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Part Two
"Hey, my names Tiffany."
Greg turned to the sultry voice that was practically purring in his ear and nearly spat out his drink.
"Hello Tiffany," Greg smiled, spinning in his bar stool to face her properly. Tiffany turned out to be a very pretty girl wearing a very tight dress that highlighted all her assets in just the right way. Greg was happy that he decided to get changed before coming to the pub. "Can I get you a drink?"
Tiffany's smile only added to her beauty. "I'd like that."
Greg signaled the bar tender and ordered her another drink.
"What's your name?" Tiffany asked.
Feeling very idiotic for not introducing himself, Greg willed himself not to flush. "Greg."
He was taken aback when Tiffany's eyes widened and then suddenly she gripping his arm, red painted finger nails digging into his jacket hard enough he could feel it on his skin. "Your name is Gregory?"
"Yes," he said.
"Oh my god! Are you my soul mate?" Tiffany gushed.
Greg's felt the bottom of his stomach drop. He took in her breathless excitement and could feel her hand trembling where she clutched him tightly. He hated this part. He sincerely hoped that she wouldn't slap him like the last girl had.
"I'm sorry," he said gently. As the bar tender handed over the drink Greg took it and gently curled her fingers around the glass. "Take a sip."
Confused, she did as she was told and Greg gently lowered her into the stool next to him.
"I'm not your soul mate," Greg told her gently.
Tiffany downed half the glass and licked her lips, smearing her lipstick past her lip line. "The name you have isn't Tiffany, is it?"
"Afraid not," Greg said.
She nodded and down the rest of her glass. With a steady hand she placed it on the bar and Greg watched her as she pushed past her disappointment and had the strength to smile a genuine smile at him.
"Tonight would you like to be my Greg?" she asked.
This has never happened before, Greg mused to himself. "If you want me to be."
She slid her hand up his thigh, inching closer to where he instantly started to throb. "I do."
"Welcome home, whore."
John closed his eyes briefly at the slurring of words but re-opened them and finished climbing through the window into his room. He walked across the room and turned on the light feeling non-apologetic as his father hissed and blinked as he tried to adjust to the sudden light.
"You think I didn't know about what you get up to at night," Mr. Watson slurred.
"Thought you be happy," John said simply, eyeing his father's every move.
"That I'm housing the towns slut and the towns lesbian?" his father growled. "You think it makes me happy that people talk about my family likes this?" with a roar he threw the beer bottle he had been nursing.
John didn't flinch as it hit the wall, shattering into a million pieces. Smashing bottles was a regular occurrence at the Watson house. It was a good night when it was over a wall and not over their bodies.
"You couldn't just have a normal name could you," his father advanced on him and John swallowed, widening his stance. "Instead you're a faggot, sleeping with anything as long as you get off." His father swayed, eyes un-focusing before they were on John again. He pointed a finger at his son. "I tried washing it from your brain, I tried beating it out of you kids and for what? For you to become a whore?"
John jaw clenched. He knew better to rise from his father's taunts. He had learned long ago that fighting back was a cue to inflict more pain.
Mr. Watson took another step forward and the smell of mixed beers washed of John and he recoiled.
"You're a disgrace, you faggot. Your soul mates a freak and you probably deserve each other," Mr. Watson snarled.
"He's not a freak and I'm not a faggot," John snapped.
"You're a waste, a disgrace and I wish I never had you disappointments," Mr. Watson growled. "You should have been normal."
John dodged the fist that came at him and threw his own punch, landing it on his father's jaw and knocking him down in an instant.
"You ungrateful piece of shit," Mr. Watson slurred and then threw up in the middle of John's carpet. "Get out of my house! Get out!"
"With pleasure," John said. He crossed the room, pulling out the rucksack he had packed ages ago, waiting for his moment to get out the Watson home. He had enough.
"You'll be nothing," Mr. Watson slurred as John went for the door. "The both of you. You and your soul mate."
"No," John said. "We'll be brilliant and far away from you."
"Oh Sherlock," Mycroft sighed.
Stepping cautiously into the abandoned building, Mycroft straightened his spine and powered through. In his crisp three-piece suit he stood out among the unemployed and homeless who wore little more than rags. He maneuvered around the drug addicts and searched each room until he found his brother.
He took in the state of his brother. His hair was greasy, his skin a shade of white and yellow that was becoming too familiar, his clothes stained and ripped, smelling of urine. Swallowing he stepped into the room and crossed to Sherlock as he lay sprawled on his side.
Crouching beside him, Mycroft gently lifted his brother until he was leaning against his suit. A needle dangled from his skin, still embedded within the vein. Gently Mycroft removed it and tossed it to the ground. Sherlock moaned, lips smacking together as his eyes fluttered open.
"Cocaine, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked.
"Is that disappointment, Mycroft?" Sherlock slurred.
"In myself," Mycroft said quietly. "You are much better than this, Sherlock. I think John would agree."
"John," Sherlock slurred. "Common man John. How would we know what he would think? There are too many possibilities! Dull! I don't need a John!"
"Your current state would prove otherwise," Mycroft drawled and drew his brother closer. "Wouldn't want to back out on a wager, would you?"
Sherlock snorted. "An abysmal attempt, Mycroft."
"Perhaps when you are doing better," Mycroft said. "When you are more equipped to listen."
Sherlock nodded his head slowly and dropped his chin to his chest. "I don't hate John."
"I know you don't," Mycroft said and gently ran a hand over his brother filthy curls. He mentally reprimanded himself for allowing his brother to become such a state.
"Like you don't hate Greg," Sherlock murmured. "We just hate the predictability of their common name making them impossible. We don't do impossible."
"No," Mycroft agreed. "We don't."
Sherlock slumped against him, nestling his head against his brother's shoulders.
Mycroft adjust Sherlock until he was in his arms and picked his brother up. He grunted at Sherlock's dead weight and adjusted his grip. With long purposeful strides he exited the building and to the waiting car. He gently placed his brother in side and slid in next to him.
"Thank you," Sherlock slurred.
Mycroft smiled gently. "Your welcome."
Sherlock lurched forward and threw up over their shoes.
"Times up."
Greg placed his pen down and slowly let the tension release from his shoulders as he closed the detective exam. As he waited for the official to come collect his paper he leaned back in his chair and pulled out his phone. He waited for it to power up, tapping his foot as he did.
A chime rang out but it wasn't from his phone.
Looking to his left he saw the guy next to him shoot him a grin. "Casey, my soul mate. New exactly when I was finishing." The man laughed and his fingers moved across the screen to type a message.
Greg looked back at his own phone where no new messages awaited him. He looked up when the official took his paper and he stood up, collecting his jacket and sliding the phone into his pocket. He left the room without a word.
He was excited. He had been waiting to take his exams ever since he was a kid when his mother had first suggested he become a detective. It had stuck with him and he made a note to call her later and tell her the good news.
He knew he had done enough to pass his exam. He had studied and had been confident throughout the exam. But under that excitement was a loss and loneliness that he had tried most of his life to ignore; he could not share this with moment with Mycroft.
It had always bothered him with milestones in his life that Mycroft had never been there. One day he would be able to share them with him but it wasn't the same. He had lost count with how many people had come up to him, so excited that they had found their Greg. Lost count the amount of time his hopes had risen when a man approached him only to be dashed when their names were never Mycroft.
His night with Tiffany had been pleasurable. He allowed himself to get lost in the moment, to be intimate with another person and allowed himself a moment to forget that he was still alone but there were others out there just like him. When he woken the next morning she was already gone and guilt made him on edge. He wasn't one hundred percent sure what his relationship with Mycroft would become but he felt as if he had just cheated on the man.
He cleared his throat and pulled out his phone, pressing the familiar contact number of his mother.
"Greg dear, how did your exam go?" Mrs. Lestrade asked and Greg allowed himself the distraction instead to wallow in his guilt.
"John!" Mike said, eyes widening with surprise as he saw the rugby star on the other side of his door.
"Hey Mike," John greeted. He shifted the rucksack high up his shoulder and cleared his throat. "Would you mind if I crashed here for a bit?"
Mike ushered him in, surprised. Something terrible must have happened for John Watson to ask for help. "Everything alright?" he asked carefully. He moved to the fridge and pulled out a couple of beers before handing one to John.
John collapsed onto the couch and took a grateful sip of his beer. He licked lips and his hand clenched on his thigh. He looked at the bruises and remembered the satisfaction of why he had them. "My dad kicked me out."
Mike opened his own beer and took a sip, slowly processing the information. John had never said it out aloud but Mike knew he lived in a less then ideal situation at home – the cuts and bruises Mike had helped him stitch up proof of that.
"You can stay here as long as you like," Mike said.
"Thanks," John said.
"What about Harry?" Mike asked after a moment of silence.
John shrugged, frowning at his lap. "She upped and left about a month ago. Found someone to live with. Not her soul mate but a friend… I think. Haven't heard from her since."
Mike nodded. From the little information that John offered about his home life he had come to the conclusion that Harriet was going down a slope that was made of alcohol.
"What about your soul mate?" Mike asked. "Have you met them?"
John was strictly a private person and never once talked about his soul mate. Mike had never heard him mention their name, if they were male or female or if they even knew each other.
"No," John said simply and there was an edge in his tone that Mike knew to drop it.
"Hungry?" Mike asked. "I was going to order some Chinese."
"Yeah, sounds good," John nodded and slumped into the couch cushions.
Mike clapped his shoulder and pulled out his phone while he searched for the take out menu.
Sherlock stepped out of the rehab center and took one last look at the countryside. Soon he would be back in London and be able to breathe properly again. When he heard the tap of his brother's umbrella behind him he tightened his coat around him.
"Ready to go?" Mycroft asked.
"Yes," Sherlock said and strode to the car. He hated the fact that he would owe Mycroft for this but he did have to thank his brother for getting him clean.
"What do you plan on doing now that you are clean?" Mycroft asked as the car rolled away. "Something worthwhile, I hope."
"Consulting Detective," Sherlock answered promptly.
Mycroft raised an eyebrow and brushed away some imaginary lint on his suit. "Consulting Detective. Not a pirate then?"
"I solved another two un-solved crimes just from reading the paper while getting clean," Sherlock said. "The police need me."
"And where do you plan on living?" Mycroft asked.
Sherlock eyes darted over his brother and sneered. "Don't be absorbed."
"Merely a suggestion while you find your feet," Mycroft said idly.
"I'll be fine," Sherlock dismissed. "I already have a place set up. Not quite the location I was hoping for but good enough."
"I'll be keeping an eye on you, Sherlock," Mycroft said. He cleared his throat. "And what of John?"
Sherlock looked out the window. "I have a wager to win."
Mycroft smiled. "Very good."
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