Greg could feel exhaustion and anxiousness weighing on his shoulders, forming a tight ball in his chest, and somehow even clinging to his bones as he made his way to Baker Street. The storm that had doused London in chilly rain a few hours before had slowly dissipated, leaving behind a dense fog in its wake. At fifteen past six in the morning, the streets were still quite empty, which only exacerbated the strange, desolate atmosphere brought on by the weather. All Greg could do was hope that all this gloom around him wasn't a bad omen.

At least he was dressed to impress, even if it did make him feel incredibly stuffy. He was wearing what were easily the best (and most expensive) articles of clothing in his entire wardrobe; just the shoes of this ensemble probably cost more than the price of every other scrap of clothing Greg owned put together. The suit was deep charcoal with subtle silver pinstripes, complimented by a light gray shirt and a dark burgundy tie. Although Greg was a much simpler man than the family he hoped to bond himself to, even he had to admit that he looked rather dashing.

Of course Mycroft had picked out every last part of the ensemble himself. Or, to be more specific, he had picked out the tailor himself. The first time Mycroft had gained access to Greg's wardrobe, he had despaired at the lack of – to use his words – "proper attire". Mercifully, he didn't hold Greg to his own impeccable style of dress. Thank God for that; after all, Greg was reasonably sure that if Mycroft owned a swimsuit, it would be a very literal one indeed, complete with lapels and a respectably-colored tie.

It had taken an awful lot of patience to put up with getting measured up, down, sideways, and in some altogether rather invasive places, but eventually Greg received his very first bespoke suit. And apparently it received Mycroft's seal of approval, given how quickly he began taking it off once Greg put it on.

Greg flushed at the memory.

A good first impression with the Head Alpha of a family was of utmost importance, and the fact that Greg was wearing a suit that Mycroft had picked would definitely make a strong statement indeed once said Alpha figured out that Greg's sense of fashion was nowhere up to the task of picking out such a suit unaided. If Sherlock and Mycroft were anything to go by, the Head Alpha would probably see through him in thirty seconds, one minute on the outside. But it could make a good impression, as long as Greg didn't try to pretend it was all his idea. It would show that he respected Mycroft's opinion and deferred to it when he knew his potential bondmate knew more about a topic than him. Which, to be honest, was most of the time.

Then again, some Alphas didn't like that sort of thing. To them, Alphas were meant to be the strong, dominant provider and head of the household and Omegas the meek, nurturing homemaker, there to bear and raise children but never pursue a career or any other ambitions of their own. That kind of thought was slowly becoming antiquated even as the Concurrence Act and other questionable old laws and social expectations continued to cling to their relevance. Really all Greg could do was hope that the Head Alpha didn't subscribe to those uncomfortable notions.

Well, he'd find out soon. There was 221 Baker Street.

He made his way to the door. He took a moment to check that no part of his suit had become untucked or rumpled in any way. Once that had checked out, he straightened himself up and steeled himself for what was to come. Then he rang the bell.

Mrs. Hudson was the one to answer, though Greg had expected that. The elderly woman smiled at him, looking not at all put out for being up so early to accept visitors into her building. "Oh my. Hello, Detective Inspector," she said, eying him up and down. "Sherlock said you'd be by around this time, though he didn't say a thing about you looking so dishy." She gave him a wink that was easily thirty years too lascivious for her.

Greg smiled awkwardly as she let him in. "Sorry for being here so early."

"Oh, that's not a problem. Not at all. You know, the older you get, the earlier you find yourself waking up. It really is the strangest thing. Next thing you know, I'll be waking up at midnight," she said as she guided him up the stairs. "So believe me, it's no trouble."

"Still, I feel bad about it. I wouldn't be here so early if Sherlock weren't so ridiculous."

"Yes, well, that's Sherlock for you," Mrs. Hudson said, her tone fondly resigned. Now at 221B, she gave the door a soft knock. Opening the door a crack, she quietly called, "Sherlock? Your visitor is here." She caught the confused expression on Greg's face and whispered to him, "John's probably still asleep, and he can use all the rest he can get."

Greg nodded. "Ah, right, because of his flu."

Now it was Mrs. Hudson's turn to look confused. "Flu? He hasn't got flu. He's-"

Sherlock opened the door, interrupting her. He brought his phone from his pocket and looked at the time. "6:30 exactly. Not bad, Lestrade. Come in, and thank you for seeing him in, Mrs. Hudson."

Mrs. Hudson took her leave as Greg entered Sherlock and John's flat, and he got the distinctly uncomfortable suspicion that she may have eyed his bum a little on her way out. As soon as he stepped inside, he smelled something odd and squinted in confusion. It was incredibly faint, barely even a whiff over the various other smells in the flat – and God knew the rooms had seen plenty of those with Sherlock's various experiments. Still, the scent was oddly familiar, and he felt a vague frustration in his gut for being unable to identify it, even though it was so very weak.

And that wasn't the only troubling thing related to scent. Greg could smell Sherlock and John, but he couldn't detect any unfamiliar scents; in other words, the promised Holmes Head Alpha was not there.

Greg fumed. "Didn't you 'assure me with absolute certainty' that the Head Alpha of the Holmes family would be here, Sherlock?!"

Sherlock huffed and strolled over to a small table on the living room. He picked up a large manila envelope, which he tossed at Greg. "He is," he said.

Frowning, Greg examined the envelope. It appeared ordinary enough, but his eyes widened the moment he opened it and removed its contents. The paper was thick and official, and on it was the long and fastidiously-recorded Holmes family tree. It started far up in the 17th century with Dorothea Holmes (f-A) 1584-1634 {-} Radulphus Woodbury Holmes (m-O) 1587-1629 and the children from their union. Generations and generations of an ever-narrowing family tree thanks to bondings which produced only one to two children if members of the family bothered to bond at all, finally culminating in Mycroft (m-O) and Sherlock (m-A). The tree had to have been updated within the past year, since it included Sherlock's bonding with John, and –

That's when Greg noticed it. All the other Alphas listed on the tree were deceased. Sherlock was the only one still alive.

Greg slowly lowered the sheet of paper and stared at Sherlock, who looked back with a bored expression. "It really is you," Greg croaked. His throat felt dry and cracked, as if every molecule of moisture in it had immediately evaporated upon the revelation.

"As I said a few hours ago. Yet somebody seemed very keen on ignoring me."

"I just…" Greg swallowed, hoping to ease some of the sandpapery quality to his throat and mouth. It didn't really work. "I thought I'd be having this talk with your father. Or something"

"As you can see on that family tree, Father died seven years ago and 'Or Something' is otherwise unavailable," Sherlock replied. "There's a significant age gap between Mycroft and myself, and even then he and Mummy were approximately my age when they made the frankly rather ill-advised choice to have Mycroft."

"Hardly ill-advised," Greg grumbled. Still, despite himself, a bit of hope blossomed in his chest. Sherlock may be difficult, but hadn't he already given his permission back at the crime scene? "Then I have your permission to bond with Mycroft?"

Sherlock hummed and stroked his chin, striking the expression of someone deep in thought. "No."

"What?!" Greg exclaimed. He could feel his normally slightly tanned skin reddening in frustration. "Just last night you were telling me to go ahead and bite him!"

"I'm altering the deal," Sherlock said. "Pray I don't alter it any further."

"Now that's completely unfa- wait. Wait, hang on. I know that line. You've actually seen Star Wars?"

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. "John insisted. He went on a rant for nearly 20 minutes on how it's 'indecent' that someone of our generation hadn't seen them, and then insisted we marathon all three films."

"But there are six of them."

"Are there?" Sherlock said in a tone which conveyed absolutely no interest whatsoever. "In any case, they were trifles. That one particular line may have somehow escaped the deletion process, however."

Greg scowled, but his mind was already scouring his memory for anything to throw back. Then he remembered a little side-note in all the things he'd tried to read on bonding laws and protocol; he'd thought he hadn't absorbed any of the information, but apparently he didn't give himself enough credit. He gave a challenging grin. "Ha, I've got a loophole. You may be the only living Holmes Alpha, but that doesn't make you the Head Alpha of the family. Part of an Alpha earning that title is that they have to have produced at least one living biological child. You and John are mated, but you don't have any kids. So without a proper Head Alpha, Mycroft can-"

Sherlock's face remained motionless, save for the smooth lift of his left eyebrow. "Tell me, Lestrade," he interrupted calmly. "What time is it now? Down to the second, if you would be so kind."

Greg frowned in confusion but glanced at the watch covering his dead bondbite. "It's, er- 6:46 and forty… three seconds."

"Wonderful. Four… three… two…" He pointed to the bedroom he shared with John. The door slammed open as the doctor, pale and trembling with one hand over his stomach and the other over his mouth, dashed to the bathroom. He didn't bother to close the door in his haste, and soon the sound of desperate retching filled the air.

The world must have magically lurched wildly on its axis, because suddenly Greg felt very dizzy indeed. He staggered over to Sherlock's chair and collapsed in it before his knees could give out on him. "Oh God." Cradling his head in his hands, he murmured, "Morning sickness."

That's what he had smelled when he first entered the flat: the first tiny, tentative hints of pregnancy pheromone in John's scent.

"That would be the popular, if frequently inaccurate, name for it, yes," Sherlock replied. Greg lost sight of him as he wandered into the kitchen. He never stopped talking, even as he clattered about making noise over his own monologue. "Though it has hit John like clockwork every day for the past week and a half, he is also prone to fits of nausea in the early evening. This can be attributed to the fact that emesis gravidarum likely results from the cocktail of new hormones playing havoc with his biochemical makeup. This change is responsible for everything from helping his body adjust to properly nurture the fetus to adding the tell-tale breeding notes to his bonded scent. It makes sense that he would be most affected when his body clock is at its most dynamic: winding up in the morning and winding down in the evening."

He returned to the living room carrying a broom. He stood in front of Greg for a few long seconds, maintaining unblinking eye contact before he began prodding the detective inspector hard in the ribs with the handle.

"Ow!" Greg protested, clambering from the seat and rubbing at the sore spot. "What's that for?!"

"My chair," Sherlock said. He sat upon it as if it was his throne and held the broom as if it were the most regal of scepters. "You were getting your stink all over it."

"Bugger this," Greg grumbled, loosening and removing his tie. He unbuttoned his suit jacket and the first two buttons of his shirt. With a frustrated growl, he ran a hand through his hair, causing it spike up in odd little angles. He then took a deep breath and held it, hoping it might quell the anger rising in him. He looked a rumpled mess, but he no longer cared one whit about that. "Bugger it. Being respectable is lost on you. You don't deserve the fancy tie."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him, smirking. "Ten points."

Greg squinted at him and tilted his head in confusion. "Wuh?"

"Eloquent as always. Your little fit of pique amused me, so I awarded you ten points toward your goal."

"My goal? What goal?"

Sherlock's smirk faded to a scowl of distaste. "Minus five points for being dim."

"Hold on – this is about letting me bond with Mycroft. Once I have a certain number of points, you'll grant permission? That's ridiculous! You can't just… just…" He rubbed at his temples as he tried to come up with a good way to describe it. What came out of his mouth hit that mark in an extremely debatable way. "You can't just act like I'm in Gryffindor and you're a mad Hogwarts professor!"

"Speak English, Lestrade. Minus five more points for gibberish. And look at that, you're back at a clean slate. You might want to address that."

Greg opened his mouth, fully prepared to really give Sherlock a piece of his mind, but a voice from behind preempted him. "Ugh," John groaned as he entered the room, his left hand rubbing slow, soothing circles low over his stomach and his right hand rubbing sleep from his eyes. "I swear, if this kid keeps that up for the next six mon-" He blinked, finally seeing that he and Sherlock had a visitor. "Greg! Er, I was just… talking about… a new intern at the surgery?"

"Save it, John. He already knows you've got a stowaway," Sherlock said.

John frowned at his mate. "You told him? Sherlock, we agreed we were going to wait until I was three months in to tell anybody besides Mrs. Hudson."

"A superstitious old Omegas' tale. Nonsense. And you're only two weeks shy of that anyway; pushing the revelation ahead a fortnight hardly seems like a major problem. Besides, I didn't tell him. He inferred from context. A first, by the way. I'm very proud of him for it, much in the way a pet owner is proud when their very slow, incontinent dog finally comprehends its house-training."

"Oi!" Greg exclaimed.

John glared at his mate. "Sherlock, that was uncalled for. Also, what's this all about? Why's Greg here at half past too damn early in the morning looking like he's hungover at the Ritz?"

"I was trying to fulfill my end of the Concurrence Act," Greg groused. "Mycroft and I want to get bonded."

That seemed to brighten John's cranky, restless, nausea-riddled mood at least a little. "Congratulations," he said. Turning his attention to Sherlock with a sharp look, he continued, "And have you given permission?"

"No," Sherlock answered. John glared harder, and Sherlock actually seemed to squirm slightly for a second under John's disgruntled gaze. Just when Greg was hoping this might turn the tides, Sherlock's bravado slid right back into place. "When Lestrade first approached me about his bid for Mycroft's doughy neck in bonding, he did two things. The first," Sherlock held up a finger. "He went on at length on how much he wanted a so-called proper, official, and respectable bonding with my brother. And the second" he held up another finger. "He refused to believe me when I said that I was the Holmes Head Alpha."

"So he chafed your pride. And? That doesn't explain why you haven't gone and given him permission."

"Though I have no competition for the title, Lestrade brought up a fun little-known legal flaw in how one becomes the Head Alpha of their family. In order to be eligible for the title, an Alpha needs two things. They must be bonded." He held up his hand, displaying John's bite there. "Check. And they must have at least one live child. You, more than anyone else, should know that that's a work in progress."

A little bit of color drained from John's face as he glimpsed at Greg. "In other words…"

"In other words, until the baby is born, I can't give full and legal permission even if I wanted to. It's old, shoddily-written and considered, and just all around the perfect tangled nightmare of an oversight to exploit to teach Lestrade an important lesson about blindly following the legal system. He and my brother will just have to wait and hope that he manages to impress in the intervening time. Oh, yes, you were vomiting at the time and are unaware. I've come up with a rather brilliant point-based merit system that I think should prove entertaining." He rolled his shoulders back and puffed out his chest a little, and even tilted his head up slightly in a proud gesture. John rolled his eyes at the display; if there was anyone out there with more preening Alpha pride than his mate out there, John hadn't met them.

"Points?" John asked.

"If he does or says something that I find worthy of praise, I'll award him points. Conversely, if he does something stupid, I shall deduct points. Right now he's at an even 0, though I'm tempted to deduct five because his cufflinks are much too large to be anything but garish."

"Jesus, you're worse than Severus Snape," John grumbled

"That's nearly what I said!" Greg exclaimed. "And Sherlock, you never did say how many points I'd need to earn in this mad game of yours."

"That's true, I didn't." Sherlock rested his thumb and forefinger against his chin in thought. "I'll determine that later, but for now, you can probably rule out anything above… 100,000 points. As wonderful an idea as it is, I don't think even I could relish it nearly that long. Any further questions?"

There was only thick, impenetrable silence and disbelieving stares from John and Greg.

"I'll take that as a no. Now, if that's all the dull personal talk, I have a much more interesting skin sample to get back to." With that, Sherlock sprang from his chair and made his way to the kitchen.

John shook his head. "Look, Greg, I'll try talking to him about this later. Mycroft probably knows all the laws in and out. Even if this loophole is as bad as Sherlock says it is, he's got to know some way to weasel – er, work around it."

Greg sighed and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. His head was gradually shaping up to be a din of throbbing and stabbing pain with the incredible headache that was starting to attack him. He was already exhausted from running around at the crime scene and getting less than hour of sleep between then and now. To make matters worse, his stress and anxiety over meeting the Holmes Head Alpha and making a good impression hadn't been allowed to dissolve with the sweet relief of knowing he had permission to bond with Mycroft. Instead, he had only confusion and frustration over the knowledge that Sherlock was not only going to draw out the Concurrence process and make it as irritating as possible, but that he was perfectly within the terrible legal jargon loophole to do so.

Picking up on the DI's burgeoning migraine, John urged Greg to sit in his chair and gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "You're welcome to stay for breakfast if you like, but I'd completely understand if you'd rather leave as soon as you can to make a dartboard out of a picture of my insane mate's face."

"Thanks, John," he managed. "I'll stay a bit, if only for the strongest coffee you've got in the flat. D'you happen to have today's paper yet? Maybe going through it will distract me."

"Hm, I doubt Sherlock picked one up, even when he was on his way back from the crime scene," John said. Greg snapped his head up at that, fixing John with a surprised look. The Omega smirked. "Yeah, I know about it, and your face just confirmed it."

"So you're not upset he didn't let you know?" Greg chanced.

"Oh, I never said that," John said, putting his hands on his hips. "But I can yell at him about that later. Anyway, we might still have some of yesterday's paper around. Sherlock usually destroys the papers in some experiment or another, but recently I've been trying to save them for Mrs. Hudson. Her niece has started raising budgies and gave her one as a gift about two weeks ago, and the newspapers make good cage liners if you can pry them away from Sherlock before he can try burning, dissolving, or otherwise defacing them in the name of science. Hang on."

John headed for his former bedroom upstairs, leaving Greg alone with his increasingly insistent headache. It just throbbed worse when Greg realized that it probably wouldn't be long before they started converting that old room into a nursery.

Greg wasn't left alone for long, however. John came back to the living room with a small stack of newspapers. He handed them to Greg and then headed for the kitchen, presumably to start breakfast or chastise Sherlock. But, Greg thought, probably both.

The frustrated DI thumbed through the newspapers. The oldest was four days old, but the pages had jumbled together to the point that he could flip past Tuesday's weather and end up at Sunday's sports write-ups. Greg didn't spot anything of interest and was about to give it up as a lost cause when his eyes landed on something which gave him pause. He squinted and pulled the page closer to get a better look.

The article was little more than a dull update about some political hang-up that Greg neither knew nor cared about, especially since his relationship with Mycroft taught him that what the news said was happening in the government rarely matched up to what was actually going on. But it wasn't the content that had caught his attention. Rather, it was the accompanying picture that had attracted Greg's attention. At first glance, it too held little interest; it was just an ordinary photo of two MPs engaged in some rather passive-aggressive banter, if their expressions were anything to go by. But there was a pin on the lapel of one of the MPs. Though the picture was a little grainy, Greg was certain about what he was looking at.

It was the symbol he'd seen on the card Sherlock had found at the crime scene.

The legs of John's chair scraped against the floor as Greg stood abruptly. Keeping the paper clenched tightly in hand, he rushed to the kitchen. As he entered, he saw that Sherlock was in a terrible sulk at the kitchen table, his body slouched and his fingers knotted in his curly hair. It was difficult for Greg to make out what he was saying with his face pressed into the tabletop, but it was something about how the skin sample was beyond useless. John, who was already buttering toast at the counter opposite, had the vaguely satisfied smirk of someone who was enjoying Sherlock's little taste of karmic retribution for leaving him behind.

"Sherlock – ah, and John, reckon you're part of the case now too – I think I've got something you need to see. Look," Greg said. Sherlock lifted his head like a surly teenager who was reluctant to wake up for school, and the moment he wasn't pressed bodily against the table anymore, Greg seized the opportunity to lay the paper down. He pointed at the photograph. "This picture."

For two or three seconds, Sherlock's grumpy expression didn't change. Then something flashed in his eyes and every cell of him seemed to light up in recognition. He grabbed the paper roughly and brought it close to his face, staring intently at the MP's lapel. "John, my coat, where is it?" he asked in a rush.

"You're still wearing it, you idiot," John said. He'd come close to see what the fuss was about, but looked baffled by Sherlock's revelation.

"Ah. So I am. Reach into my right pocket, there will be a card there. Hold it next to this picture."

John crossed his arms but otherwise did and said nothing.

"Any day n-" As if sensing the narrowing eyes of his mate behind him, Sherlock's misstep finally dawned on him. "Please," Sherlock said. The word still sounded odd on his tongue. "Do those things I said. Please."

"Not great, but better," John mumbled. Noticing Greg's confused look, he added, "If I'm going to be trying to train manners into a toddler eventually, I figured I'd better start with this one."

John finally obliged Sherlock's request and pulled out the business card from his pocket. The doctor's brow furrowed in confusion at the odd symbol, but he held it against the photo Sherlock was staring at so intently.

A wide grin spread across Sherlock's face. "Yes. Oh, this is a good start. Is the symbol associated with this idiot alone? Is it a secret society with a murder ritual? Not terribly secret if you go around with a pin stuck to you, but politicians are notoriously dim about keeping any of their shady dealings secret. Initiation attempt gone sour? Well spotted, Lestrade. That's twenty points."

Greg grinned, but the smile crashed the moment Sherlock opened his mouth and continued speaking. "Which means you're at 15 points. I wound up deducting the five points for the cufflinks after all." Before Greg could complain, the consulting detective dropped the paper and card onto the table and stood, beginning to pace the room as he brainstormed.

"Care to let me in on what this ugly symbol's all about?" John asked. As Sherlock quickly brought his mate up to speed on the discovery of the card and the nature of the crime scene, Greg picked up the card and held it up to get another look. Even with Sherlock's confirmation that the MP's pin and the symbol were one in the same, there was never any harm in checking again.

"Now," Sherlock said after he explained the situation to John. "The next step is to find out if the symbol applies to the man in the picture alone or if he's part of a group. However, I hate dealing with politicians. So, Lestrade: you have homework. Use your connection with the British government to find out that out. Fifty merit points are on the line."

That got Greg's interest, even if he was still convinced that the whole point system was patently ludicrous. "Anything else?" he asked.

"No, that's- ah, no. Who will be performing the autopsy on the bodies?"

"I made sure to get Molly Hooper. You can bother her about that instead of me."

"Excellent planning ahead. I'm feeling generous now, so have five more points. Enjoy being at an even twenty out of a currently unknown sum. That's all. Leave," Sherlock said. Looking over at John, he saw the warning glance there. "Please leave."

"C'mon, Greg, I'll see you out," John said. "Sherlock, I know you're on a case now, but you better eat the toast I made you." A displeased groan was Sherlock's only reply.

Once they were out of the flat and heading down the stairs, Greg thought it was safe to ask a question that had been percolating at the back of his head since he found out about John's condition. "So, this baby thing… you two have been bonded for almost eleven months. Have you been trying this whole time, or…?"

"When we first moved in together, you know we were very clear that we'd just be friends and flatmates. I think Alphas and Omegas can just be friends, but obviously things got complicated. Then there was Moriarty, and…" John sighed. "When he came back and I could finally stand to be in the same room long enough for us to start to patch things up, things got even more complicated. I thought he'd never want kids in a million years, and I was fine with us being bonded but childless. But…"

"But?"

"But about half a year after we bonded, I noticed there was something weird going on with my birth control. There'd still be some there, but fewer pills than there'd been before. Eventually I asked Sherlock if he was stealing them for an experiment, but it turned out pill-tampering was his way of starting the 'I want kids' discussion. He got a lecture on how not good that was, let me tell you. But I took a month to clear my birth control from my system, and the next heat after that, well..." His hand pressed against his still flat stomach.

Greg gaped. "Did he say why he suddenly changed his mind?"

"Just that when he was scrambling all over the world to take out Moriarty's web, he had to really think hard and reexamine what he wanted out of life once he could stop being dead," John replied. "He's not used to feelings – never has been – and now he's got all these really powerful ones tearing through him that he's got to figure out. And I'm sorry to say it, but he'll probably be taking a lot of that stress and frustration out on you, especially as I get further along and my pheromones really start bringing out his crazy protective Alpha side."

Greg sighed. "So basically I picked the worst possible time to try bond with Mycroft."

"That's it in a nutshell," John said. He opened the door for Greg. "But don't let it get to you. I think you're good for Mycroft. God knows I've been able to stand him a lot more since you two got together. And deep down, beneath all the fat jokes and snippy remarks, I think Sherlock thinks the same. Good luck dealing with all this, Greg. If you ever need someone to vent to, just let me know."

Greg thanked him and let John get back to the difficult task that was trying to get breakfast into Sherlock. The fog was still rather thick and the skies rather gray, but the city had begun to wake up. There were more people on the streets. Bleary-eyed students stumbled out of 24-hour cafes and lurched toward university bus stops as men and women in business attire brushed past them to grab their morning coffees on the way to the office. The rush to start the day had begun in earnest.

In contrast, Greg's day had gone on entirely too long. Even though only about ten hours had passed since he left Mycroft's place the night before, he felt like he'd been awake for two months. He couldn't wait to get to his flat and collapse. Hopefully he'd be able to squeeze out a few hours' rest before he'd be needed anywhere.

But first, he had to get that homework started. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, ready to call Mycroft. To his surprise, it began buzzing in his hand. He looked at the call ID and huffed out a tired laugh. Mycroft was the sort of devil that you didn't even need to speak about for him to appear.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Gregory. Do you now see why I warned you about the Head Alpha situation?"

Greg sighed. "Yeah," he said, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. "It didn't go well."

"Yes, I know. I saw."

Greg stumbled in surprise at that, which led to him giving a bit of a kick to a toy poodle as it passed with its female Alpha owner. She gave him a sneer. "You… wait, how? You told me you haven't been bugging the flat since John and Sherlock bonded."

"Not since the unfortunate discovery that they don't keep their… activities… confined to the bedroom, no," Mycroft said. "And to answer your question, your cufflinks both contain small but powerful microphones. Likewise, the pin in your lapel has a camera within it. One does sacrifice image quality for portability, but such things are unavoidable."

As Greg listened to Mycroft's explanation, he lifted his lapel to peer with incredulity at the pin. Mycroft gave a disdainful hum and continued, "Yes, thank you for the close-up on the inside of your nose."

"Why? Why go to so much trouble over something I was just going to tell you about anyway?"

There was a long pause. Greg frowned and was ready to ask if Mycroft didn't trust him for whatever reason, but his lover finally spoke again. "I like to keep a close eye on the things most important to me. You know that."

Some of the indignation that had been building up in Greg drained out of him. He was still a little irritated, but now wasn't the time for an argument. He might as well cut to the chase. "Did you see it, then? The picture and the symbol and all that."

"Yes. Luckily you held the card right over the pin in your lapel when you were looking at it. Please keep that habit up, it's very useful," Mycroft said. "As for the symbol, I have seen it. It's popular among some of the MPs and other government representatives who favor the DT movement."

"DT?"

"Dynamic traditionalism. 'When Alphas were Alphas and Omegas Omegas'," Mycroft said, his tone turning dry as a desert as the tired phrase slipped past his lips. "However, that pin is not itself representative of the DT movement. I'm sure there are some self-defeating Omegas out there who embrace those ideals, but I have only ever seen Alphas wear that symbol. I suspect it's a club or organization of some sort."

"Sherlock might be right about it being a secret society, then. Kind of like your club, maybe."

Greg knew it was the wrong thing to say the moment he said it, and he suspected that if he could see Mycroft's face, his lover's eyes would have rolled terribly. "Please do not impugn the Diogenes Club's dignity by comparing it to something so exclusionary."

"Sorry."

"Suffice to say, I'm precisely the sort of person to whom the DT movement would scrupulously avoid leaking their trade secrets, though I am far from a radical or even vocal proponent for Omega rights. I merely live my life as I please. Fortunately, my very minor position affords me the peace of relative privacy and anonymity, so I haven't run afoul of them. The best bet to learning about the symbol and whether or not it's related to those unfortunate bodies would be for an Alpha to infiltrate the society's ranks."

Greg thought about that for a moment as he stopped at a crosswalk. "Well, good thing we know somebody who likes to put on disguises and snoop around."

"Very auspicious indeed. And all the more fortunate that he has someone eager to be his brother-in-law who will be happy to help."

"Me? Really?"

"Of course. By necessity, John will be unable to assist in the operation. A pregnant Omega, out of the home, exposing himself to scents that don't belong to his Alpha? What a mockery of decency." Mycroft's voice turned from sarcasm to amusement. "Besides, think of all the points you could earn."

Greg winced. "Of course you heard that part. God help me, I'll do it."

"Excellent. I'll have Anthea draw up a false identity and identification papers for you. I'm certain my dear brother will be keen to create his own persona, of course. I'll also see to it that the right ears begin to hear rumors about two very well-connected Alphas who are looking to join their little secret club. From there, it's an easy task to make sure your contact information falls into their hands."

The crosswalk light flashed and Greg, accompanied by a throng of other morning pedestrians, was on the move again. "Right. I'll tell Sherlock the plan, but I'm going to sleep like the dead first. While we wait to get a bite from the pin-wearers, we can focus on identifying the bodies and getting a solid grip on their backgrounds," Greg said. Feeling that covered all his bases with the case, he cleared his throat and changed topics. "So, honestly, I don't know what to make of the fact that you don't sound all that put out by us having to wait to bond. If Sherlock allows it at all."

"I can be a profoundly patient man if short term disadvantage gives way to a bevy of long-term benefits," Mycroft answered. "Though we may not get to bond immediately, just look at what is gained in the meantime. Not only has my brother bred an Omega and thereby ensured that the Holmes line will continue, but he's adhering to social mores for once in his lifetime, even if it's only to spite you. He thinks he's inconveniencing us, yet he's living up to roles and fulfilling expectations I have strongly encouraged him to pursue for quite some time. Were my brother here for this conversation, I'm sure he'd say something snide about having my cake and eating it too."

Greg laughed and shook his head. "You can be really terrifying when it comes to sniffing out ways for you to win a scenario, huh? Remind me to never get on your bad side."

"It would be rather difficult, in your case. I've seen to it that you won't be needed at the Yard for the rest of the day. Go to my place. Get some rest. Now, I have a morning full of very long meetings to attend, but my schedule appears open enough for a rather long lunch." Mycroft lowered the volume of his voice, which gave it a husky quality that went a jolt down Greg's spine. "And I'll be sure to give you quite a reward for all your hard work today. Until then."

Mycroft hung up. Just as well, since Greg's mouth had suddenly gone rather dry. He was also fairly sure his face was turning the same shade of burgundy as the crumpled tie in his pocket. Hopefully Mycroft's generous mood wouldn't be dampened by how much the suit would need to be laundered and pressed, but perhaps the slightly rumpled quality would add an extra rugged appeal.

Greg couldn't wait to find out.

Author's note -

In the next chapter, we finally find out who the victims were, as well as how they died and how that ties in with the painful and controversial practice of severing bonds. Among other things.

Thanks for your patience with slow updates, and reviews/comments/crit are all very welcome! They keep me going.