Author notes: Yep, another Omegaverse from me, based on another prompt from the BBC Sherlock kink meme. However! This is NOT part of my other Omegaverse stories. Hopefully that's pretty apparent since Mycroft is an Alpha in those stories and Lestrade a Beta, whereas here they're an Omega and Alpha respectively. This story will share some elements with that series, but other things can and will be very, very different. That's one of the fun perks of Omegaverse stuff; there's all kinds of variety.

Also, please note that this story is currently being written and that I have a busy job with many responsibilities. I can't promise fast updates, but I do have the plot of this story figured out up through the climax and resolution, so it's all just a matter of getting there. Please bear with me!

So without further ado, I'll shut up and let you get on with the fic. Reviews are immensely appreciated and are a brilliant motivator, so let me know what you think!

If someone were to ask Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade what finally pushed him over the edge and got him to ask The Question, he would place all the blame on a pair of completely unnecessary reading glasses. This wasn't anywhere near the truth, of course. That's just the kind of dramatic interpretation of events that people like to tell themselves and that others like to hear. In reality, for the past several months The Question had been simmering quietly in the back of his head like a little kernel of popcorn in increasingly hot oil. It was just that the glasses provided that little extra bit of warmth to cause The Question to pop.

Greg stepped out of the bathroom attached to the master bedroom, dressed only in his old dark blue pyjama bottoms. He was rubbing vigorously at his more-salt-than-pepper hair with the coarse towel he kept here. Mycroft's towels tended to feel very soft and fluffy, and Greg found he just couldn't feel clean after drying off with them. Using one was like rubbing a particularly easy-going chinchilla against your nethers, and that just wasn't the type of thought he liked to have right out of the shower. He attributed this to a childhood where cheap, starchy detergents were the norm. He didn't even know fabric softeners existed until he was around twelve years old, and even now he wasn't quite sure how they worked. It could've been fairy magic for all he knew.

Mycroft was already at the headboard of the bed, engaged in the process of creating a mighty throne of soft pillows to lean against as the evening wore down. A small, time-worn book sat atop the sheets on Mycroft's side. The mattress dipped slightly and the covers wrinkled under Greg's weight as he sat on his side of the bed and reached for the book. "What's this you've got?" he asked.

"Merely a little light reading," Mycroft replied as he made final adjustments on his hoard of pillows. He leaned back to examine his work with a critical eye, resting his chin on his right thumb and tapping his index finger against his lower lip in thought.

Greg ran a hand over the smooth, aged black leather binding on the book. Looking at the gold lettering of the title, he did his level best to pronounce it. "Ill Princey-pay," he murmured. "Something about a prince?"

Mycroft smirked. "In a matter of speaking, yes."

Flipping through the crisp, yellowed pages with a calloused thumb, Greg's eyes scanned the text .He frowned in confusion at the rows of words. "Is that… Italian?"

"Yes. This was a very influential text from my childhood. As sentimental notions go, nostalgia is far and away the least troublesome. A little bit of it is useful, after all. Powerful. When used effectively it is the lifeblood of tradition as well as one of the most potent ways to control a populace." Mycroft adjusted the bedside lamp for prime lighting conditions and, therefore, optimum reading efficiency. He then eased into the bed and leaned against the pillows. He held out a hand for the book, and Greg obliged the wordless request.

"With more life experience under my belt, I find the book rather cutely naïve, but its ideas had a profound effect on me once upon a time," Mycroft continued. A faint and fleeting faraway expression settled across his features as he ran a careful finger over the book's title. Greg managed to catch it, though an untrained eye would never have seen the slip in that stony exterior. "This must be how people feel when reflecting on the fairy stories of their early childhoods."

"I think I get where you're coming from," Greg said. "My gran used to read The Little Prince to me all the time me when I was a kid. Maybe not as impressive as this other prince thing you've got, but some of it sticks with you always." He scratched at his chin. It was actually somewhat refreshing to hear Mycroft speak like someone who actually had something resembling a childhood. "You first read this in Italian when you were a kid?"

Mycroft laughed. "Heavens, no. I read it in translation until I was about, oh, seven or so. That's when my Italian was strong enough to read the original text."

Greg shook his head and flopped against his pillow. Roughly, he moved a hand to cover his eyes and part of his forehead with an audible 'thwack'. "You bloody impossible Holmeses," he muttered. "Reading in Italian when everyone else is still getting a handle on English."

"And Latin."

"What?"

"The same time I was learning to read Italian, I was learning Latin."

Greg peeked through his fingers to gaze in disbelief at Mycroft. "I thought your second language was French. I remember because you gave me hell for my last name being French despite me only knowing rusty secondary school stuff like how to ask where the toilet is."

"Oh, that," Mycroft scoffed. "I don't count that. That's practically a second mother tongue."

Greg groaned and rolled over on his side to face Mycroft, fully intending to rant further about how ludicrous the Holmes family tree was in general and how he and John Watson ought to form a support group for regular people caught in its orbit, but it died in his throat. Instead, he found himself mesmerized by Mycroft's profile as he read, lit by the warm glow of the bedside lamp. The way a small, scarcely noticeable smile quirked at the ends of his lips, usually so stern and mirthless. The set and angle of a pair of reading glasses which Greg knew his lover didn't need, and the glint of gold reflecting from the spectacles' frame in the soft light. The steady rise and fall of his chest beneath his impeccable and most definitely expensive Egyptian cotton pyjamas. The only sounds the crisp rustle of turned pages and the barely audible in-out-in-out exhalations of Mycroft's breathing; Greg found his own lungs falling in step.

It was that moment, awash as he was in the implausible hominess of the scene, that Greg was hit with the sudden and unstoppable need to be with this man for the rest of his life and for it to be official. And The Question charged forth, tumbling off his tongue like a flood of water from a burst dam.

Though, interestingly enough, it didn't really take on the form of an actual question.

"Let's get bonded," he blurted out.

The only indication that Mycroft even heard Greg's sudden request was a slight hitch in the rhythm of his breathing. "What was that?"

"Let's get bonded," Greg repeated. "Officially, I mean. We've been together almost a year now, and it just hit me that if I don't bond with you as soon as I can, I'm the biggest idiot on this damn planet."

Mycroft sighed and removed his glasses, folding them carefully and placing them on the bedside table. He then turned to get a better look at his lover. "Gregory, I am not saying no, but if this is because you would like to have children with me, I must inform you that at my age the odds of success are rather… limited." Although his face remained impassive, he worried one of the earpieces. "It's of no import to me; long ago I accepted that my rather… gender atypical choices about career and other matters would render me more a custodian and instigator in the propagation of the Holmes line than an active participant. However, I do realize reproduction is a high priority for many people when it comes to bonding."

"No, no, that's not it," Greg said hastily, holding up a placating hand. He took a breath and ran that hand through his hair. "Well, I mean, I'll be honest - I wish I had met you sooner so that could've been more of an option. And I don't think I'd be upset if we did end up with a little surprise. But my youngest from my previous bonding is still in uni and it's been a couple years since my eldest graduated. Won't be long before they start pairing off and getting bonded, as bloody terrifying a thought as that is. It'd be a pretty shocking move to spring a sibling on them now."

There was a moment of silence disturbed only by the rhythmic ticking of the antique table clock on the bedside table. "Your sons are both Alphas, correct?" Mycroft asked.

Greg knew that Mycroft was very much aware of the natures of his sons, but he nodded anyway.

"Then you must be relieved that, as they are not Omegas, you won't have to put up with any potential suitors crawling to you looking to fulfill the Concurrence Act."

Honestly, it was true. Greg had all but forgotten that the Concurrence Act was still in effect, as it simply didn't impact his daily life much anymore. The last time he'd had to worry about it was way back in the mid-80s, when he'd had to pluck up the courage to fulfill his duty to the law when he was seeking to bond with his ex.

The Act was positively ancient by legal standards, dating all the way back to the mid-Victorian era. Many people pointed to it as one of the earliest examples of an Omega rights law, but like many initial, lurching steps forward down the road of progress, it solved one problem by introducing several more. The problem it claimed to address was the widespread issue of Omegas becoming bonded against their will. The Act was widely lauded for aiding those poor souls who had been taken advantage of during their heats and bonded to Alphas they didn't know or couldn't stand. That was the justification, at any rate. In execution, it legalized and enforced the tradition of a family's Head Alpha controlling the bondings of the Omegas in their line with an iron fist. As the legislators crooned about how the new law benefited all of society, they internally sighed in relief at the thought that this ought to put a stop to their Omega sons and daughters making eyes at the lower-class Alpha stablehands in their employ.

That was, more or less, the extent of what Greg knew about the Act. Mostly he was glad to live in an era in which, though the Act was still very much alive and enforced, standards had relaxed a bit. For the past forty years or so, as Omegas slowly began to gain more rights, job opportunities, and legal agency, the old standard of treating them as little more than family commodities was gradually fading away. In many families, as long as the courting Alpha proved that they loved and were a good match for the Omega they were pursuing, the Head Alpha was happy to give their blessing.

That's how it had gone when Greg pursued his first bonding. Only time would tell how easy he'd have it this time, provided Mycroft agreed to his atypical proposal at all.

"I've been lucky, I admit," Greg said. "I had an easy time when I asked permission to bond with my ex, and I don't have any Omega children to protect. I've had rough spots, but none of it's in relation to the Act."

"Very lucky indeed," Mycroft intoned drily. "And though I may have some small level of governmental influence, I am still an Omega with all the social protocol that entails. If we were to bond, you'd need permission from the Head Alpha of my family."

"Well, yeah. Of course. I'd do it in a heartbeat. Even if you somehow had a thousand Alphas in your family, I'd ask every last one, not just the one up top."

Mycroft gave him a speculative look. After what felt like a century of scrutiny, he said, "Then I'm afraid all that luck you've enjoyed up until now has run out."

"What d'you mean by-" Greg took in a sharp little breath when the extremely oblique implication of Mycroft's statement sunk in. Something fluttered in his chest and a tiny grin fought against the fact that he was still leaping to a bit of a conclusion. "Then… Is there a yes buried in there somewhere?"

Mycroft closed his eyes and tilted his chin up, rolling his shoulders slightly. Though the gesture was likely meant to convey primness, like a snooty cat disdainfully stretching and peering up at the two-legged thing responsible for food and waste management, perhaps there was more to it. It did put an awful lot of that pale neck on display, after all. "What you said wasn't even a question, you know. If you want a proper bonding, you have to start by asking it the right way."

The soft sound of smooth shuffling accompanied the ticking of the clock as Greg slid across the silk sheets to press himself up against Mycroft's side, settling his chin on his lover's shoulder. His lips grazed the shell of Mycroft's ear as he whispered, "Mycroft Holmes, would you do me the honour of bonding with me, of allowing me the privilege of becoming your Alpha?"

Mycroft took in a deep breath. "Yes," he said. His voice was slightly husky, though only those closest to him would be able to tell the difference to his tone. "If you can."

"If?" Greg asked, trying not to sound offended.

"The Alpha you would need to speak to in order to request our bonding can be rather… vexatious."

"Ah, I can handle that," Greg said. "I deal with your brother often enough. They can't be any worse than Sherlock. So, who do I need to talk to? Your father?"

As Mycroft opened his mouth to reply, a buzz from Lestrade's mobile phone caught him off guard. He reached for it and answered. "This better be really damn important." His expression turned from frustration to a grim resoluteness as he listened to the voice on the other end. It seemed it really was that damn important. "Right. I understand." His turned to give Mycroft a regretful look; Mycroft gave a single serious nod. Greg returned his attention to the phone and continued, "I'll be there as soon as I can."

He ended the call and sighed, rubbing a hand over his eyes and then over his slightly stubbly chin. "Sorry," he grumbled. "Here I was hoping this would be an evening just for us, especially since it kind of turned into an off-the-cuff proposal, and then some maniac goes and kills two people in the most bloody gruesome way."

"Gregory, how many times have we been together only for me to find that I needed to go take care of some small trifle of a governmental matter-"

"'Some small trifle'?!" Greg repeated in disbelief as he slid into his trousers. "You have to have prevented World War 3 at least five times."

"Only three and a half. You are overstating the excitement of my very minor position," Mycroft corrected mildly. "Also, it's very rude to interrupt. What I was trying to convey is that I understand duty. You are unlikely to find a partner who appreciates the importance of it as much as I do."

Greg grinned. "A bit boastful, d'you think?"

"Boastfulness implies exaggeration, and do you really think that's the case here?"

"Nah, I don't," Greg said quietly. "But seriously, thanks for being understanding."

"Again: duty," Mycroft replied.

"Yeah, speaking of that," Greg said. "Do you know why they're calling me in on this? Because they can already tell they're going to need Sherlock on the case. And I 'work with him best', they said."

"Such is the price of being one of Sherlock's handlers," Mycroft replied. "I am quite aware that it is a thankless job."

"No kidding. But he's been…" An idea seemed to spark to life in Greg's eyes, and he turned back to Mycroft. "Actually, y'know, this might be good. When we wrap things up at the crime scene, I can ask Sherlock who I'll need to talk to for permission to bond with you. I find that information out and let Sherlock know I'll be bonding with you. Pretty impressive multi-tasking there, I think."

Mycroft looked as if he had just bitten into the world's most sour lemon. "That is perhaps the most spectacularly terrible idea you've ever had."

"Worse than the time I tried to make us curry from scratch?"

"Infinitely worse, though that is strong competition."

Greg's lips scrunched together and his eyes squinted in a confused and slightly frustrated scowl. "How's that?"

"You're talking about Sherlock, he who has spent the vast majority of his life priding himself in thwarting all of my intentions." Taking on a sarcastic tone, Mycroft added, "Unless we are speaking about a different Sherlock Holmes."

"We practically are, at this point," Greg said. "He's become a lot more reasonable since he bonded with John…"

Mycroft said nothing, only raising an eyebrow. His mouth was pressed into a firm, disbelieving line.

"A bit more reasonable…?"

The other brow rose.

Greg sighed. He shrugged and continued, "About a 50-50 split between tolerable and terrible. But you know that's still a huge improvement! Even when they were deluding themselves that they were just friends, Sherlock's behaviour was a major step up compared to when he was John-less." He frowned slightly. "I know I haven't always trusted him completely. But ages ago, I told John that maybe one day your little brother would be a good man. I'm hoping that day is close."

Mycroft gave him a calculating stare, the kind that always left Greg feeling like all his layers of skin, muscle, flesh, and bone were being peeled away so Mycroft could gaze at his very core. He fidgeted a bit under the scrutinizing gaze, taking the opportunity to button up his shirt.

Finally, Mycroft closed his eyes and gave his head a tired shake. "Then on your head be it," he conceded. "Just be aware that I attempted to warn you about this whole affair if it backfires horrifically." He shrugged. "Though it just now occurs to me that perhaps your scheme may not be quite so terrible. You may have better luck getting permission if I'm not there."

"That protective, your Head Alpha?" Greg asked as he slipped into his shoes. "They get that madly concerned about you as soon as you're in sight?"

"I couldn't begin to describe all the issues involved. There simply aren't enough words in the English language," Mycroft said. "Now make haste, and don't forget to send my little brother my regards."

Greg, now fully dressed, moved back to the bed. Once back at Mycroft's side, he murmured, "Will do." His lips quirked up in a little grin and he placed his hand on the back of Mycroft's neck. He leaned in, pressing their lips together in a quick kiss. With that, he made his way out of the room, giving a little wave as the door closed behind him.

Mycroft sat in silence for a moment, listening. Once he heard a car engine start on the street below, he sighed. "You have absolutely no idea what a mess you're getting yourself into, Gregory Lestrade," he muttered. He picked up his book and continued reading.

Every few pages or so, he would reach up to touch his lips, which still felt warm and faintly tingly from the kiss.