well, placing his cup back on the tray for Mycroft to deal with later. His feet felt heavy as he moved back along the corridor to the door to pull on his boots.
Friends.
Mycroft paused several feet away from him, waiting for Greg to finish. Greg pulled on the last boot, and put his hand on the handle. The door opened easily. How sad, Greg thought, that it had taken so much effort to get in, and yet so little to leave.
He paused with his foot on the step, remaining in the doorway, and twisted to face Mycroft who had moved to hold the open door.
“So, Thursday then?” He had to ask, had to have the reassurance.
Mycroft nodded. “Thursday.”
The door shut gently behind him and Greg walked off down the street, refusing to let himself run. Refusing to let himself acknowledge the space between them, the pause before Mycroft had agreed to see him Thursday.
The fact that Mycroft hadn’t commented at all on the awful pattern of his socks.
A dry sob escaped his throat and he forced it back. Not yet. Not until he got home. Then he’d throw himself on the bed and cry and yell and wail at the world over his broken heart and crushed hopes.
Then on Monday, he’d get up and go to work and do his overtime, and again on Tuesday, and Wednesday, and Thursday if required.
There was no reason not to.
Friends.
He could do friends.