Chapter Text
It was another couple of days before Mycroft was finally able to leave the house with his Guide by his side. There had been another bombing this morning, and things were tense in the car, Mycroft’s fingers entwined with Greg’s. The inspector still had the cast, of course, but he was nearly walking without a limp. When the pair walked into New Scotland Yard, there was a spontaneous round of applause that had Greg blushing.
They got to work, John dragging Sherlock in to go over what they’d learned and had been doing. At least there were a few leads now and Mycroft had no doubt they were dealing with someone clever and dangerous.
The four of them spent the next week pent up in one of NSY's small conference rooms, barely sleeping and sleeping poorly when they managed to lose consciousness. Because of the insomnia-induced exhaustion, despite his shields now being at 100%, Greg hadn't even noticed his Sentinel leaving the small conference room until he returned with four tall white cups in a posh-looking beverage carrier, the fresh scent of steaming coffee rousing Greg from his stupor. One sip from the cup handed to him had his eyes fluttering closed at the exquisite taste, and he finally decided it might be time for a break. On the other side of the room, John was standing back, watching his Sentinel pace back and forth along a wall covered in papers and pictures, and My was handing him two cups. The other Guide took a sip from one and then stepped forward to gesture with the other cup at something on the wall. When Sherlock stepped forward to bend and look, John seamlessly handed him the second cup without a look, looking for all the world as if he'd done nothing of the sort. Greg snorted when the Sentinel took a sip without thinking,then sputtered in apparent surprise.
"When did you get--" he started and then stopped, nostrils flaring as he turned and looked at his older brother. He gave the man a contemplative glare then turned back to his wall of evidence, continuing to drink. At his side, John pretended not to smile and Sherlock pretended not to see it. Greg had no such compunction and beamed a victorious smile at his bonded. He knew the Holmes brothers had been raised in such a way that they had not been encouraged towards a caring relationship, and it had only gotten worse over the years, to the point that Sherlock wouldn't even be in the same room as My when Greg had gotten to know them seven years back. It hadn't been until John Watson had come along, two years ago, that things had started to look up for his long-suffering, patient bonded.
Mycroft came back around to Greg’s side, squeezing his shoulder. “I made reservations for dinner for tonight. Assuming we manage to keep them,” he said quietly. He couldn’t help but feel like they were getting closer. At least there hadn’t been any more bombings for the last few days. Either they were getting better at spotting them or the bomber was waiting or they were getting close. At least they’d narrowed the manufacturer down to a specific area of London.
"Sure, okay," Greg mumbled, frowning down at a still from a video. A witness had been recording a family member when their camera had captured a murder; the murder from the third bombing. In the foreground was a teenager in the midst of some strange, possibly-acrobatic demonstration; in the middle were two women, one knifing the other; and in the back was a small, dark-haired man handing a large brown grocery bag and a large wad of money to a familiar looking child.
"My," he called, beckoning absent-mindedly and almost hitting his bonded in the face with one hand while his other worked on pulling up a photo on his mobile. "I need to know first of all what that bag looks like it holds," he said, pointing to the brown bag, "and I need to know if these two children are the same," he finished, putting his mobile down on the still. On the screen was a photo he'd taken of one of the many youth football groups he'd come across over the years, and he'd zoomed in on one of the boys' face.
Mycroft frowned but quickly did what he asked. He’d long ago learned to trust Greg’s instincts, especially in matters that weren’t his expertise. In less than an hour they had a rudimentary plan. Sherlock and John were going to investigate a few other things, Greg and Mycroft were going to see if they could check out this kid.
Of course Greg insisted on driving. It wouldn’t make sense for Mycroft’s car to be in this neighborhood. Mycroft couldn’t help but be tense. “I hope this cracks it open.”
"Me too," the detective replied, carefully scanning the park for signs of life. Finally, movement attracted his sharp eye and he'd barely hit the brakes before he was putting the machine into 'Park'. He hadn't even pulled out of the street, just left his car alongside another's and his bonded in the car as he quickly jogged to the small cluster of children by a goal. For a moment, they all tensed and turned, as if they were going to dart away any second. But a moment later, they recognised him and swarmed him instead, and he collapsed under their attentions easily, crumpling to the green in laughter under their combined weight.
Mycroft bit back a smile as he made his way over. He knew about Greg’s sometimes weekend activities, of course, but it was another thing to see it in action. The kids laughed and pulled back. It made his heart tug, to wonder if maybe Greg wanted a child of his own. Mycroft had never considered it; for him, taking care of Sherlock had been enough.
After several long minutes of trying to calm the children with not just words and hand gestures, but also an outpouring of empathy, he finally got them quiet enough to get off his back and to his knees on the damp grass before inquiring the whereabouts of the boy in the photo, Billy. He didn't need powers to understand the suddenly-uncomfortable atmosphere.
"We haven't seen him in days, Mr Lestrade," little Piper chirped helpfully. He smiled at her and held up the enhanced photo of the dark haired man.
"What about this man?" he asked. "Have you seen him?" Several of the kids leaned forward, frowning at the gritty quality, though they all suddenly tensed, eyes darting over his shoulder. He turned on his knees, smearing mud on his trouser legs, to see My strolling towards them. He stripped one glove from his fingers and held it out for his Sentinel to take with a warm smile. These kids were from rough neighborhoods, and they needed people to trust in. And if they could trust him, they needed to know they could trust his bonded too.
Mycroft took his hand, looking the children over and giving them a smile, even if it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m glad to finally meet you,” he said. He saw them looking at him doubtfully. He rarely dealt with children in his daily life. Mindful of the mud, he crouched next to Greg. “It would be very good, if you could help us.”
"This is my bonded Sentinel, Mycroft," Greg introduced in a conspiratorial stage-whisper. "Do you remember all those explosions a few weeks back?" The children nodded and more than one pair of understanding eyes shot down to his casted wrist. It was the same for a lot of the children from the poor neighborhoods: treated like they didn't have an ounce of brain in their heads when they were some of the smartest, most innovative humans out there. There had been explosions, he had gone missing for a few weeks, and now he was back with a broken arm and looking a bit more scraped up than normal. "Mycroft has been helping me with them and now we need to find this man. We cut the picture to get just this man’s face, but the part that we cut shows that he was talking to Billy, and we need to find them both. Do any of you know where either of them are?"
A few of the kids looked at each other. One of them moved closer, bumping into Mycroft and sending the posh man tottering back into the mud. The girl’s eyes went wide, her whole body stiff with terror. For a moment Mycroft thought of the cost of the suit. But then he realized how ridiculous he must look and burst into laughter as he sat up. “It’s fine,” he said to the child, meeting her eyes.
She smiled back at him, then looked at Greg. “I think I know where to find him.”
Greg was still trying not to laugh at the way his public school Sentinel looked half-covered in mud when Susie spoke up. Immediately he sobered. "Will you tell me?" he asked, fixating on her face with stern yet hopeful eyes.
Susie nodded and quickly told them about the man and the place, looking to the others for confirmation. “He’s been offering a lot of money,” she said quietly.
Mycroft looked at them. “Thank you,” he said, offering her his hand. She shook it.
Greg pursed his lips against his teeth to keep from laughing at the adorably proper handshake. "Thank you, Susie," he said as well, giving her an affectionate ruffle of her hair and she grinned back at him. His smile turned to a grimace when he got to his feet and realised the extent to which his trouser knees were soaked through and muddied. When he turned with an irritated frown to his bonded, the man just gave him a smug smirk. Greg was sorely tempted to push the Sentinel back in the dirt. Instead, he waved to the children as he walked back to his car, My smartly staying just behind him.
Mycroft couldn't help the look on his face as they got back into the car. "I'm sorely tempted to change, but time is of the essence." He delicately wiped his hands on a handkerchief. "You are very good with children," he said quietly, wondering how he'd respond.
The Guide wordlessly started the car and pulled out, one eye sticking to his mobile's screen as he tapped out a broadcast message to his team. This was one unspoken question he didn't much want to answer, mainly because he was afraid of how his Sentinel would react. "The Sentinel I had before you," he started, knowing My would already know what he was talking about--he was under no illusions that he hadn't been thoroughly investigated as soon as he'd come into contact with Sherlock and stayed that way, "we tried to get pregnant. For years. I know I've always wanted them, but she wasn't ever that clear if she did or not. And not long after I found her cheating on me with another Guide, I found out she was pregnant by him too." Greg took a deep breath, knuckles turning white on the wheel. "I don't know if I wasn't... or if she just didn't want to raise a child with me. But I've never stopped wanting one." He shot a look over to his bonded. "I would understand you not wanting one, and that wouldn’t change anything for us. . You are my other half, and I couldn't be happier, all right? No matter what."
Mycroft reached over and squeezed his thigh and chose his words carefully. “I have to admit that, until right now, the thought hadn’t even occurred to me. I knew about your past of course. I know our schedules are...difficult. But if you wished to adopt, I am certain that we could arrange ourselves around them.” He tried to radiate reassurance. If this was what his Guide really wanted, well, he could hardly deny him anything. Really, Gregory asked for so little from him.
The detective almost ran a red in his surprise. Mycroft had always been nothing but supportive to his wants during their relationship, but he hadn't expected it to extend to, well, this. "Thank you. I would like that very much," he managed to say despite the tightness in his throat. His Sentinel did not answer, but he didn't move his hand from Greg's thigh either. The rest of the ride was spent in silence, though the closer they got, the more sober and focused the mood of the car became. And then they pulled up, and he recognised a tenseness in the air he only ever felt around one other person, rather, one other Guide. He loosed a quiet storm of curses, barely resisting the urge to throw up his hands and just go home right now. He did not have the inclination to deal with Sherlock's usually-illegal detecting ways, not today.
Mycroft was out of the car in an instant, stalking towards where he could smell his brother and his bonded. Greg was right behind him. There was someone else here too and he tensed, moving cautiously as he drew closer. Looking around the corner he could see John had his gun drawn on a short, slight man. The stranger smiled darkly as he paced, seemingly uncaring of the gun on him. No doubt that was because there was clearly a sniper with a bead on Sherlock’s chest. Mycroft signaled Greg to move towards where he suspected the sniper was hiding.
The Guide hesitated for a moment, the thought of being so far apart from his bonded at a time like this making a cold shiver roll down his spine. After a narrow glare and another firm hand signal, and a forceful repeat of the image of a pinned-by-sniper Sherlock, Greg nodded and crept through the darkness. Trying to locate the sniper from the position via only a mental image of the bright red dot on his friend's chest left much to be desired, though the plentiful pillars he used as cover provided frequent quick glimpses of the standoff between Sherlock and John, and a young man resembling the one from the photograph. Absently, he let tendrils of his empathy slide through the air, hoping to use his powers to locate whoever was stilling John's (probably illegal) gun from taking out the threat against their bond, and they instantly recoiled, snapping back behind his shields like a child darting to hide behind its mother's skirts. There was another Guide here, one closer to My than him, probably that small, dark-haired man, but his empathy felt sick in a way that made Greg nauseous.
Knowing he was spotted, Mycroft stepped into the open, hoping to buy Greg time. “It’s me you want, isn’t it?” His heart beat fast in his chest, but if he was going to die today, at least he could do it protecting the people he loved.
The dark haired man turned to face him, madness in his eyes. “So nice of you to join us, Mycroft Holmes.”
For some reason, the light echo of the soft Irish lilt surprised him. Geg knew just as well as anyone how appearances could be deceiving, but that didn't stop some people's physical looks versus their crimes to startle him. He didn't let himself falter though, and quickly came upon a set of stairs. Judging from the position of the glowing dot, he should have come across the sniper by now, and as he hadn't, the detective quickly drew his gun and kept to the absolute sides of the stairs to reduce the chance of them creaking. If the sniper had enhanced hearing at all, they would have been able to hear him breathing from downstairs, and that the bead had yet to move indicated a good chance that they either had a different enhanced sense or none at all. In fact, when he rounded the corner at the top, he found a tanned, blond man laying on the ground, a sniper rifle in his arms and a scope pressed to his eye. Greg crept in a wide arc behind the man, and rushed in from the opposite side, kicking the rifle out of the man's grasp hard enough to send it flying through the air and into the darkness.
As soon as the rifle was off Sherlock, John fired. It echoed, making Mycroft wince. A second shot followed the first and Mycroft looked down at himself. Blood was mixing with the mud as he stumbled back and crumpled. John was by his side in a moment. Pain washed through his system and he screwed his eyes tightly shut, trying to shutter his shields so he wouldn't overwhelm Gregory.
The detective's attack had caught the muscled sniper by surprise, and an attempt at arrest had turned into an impromptu wrestling match, though he liked to think it wouldn't have been as difficult if he weren't still obstructed by a cast. Greg had just managed to get out a pair of cuffs when pain from across the bond nearly knocked him breathless. His pause allowed the other man to roll him, a meaty pair of hands encircling his throat and pressing on his airway. Fortunately, adrenaline and fear as to the cause of that pain had him surprising the would-be assassin, knocking him in the head with his cast, rolling the man and reversing their positions. Being such an upstanding police officer, he was averse to killing when it wasn't required of him, but he wasn't averse to slamming the still-breathing man's head into the concrete floor until he blacked out. Greg barely had time to cuff the man to a railing before he was scrambling away, desperate to get to his bonded.
“Greg! Catch the other shooter,” called John as Greg skittered around the corner, waving in the direction Sherlock had gone. John knew Greg’s desperation, but he’d regret it if they didn’t at least try to catch the other one. There was a grunt of pain as Sherlock apparently tackled them. The brothers may not have been close, but that didn’t mean Sherlock wanted to see Mycroft shot.
Mycroft smiled against the pain, feeling John squeeze his hand as he got his shirt open. Second suit that was ruined in two weeks.
Sherlock's heart was pounding and anger was thrumming through his veins. It was true he didn't like his brother much, and he could happily go years without seeing the other Sentinel, but a premature death was utterly unacceptable. Especially by way of murder. His fist slammed down again into the shooter's already beaten face again, and he had just raised it for another when fingers grabbed his wrist. He turned with a snarl, only to be faced by an ill-looking Lestrade. It took him a moment to realise that, despite the firm, near-strangling grasp on his wrist, the DI was trembling.
"I know you have my second pair of handcuffs, Sherlock," Greg said, his voice sounding empty to his own ears. He felt pale, and it was a strange feeling. He wondered if this was how My felt when he'd been caught in that blast. "We need him alive. We still need answers."
John let Greg take over with keeping pressure in the wound when he returned with the other shooter. He moved to the madman that had been at the center of things. He hadn't shot to kill, after all. "Sherlock, go to the street and make sure the ambulance knows we're back here."
Things moved quite quickly after that. The ambulance that arrived for the bomber and My was not like a normal one. Apparently the British Government's team was taking this over before Greg's team could, and honestly, for once, he was quite alright with that. A lot less policies that needed working around to get the answers they needed. The grin of the dark-haired Guide unnerved him and John came to stand at his side as the injured men were loaded away.
"Did you feel his empathy?" he asked. The pain in his own body, the echo from his bonded's wound fading as it was treated and as My moved farther away from him. A car was already moving forward and he had no doubt Anthea was waiting in the back seat to take him to wherever his Sentinel was being taken for treatment.
John nodded. "I've only felt that with bonded that lose their other half. But people don’t survive that, usually." He looked thoughtful. "I suppose if he wanted revenge bad enough that could have seen him through." He looked Greg over critically. "Get yourself checked out, too. You might have opened up wounds. Especially the arm."
Sure enough, when the car pulled up in front of him, Anthea was the one to hold open the door and he clambered inside. The ride to the private care clinic was silent and tense, and Greg only became more so when he found out he wouldn’t be allowed to see his Sentinel for some time, as his bonded was still in surgery. It was a somewhat terrifying and nervous hour later when he was led into My’s room.
Mycroft came awake slowly, moaning softly as he felt his bonded soothing his mind. He opened his eyes and squeezed Greg’s hand, groggy and not trusting himself to speak. He opened his mind a bit more, letting his bonded in. After a couple bleary minutes, he closed his eyes and passed out again.
He was feeling much better by the time he was allowed to go home, but it had been a long stay in the hospital. There were certainly things he could tell Greg, but he kept quiet about what had happened between himself and Moriarty. He’d much rather put that all behind them. Greg had kept him informed on what was going on in London (and Anthea with everything else). The city was back to it’s usual self, for the most part.
Once they were finally in their home and ensconced in bed, Mycroft kissed Greg’s cheek. “I will start the paperwork for our adoption. I trust you to find a good agency.”
Greg paused in the middle of rolling onto his side and blinked over at his Sentinel. Cautiously, he sent a feeler over the bond, trying to parse the statement. There was nothing but eagerness and anticipation there, no hint that his bonded regretted his initial offer, and he finished rolling over, tangling their legs and slinging one arm over his bonded's waist and propped his head up on his other. "All right," he replied. "Do you really think we can make it work?"
“I do, Gregory,” Mycroft’s voice was quiet as he leaned to kiss him. “I’d rather not an infant, but I do believe we can manage.” He reached up to stroke his bonded’s cheek, feeling the light scruff that lingered there.
The Guide let out a laugh. "God, no. We definitely couldn't handle that." He felt giddy and he let out another laugh, rolling his Sentinel onto his back and slotting himself between the soft thighs, careful to keep his cast pressed to the bed next to My's head. "God, I love you," he breathed, unable to contain himself. He didn't give his bonded a chance to answer--the Sentinel's mouth was much too busy with other sounds.
FIN