Greg absolutely hates the pre-bond with Mycroft.

Mycroft isn't the problem. Greg likes Mycroft, even though he's not sure Mycroft likes him back. He's smart and talks weird and he's different from all the other kids Greg knows. So no, it isn't Mycroft who's the problem. It's the other kids in school who keep teasing him about it.

His parents tell him to ignore it and that he'll learn to appreciate the bond when he's older, but it's hard to ignore the taunts and the discrimination. Pre-bonds aren't common. They're for posh families who need to preserve the family wealth and make sure they continue to have a good bloodline. But the only thing the kids in school get is that Greg is now in a higher social class than them. They tell him he thinks that they're not good enough for him, even though Greg doesn't think this at all. It's actually them who think they're too good for him. He lost some of his friends, and while he did gain new ones over the years, it still hurts.

But what hurts most is the football.

Roy Hewlett is the new kid, an Alpha who Greg is sure isn't really eight-years-old. He thinks Roy might already be thirteen and is just so stupid that he got held back a lot of times. Luke said this out loud once, and it was lucky for both of them that Roy wasn't able to hear. "He's probably got wax in his ears, anyway," Luke said once they were out of danger. "That or he's just got a booger for a brain."

Greg is good at football, has always been good at it, according to his father who likes to tell stories of how when Greg was still in his mum's belly, he was already wearing trainers. He's even better at it than the Alphas in school, even better than Luke who's own father was a bit of a football star during his university years. He's the only Omega the Alpha kids allow to play with them, and he still beats them.

But Roy 'Booger Brain Hewlett is in the way and is telling him that he can't play at all.

"And why's that?" Greg demands. He's looking up at Roy who is so much bigger than him, but he doesn't feel scared, only angry. The other kids are looking at them nervously. They keep looking back at the school, but they're in the field, far away from any of the teachers. There are older students milling about but Greg knows from experience that they won't do anything and will just stand there, laughing and egging them on.

"You're a sissy," Roy drawls. "You'll probably cry if you lose."

Greg's ears burn. "No, I won't. I've been playing before you even got here."

Roy, however, is unfazed. He merely rolls his eyes then says, "It doesn't change the fact that you're still a sissy." He leans forward a bit, sniffs, then pulls back and wrinkles his nose. "Or better yet, just go somewhere with your stupid mate."

Greg wants to hit him. He nearly does, actually, but his classmate Chuck grabs his arm and shakes his head at him. Roy smirks.

"Greg's been playing with us for a long time now," a kid named Mattie speaks up. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and regards Roy fearfully. "Maybe we could—"

"No," Roy snaps. He draws himself to his full height. Greg's anger fades a little when he does it. He barely comes up to Roy's shoulder. "I'm not letting anyone like him with us."

You'll meet a lot of sexist bastards when you grow up, Naomi, Luke's sister, told him once when she'd picked them up from school. Roy, Greg realises, is the biggest sexist bastard he's ever met. Well, the first, actually, but Greg doubts anyone can beat him. He turns to Luke who's been quiet since he and Greg got to the field. He's staring at Roy with a curious expression, a curious and very, oh so very, dangerous expression.

Inside voices! Greg wants to shout it but Luke is already opening his mouth and landing himself a death sentence.

"Do you know that you smell a lot like a monkey's butt?"

Roy doesn't even ask how Luke knows what a monkey's butt smells like. He pulls back his arm then slams a fist in the centre of Luke's face. There's a sickening crunch followed by a howl of pain. Greg jumps back as his cousin crumples to the ground, his hands already cupping his bleeding nose. "Wanker!" Luke yells through his fingers.

"You want some more, wise boy?" Roy threatens, shaking his fist at them.

He doesn't! Ignore him, he can't control himself. He's kind of stupid.

Luke glares at him, and, to Greg's annoyance and admiration, spits a combination of blood and saliva in Roy's direction. Something solid hits Roy's chest, splattering a bit of blood on his white shirt.

"You're an ugly turd, monkey butt!" Luke yells before grabbing Greg by the arm and running as fast as he can.

Greg knows he shouldn't enjoy this, but it's kind of fun to be chased by a big bully. It's like a video game, only the pain is of course, very real. Greg's not bothered by it, though, as they're never caught. The advantage of his being small and Luke's being scrawny is that they can run fast and hide in places others can't fit in.

"Hurry!" Greg yells, laughing a bit as they squeeze through a hole in the chain link fence. Distantly, he hears Roy Hewlett yelling insults at them. But his voice sounds far away and the fear of being caught is distant, leaving only the exhilaration of the chase.

They're far away from the school when they finally slow down, stopping in front of a store. Luke's doubled over, wheezing. Greg leans against the cool shop window and tries to get his breath back. "Naomi," he pants, "will get—really—mad." He gulps some air, waits for his heart to stop beating so quickly, then adds, "She'll go looking for us."

Luke squints at him. His face is smeared red and so is the front of his shirt. The sight is startlingly fascinating. "I lost a tooth," he informs Greg.

That piques Greg's interest. "Really?"

"Yeah. Check it out." He straightens then shows Greg a huge smile. Through the bloody mess that is Luke Rochewell's mouth, Greg sees that his two front teeth are missing. When he closes his mouth slightly, enough for the smile to be less psychotic, Greg laughs and tells him that he now looks like he has fangs.

"You lost two."

Luke blinks then grins again. "No way! That's so cool."

Greg doesn't tell him that Aunt Isobel will blow a gasket when she learns that Luke's been fighting again. He does, however, put his hands on Luke's shoulders to force him to look at him. It's a trick Aunt Isobel's been teaching him. "Inside voices," he tells Luke slowly and carefully. He repeats it again until Luke becomes fed up and moves away from him.

"I know."

"You lost two teeth," Greg points out. "Maybe you knew. But then you forgot."

Luke groans. "This is why I don't like it when you hang out with Mycroft. You become a know-it-all."

"Compared to you I do know it all." He pushes Luke a little. "And don't you start in on Mycroft, either. I still haven't forgiven you for last time."

"I didn't mean to sneeze on his face!"

"Yes, you did."

"Did not."

"Did, too."

Luke snarls at him, more beast than boy at the moment, and Greg finds himself responding to it. It's primal, the fighting, though his parents tell him that it's not normal for an Omega to engage in fist fights. Maybe it isn't, but it's exhilarating and satisfying, like how ice feels on a burn, like scratching an itch, maybe.

Soothing is the word. Not exactly the fist that collides with Greg's cheek, but beneath the pain is the feeling of satisfaction.

Luke always loses. Now that Greg's older, he wonders if it's because Luke is weak or he's just taking it easy on Greg due to some misguided attempt at being polite. Another low growl interrupts his thoughts, followed by a sharp nip to Greg's left ear. Greg retaliates by slamming an elbow in Luke's gut. Luke grabs on to his forearms, and they both go down on the pavement. The warm concrete doesn't stop either of them. What does the job is a hand pulling Greg away from Luke by the scruff of his neck, pulling him up until his feet are dangling an inch from the ground.

Naomi sets Greg down gently before she hauls Luke up and swats the back of his head with the rolled-up magazine in her hand. "Bad puppy!" she bites out. Luke, truly like a dog in personality, whimpers a little before he catches himself.

"Dad is going to murder you!" she yells when Luke shows her his missing teeth. There's a real threat in there because Luke suddenly loses the bright smile on his face. He's not a bad man, Mr Rochewell. But he's strict and his voice frightens Luke. Greg knows this, remembers all too well the time Luke burst into tears when they fuelled his father's rage by breaking a window while playing football (entirely Greg's fault). He turns to Greg for assistance.

"Someone hit him," Greg explains. He looks at Naomi, studies her, then adds, "He's a…sexist bastard?"

The change is instant. Greg finds himself being squeezed to death against Luke who tenses in his older sister's arms. Greg knew it would work. Naomi likes things like this, likes defending people's rights and saying things that neither of them understand. They are important, Greg thinks, these things Naomi likes to talk about. However, both Luke and Greg hate it because she always forces them to listen to whatever speech she made up. But it's different now and Greg thanks the gods that she's weird like that because she's hugging them instead of killing them slowly and painfully. "How about a treat?" she asks once she relinquishes her death-grip on them. Before they can even answer, they're taken to a different part of town, the Alpha turf as his mother likes to call it. Greg looks at his surroundings in discomfort, pressing closer to Naomi when a few boys pass by, shouting at each other.

"Not there," Naomi chides when Greg pauses to look at a comic book store. She takes his hand and leads him inside the smaller shop next to it.

The first thing that registers in Greg's mind is the music. It's a loud song, the kind of song that sounds as if there are about three drummers and a guitarist that may have drank far too much coffee or really, really needs to pee. Greg looks for the source of the sound, but is distracted by the great number of shiny acoustic guitars hanging at the back wall. Luke, already enthralled by the place, escapes from Naomi's clutches and runs towards the nearest drum set, only to be stopped by a tall man with his hair tied back in messy ponytail.

"Whoa there, cub," Messy Ponytail says as he picks Luke up and deposits him next to Greg. "Don't mess with the equipment."

"Aren't you that guy in the shower last week?"

Messy Ponytail laughs nervously and doesn't answer the question, his silence telling Greg that he was the man in the shower. He grins when he sees Naomi. "Hey," he says as he wraps his arms around her. They're going to kiss, Greg thinks, but he doesn't get to see it because Luke puts his hands over Greg's eyes.

"What are you doing?" Greg asks as he struggles in Luke's hold.

"You can't see kissing! As your sentinel, I'm not allowing you to see—hey, you're scratching me!"

"No fighting in here!" Naomi yells when Greg bends his knees, ready to launch himself at Luke. They have stopped, thankfully, but her arms are still around him and it just feels weird to see two people wrapped around each other like…Well, whatever it is that likes to wrap around you. Blankets around your ankles in the morning, maybe.

"How about you guys go downstairs?" Messy Ponytail asks. He turns to Luke. "To get yourself cleaned up. You look like a mess."

"Not as much as you."

Greg pinches Luke's side, earning another snarl from him. "There's food down there as well," the man continues, his attention already on Naomi. Whatever animosity Luke feels towards Messy Ponytail fades at the promise of food.

The basement is weird. Greg has always thought of basements as this dark, scary place with a lot of twisting pipes and the sound of water dripping. He has also always thought of it as the best place to lock Luke whenever he annoys Greg (which is often). Luke has always thought of it as the best place to lock Mycroft in when he's being…well, being himself. This then leads to Greg letting Mycroft out and him locking Luke in the basement. In his eight years of living, Greg Lestrade has always thought that basements are a No Kid's Land.

He has never thought that he would see it as a small paradise.

There is a water bed. That alone is enough to make Greg think how cool this place is. "Jump on it," Luke dares and Greg doesn't even need to be told twice.

"So who is he then?" Greg asks as he jumps up and down and up and down. He hasn't even removed his shoes but Messy Ponytail's anger is, at the moment, not the first thing in Greg's mind. The only thing in his mind right now is to jump and jump until he gets tired or he breaks the water bed.

"Naomi's stupid boyfriend," Luke mutters. He takes off his blood-splattered uniform and dons one of Messy Ponytail's shirts. It's far too big for him and looks almost like a dress but Greg doesn't comment on it because something has distracted him. He stops jumping and just stares at the shirt for a long time, feeling a mixture of dread and fascination as he looks.

"That's a bad shirt," he says finally.

"No, it's not."

Greg points at the black letters across Luke's chest. "It is. The word."

Luke frowns at his shirt. "Buzzcocks?"

"That word!" Greg yells. At the moment, he feels like he's much older than Luke and far more responsible. Well, even more than usual. "I'm telling on you!"

"It is not!" Luke yells back but his face is a little pale and he's looking at the shirt like he wants to tear it off and burn it. They both glance at the door leading up the music store then at each other.

"Don't."

"You said it."

"I say 'wanker' all the time!"

"That's different and you know it."

"You're such a square," Luke argues.

"I'm not a shape, you idiot."

Luke stares at him defiantly. He takes a deep breath, his fists raised, and Greg wonders if they will fight again. He slides off the bed and gets ready for it but the fists never come. Only Luke's voice.

"COCK!" he yells loudly. Greg doesn't know why, but it may be the fear he feels towards that word, that or the fear of what will come later if Naomi hears. He has tasted lye soap before and it was a mistake, a huge mistake he no longer wants to commit because lye soap truly tastes disgusting. So it is fear, the deep-seated fear brought by that word that makes Greg Lestrade move and tackle his cousin to the ground.

(A few years later, a fourteen-year-old Greg Lestrade will suddenly think about this moment while drinking a cup of coffee, and it will make him laugh and—unfortunately—spill coffee all over his date, that being one Mycroft Holmes who will just look at him a little exasperatedly, a little fondly, and tell him that coffee just spurted out of his nose).

There is nothing playful about it this time and Luke, finally showing his true strength, manages to shove Greg away and slam him against the turntable. There is a brief flash of pain but Greg ignores this and Luke ignores this. They stand, just about to leap at each other once more when there is a hissing sound, followed by a guitar and the deep voice of a man, so riveting that it distracts them both.

"That's a cool song," Luke says after a moment of listening.

"Yeah," Greg admits.

They look at each other again and in silent agreement, they sit down and take out Messy Ponytail's box of 45's. "Johnny Cash," Greg says, holding up the empty sleeve holding the vinyl record currently playing.

Luke stares at the sleeve sombrely. A part of Greg somehow knows that this is the beginning, the start of a summer—no, years—of admiration towards big bands and loud noises and when they're a little older, the near godlike worshipping of leather. But for now it's just them and the turntable and quite a lot of Johnny Cash and Elvis Presley.

The record stops. Greg turns to his cousin.

"Play it again."

The bookshelf is burning.

Mycroft immediately drops his book and watches in shock as several first-edition novels are consumed in flames. The fire's not big, not by a longshot, but Mycroft's two-year-old brother is standing before it, naked from the waist down (again) and has one of Father's lighters in one hand.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft yells just as the sprinklers are activated, dousing both of them in cold water. The books are ruined, Mycroft thinks, and he thanks the higher beings that Father is abroad again. He can't hide it from Mummy, of course, but Father won't return until next month which will give them enough time to hide most of the damage.

"Come here," Mycroft orders. Sherlock just blinks at him, looks at the lighter, then brings the device to his mouth. Mycroft quickly snatches it out of his hand, causing Sherlock to whine and stamp his foot.

"MINE!"

"No, not yours. This is Father's."

Sherlock is aware that it's Fathers. Mycroft knows this because Sherlock has been told countless of times already to not go in Father's study, but Sherlock, only a few weeks shy from his second birthday, thinks that everything in the world belongs to him. He thinks that Mummy's pearls belongs to him, that Mycroft's new telescope belongs to him. He even thinks that Greg belongs to him. And while Greg sort of does belong to Mycroft and him to Greg, there is something extremely wrong about a child claiming a human being as his sole property.

Sherlock is spoiled. He destroys and steals things and if you scold him, he will either cry shrilly or attack you with his fists or the nearest object in hand. It is not Mummy's fault and it's definitely not Father's, who gets headaches whenever he's around Sherlock for too long. It is Mycroft's fault, perhaps, because he's not as strict as Father is towards Sherlock. He is certain that it is their relatives fault as they have a great part in Sherlock's overindulgence. They don't live with him so they don't know how wild he can be. To them, Sherlock is just this little angel who needs to be pampered all the time because of his status as an Omega. To them, little Sherlock can't even hurt a fly. Mycroft never bothers to tell them the story of how Sherlock accidentally (?) killed a pigeon. They won't believe him, anyway.

Sherlock whines again and begins to hit Mycroft's knees with his fists. "Give!" he shrieks, trying to grab the lighter. Mycroft holds it high, ignoring the sharp pain brought by the hard kick Sherlock delivers to his shin. For a moment, he thinks that this shouldn't be his life. He is only nine-years-old. He should do what other nine-year-olds do, like what Greg and Luke enjoy doing (though football and roughhousing has never truly appealed to him). But instead he's here, making sure his baby brother doesn't wreck the house or get himself killed.

"You need a time out," Mycroft scolds as he picks up Sherlock and takes him out of the library. He squirms in Mycroft's arms and even tries to bite him but Mycroft has learned how to hold Sherlock without getting hurt—throw him over your shoulder and press your arm against his legs to stop him from kicking you. That leaves his back in a vulnerable position but as Sherlock's legs are the most dangerous part of him, Mycroft thinks it's a worthy sacrifice.

The sitter is, as Mycroft expected, just coming up the stairs. She's young, only a student. Normally, Mummy would never hire anyone so young, but so-and-so needed help in her charity ball or grand dinner or whatever it is rich women do when they have too much time on their hands. And the household staff can't be bothered to look after Sherlock—they're too busy cleaning up the mess Sherlock makes.

"Why are you two so wet?" she asks. Mycroft says nothing and just stares at her. She didn't do her job, he thinks. Sherlock could have fallen somewhere or cut himself or he could have plunged a fork in the electrical socket (again). He worries about Sherlock a lot, because, while Sherlock may be a hellion, Mycroft does love him. There is also the fact that he fears what his parents might say if they see that he's neglected his brother.

And it's her fault. Sherlock smells faintly of smoke, and the scent makes him aware of the wet library and the ruined books and of how Mummy will be very disappointed with him when she comes back. Her disappointment is sometimes worse than Father's anger because it is rarely directed at him. He doesn't want that.

It's all her fault.

"You're fired."

She stares at him disbelievingly then begins to laugh. Sherlock stops squirming in his hold.

"Yeah, right." She pats his head fondly. "I'll take Sherlock now."

"No, you're fired." Mycroft glares at her. Sherlock could have gotten hurt. "You didn't do your job properly."

She opens her mouth to argue, to tell him that he's being silly and can he please just hand his little brother to her? But Mycroft speaks first. "If you go away now, I won't tell your boyfriend that you're cheating on him."

"Excuse me?"

Mycroft doesn't even bother giving her an answer. He goes to Sherlock's room and changes his clothes himself. The sitter doesn't follow them, and it's just as well that she didn't—he rarely makes vain threats.

"No!" Sherlock shouts when Mycroft holds up his trousers. "Don't want!"

"You're putting these on and that's final."

Sherlock dodges him then throws the bee/bear at Mycroft's face. Mycroft catches it and holds it gingerly with his thumb and forefinger. It's more than a little worse for wear. The left ear is torn, one beady eye hangs by a few threads, and the stuffing is peeking out from the seam on its belly. Mycroft has thought more than once to throw the thing away but it's the only way to bribe Sherlock into doing something he doesn't want to do.

As soon as he sees his favourite toy acting as hostage, Sherlock immediately stops screaming and sets down his next weapon (a box of crayons). "Put on your trousers or you won't get this," Mycroft threatens, holding the bear high. Sherlock looks at the bear then at the bookshelf in his room. Mycroft nods. "That's right. If you don't behave, I'm going to put this on the top shelf where you can't reach it."

"Mine!"

Mycroft walks towards the shelf, still holding the bear up. Sherlock begins to cry, this time for real. It's easy enough to differentiate Sherlock's fake crying from his real one. The real one has none of the harsh shrieking. It's disturbingly quiet and Mycroft wonders what Sherlock learning to control his sobbing at an early age means. Mycroft lowers the toy and moves to him. "Trousers?" he asks and Sherlock nods, still sniffling even when Mycroft has finished dressing him and has placed the bear in his arms.

The angelic act does not last long. Sherlock reaches up and pinches his arm before running out the room.

The house is much too quiet, and Mycroft, knowing just how bored Sherlock can be when there's no one to entertain him, grabs his hand and takes him outside. The only adult present is Jules, the gardener. He eyes them suspiciously, then warns Mycroft not to let Sherlock anywhere near the flowerbeds. "You heard that, Sherlock?" Mycroft says as he seats his brother next to him. "No more chasing bees."

Sherlock's only reply is to grab a stick and poke him between his ribs.

Thankfully, it is a Friday. He hears the Lestrades' car pull up the driveway, Greg's father greeting one of the staff cordially before he bids Greg goodbye. Mycroft braces himself for Luke Rochewell's teasing but relaxes once he sees that it's only Greg today. "Hello," he greets, grinning wildly as he wraps his arms around Mycroft's middle, squeezing slightly. Mycroft knows he is meant to squeeze back but he doesn't understand why this must be done so he just stands there and pats Greg's back a bit.

"Luke got into trouble," Mycroft says. It's not a question; it's a statement. Greg nods.

"He had to go to the dentist. He lost his teeth. A bully knocked them out."

Mycroft blinks, startled. He's never seen Greg or his cousin as the type to be bullied, but rather, he sees them as the bullies. Luke is obvious. There's a malicious glint in his eyes and he likes to taunt others. Greg is more subtle. A bystander, rather. He doesn't participate, but he doesn't help, either.

But then, Greg and Luke don't know about the other kids who make fun of him.

Appearances can be very deceiving.

Someone shoves him away from Greg. It's Sherlock, of course. It must be an Omega thing, Mycroft thinks, the one that makes Sherlock so possessive of Greg. He hopes that it is not a Sherlock thing because that would lead to several therapy sessions and possibly a white room with padded walls.

"Hello," Greg greets as he picks Sherlock up, staggering slightly when Sherlock wraps his limbs around him like a vice. "Loosen up, you're choking me."

"Mine," Sherlock mutters.

Greg just laughs and kisses his forehead. Mycroft finds himself staring at the two of them. There's a strange feeling in his chest. Heartburn, maybe, but that's impossible. He's only nine and they don't have a history of heart problems in their family.

It's gone before Mycroft can put a name to it.