Sherlock tips the wineglass back and drinks the rest of the champagne in one go, smiling triumphantly as he sets it down. "I can drink more," he says, his eyes challenging Priam to argue. Greg has no doubt he can drink more. They're used to drinking during social events. "It's a necessity," his mother told him when he was too young to appreciate the taste of blackberry wine and whisky. It becomes an excuse to drown himself in drink when things get too boring. It's not a suitable excuse when he's drinking outside of a suit.
Priam brushes his lips on the top of Sherlock's head. It's oddly affectionate and Greg finds himself staring at the bottom of his empty glass, trying to ignore the two of them. "I know you can," Priam tells him gently, "but no more—your mother will have my head if I let you get drunk."
Greg can see John in his peripheral vision. He's uncomfortable and it shows. In fact, he's not even bothering to be more subtle. He keeps tugging on his tie, keeps tapping his foot to an unsteady rhythm. He sits opposite Greg, squashed in the loveseat which is also occupied by Sherlock and his uncle. He looks at Greg, brows raised comically, but his smiled is tight-lipped and crooked, quite unlike his usual ones.
Luke, on the other hand, is the complete opposite of John. He has an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth and a glass of scotch in one hand. The drink spills every now and then because Luke keeps moving his hand to-and-fro. He's bored. Greg can see it from the way he keeps scratching on the arm of the sofa. Wordlessly, Greg nudges his leg with his foot. Luke straightens, gives him a defiant stare, then scratches even harder.
"…the mortuary," Priam is saying. Sherlock is standing up and John quickly follows, looking far too relieved to be polite. He accidentally jostles Sherlock but the younger boy doesn't even notice. He's grinning madly and Greg feels that if Priam weren't there, he'd actually jump for joy.
"Really?"
"On your birthday," Priam promises with another warm smile. He looks over shoulder at the well-dressed crowd milling about. "Now run along and go bother your Aunt Deidre for me."
"Cigarette," Priam demands as soon as Sherlock has dragged John towards a fat woman dressed from head to toe in purple. Luke blinks owlishly at him. "Give me a damn cigarette," he repeats.
The cold does little to hide the strong scent of expensive cigarettes that wafts in the air. A refined-looking woman in her early fifties gives Priam a disapproving glare that does not go ignored. "Bitch," Priam says under his breath, beaming at the woman as she passes by. Another one of Sherlock's relatives, a boy around John's age, looks at Priam fearfully before whispering something to his friend that has them dissolve into raucous laughter. Greg doesn't need to be as intelligent as the Holmeses to get it. Priam isn't welcome here.
The glow from the end of his cigarette casts shadows on his face, making his cheekbones more pronounced and his hair even redder. It makes Priam look intimidating, quite unlike the enthusiastic man who greeted them half an hour ago. Greg's eyes fall on the pale column of his throat. The unmarred skin catches him by surprise. Priam isn't bonded, doesn't even seem to be attached to anyone at the moment. He catches Greg staring and frowns. "Don't give me that look," he admonishes. "Some doctors smoke. Having a medical degree doesn't strip you of your humanity."
His eyes land on Luke who immediately tenses under Priam's stare. Strange, Greg thinks. Luke doesn't get nervous, would rather stick his middle finger in the air than balk at a threatening presence. There's something there, something Greg can't quite catch. But then Priam's smiling, a flash of white teeth in a freckled face, and then he says, "Lucas, go back in please. I need a word with Greg."
Luke doesn't hesitate. He squeezes Greg's shoulder reassuringly then walks back into the house. Greg wants to follow but he can't out of politeness and maybe out of fear as well. "Your friend's a train wreck waiting to happen," Priam warns him. The tone of his voice is knowing and more than a little smug. It doesn't fail to annoy Greg. "You ought to keep an eye on him."
"It's his job to look after me. Technically."
Priam shrugs. "I'd fire him."
Greg doesn't argue, because it's the truth anyway, laid out bare before him. He'd avoid it if he could. In fact, he'd avoid a lot of truths if he could.
It doesn't work like that.
There's a bench nearby. Priam takes a seat and Greg follows, keeping a respectful distance. Across them sits a girl who's undeniably from Sherlock's mother's side of the family. Her black hair is tied up with a long red ribbon that stands out against her pale shoulders. She glances at them before lighting another cigarette.
Greg turns to Priam who's taken out a somewhat squashed cigarette from the front pocket of his suit. His eyes fall on his throat once more. It hits him that beneath the smell of cigarettes and champagne, Priam smells like Alpha and Alpha only, something his olfactory sense must find alarming. It's the only explanation he can find as to why he blurts, "You're not bonded."
Priam drags his feet toward him, leaving two long tracks in the snow. Beneath, the grass shows, yellow-brown and brittle. Greg wonders if it's too personal an observation. He opens his mouth to apologize but Priam beats him to it. "No, I'm not," he confirms. He rips apart the cigarette in his hands, the nicotine staining his fingers in a color that looks eerily like dried blood under the soft glow of the garden lights.
Greg doesn't bother to hide his curiosity. It isn't impolite to pry, he thinks, when with Priam. He doesn't seem like a private person, quite the opposite of Mycroft's other uncle. 'The cripple' an old man had said harshly, laughing when Ingfred left the room with Mycroft. The memory sickens him slightly so he shakes the thought away. "You had a pre-bond, then?" he asks even though he knows the answer. Mycroft did tell him about Priam rejecting it, about his older brother throwing him out for doing so. Priam raises an eyebrow. Then he throws his head back and laughs.
"My god, no wonder my nephews like you." He grins. His front tooth is chipped, Greg notices. "You're a mixture of polite and rude, aren't you?"
Greg feels his face grow warm. He should know better than to pry. He may have offended him and he wonders what that says about him, what Mycroft's mother might say. "Oh, sorry, I thought—"
"Whatever," Priam cuts off, the tone of his voice suggesting that he really doesn't mind. "You'd love to hear it, though. Your curiosity's blatant."
"You're a Holmes," Greg retorts in spite of himself. "Of course it's obvious to you."
Priam laughs at this. It's a nice laugh, rebelliously joyful in a place full of serious people. It reminds him of Mycroft's laugh when they're alone, when Mycroft doesn't have to play his role as the eldest son of Siger Holmes.
"I ran away when I was fifteen," Priam starts, voice somber now. He's looking straight ahead, almost as if he's forgotten all about Greg. "I just go sick of it—sick of our parents, sick of my brothers, sick of the lifestyle. I didn't want to bond with anyone and I still don't. I just packed up a bag and left. Ing tried to stop me of course but I forced him to let me go. A few days after that, my bank account was emptied and I found myself doing odd jobs just to keep myself going. Siger didn't really disown me—I disowned myself.
"Sig gave up on me but Ing kept trying. I doubt he even really cared—just wanted to stop having a black sheep for a brother, I think. Two years later, both my folks died and I guess I just got sick of avoiding them. Point is, I can't deny that I'm part of the family. But at least I got to be independent thanks to that stint. Even got a medical license." Priam snorts. "Mother would have been proud. Siger definitely was. For a while."
His tone is mocking and more than a little bitter. It's nothing like how Sherlock talks about Mycroft. There's no trace of fondness in his voice, just a deep burning hatred. "You dislike him," Greg says, purposefully using a less harsh term. The image of Sherlock with Priam pops in his mind, confusing him. It must show on his face because Priam's shaking his head.
"Just because Sig's a dick, doesn't mean I have any reason to hate his kids." He scratches his neck idly, once more bringing attention to the flawless skin. "As you can see, I don't have kids of my own. Ing doesn't, either. Or rather, he can't—that's why he never bonded. So those two are pretty spoiled between us." A shadow crosses his face. "I worry about Mycroft, though. And I worry about you, too, I guess."
Greg blinks, surprised. "Me?"
Priam shrugs. He doesn't look like he's joking which Greg thinks is even worse. He looks away from him, at the girl still smoking her cigarette.
"You know, the thing about pre-bonds is, they have disadvantages as well."
Greg scowls. "I know that." And he does, he's not lying. He knows the risks, knows how it makes you more than a little dependent on the person you have it with. It could either be the best arrangement for the both of you, or the most detached relationship ever. It's why Mycroft worries about Sherlock and John who can hardly stay in a room together long enough without shouting at each other.
"Oh?" He sounds disbelieving and somehow that simple 'oh' allows doubt to creep into his chest. "Greg, tell me, honestly." There's a pause. Greg can feel Priam staring at him, waiting. Slowly, he allows his posture to relax, silently telling him to go on.
"If you don't have Mycroft, then where does that leave you?"
And there it is, one of his fears thrown into his face. Greg bites his lip and doesn't even try to answer the question. He ducks his head and lets his shoulders slump forward, trying to project that he's not interested in entertaining the question. The thing is, he can't even think about what his life would be like if he never met Mycroft because Mycroft is always there, encompassed in his every being, so much that just the thought of Mycroft gone actually hurts. The dependency scares him. He often wonders if Mycroft even feels the same. If it's normal.
"Look," Priam says gently, "I'm not saying you're not good enough for my nephew and I don't doubt how you feel about him. It's just…" He trails off, his eyes momentarily clouding with memory. "It's just that you should be independent."
Greg scoffs at that. "I am independent. I don't let Mycroft walk all over me."
"It's not that," Priam argues. He sighs. It sounds weary, sounds like Priam's been weary for years. "Greg, do you even know our family?"
Greg doesn't reply. Priam takes it as a sign to go on. He turns to the girl smoking and puts on an affable smile when the girl takes her phone out of her clutch. "Going to call your brother?" he asks cheerfully. "I'm going to have to tell Fyodor not to give you any more drugs."
Silence falls. Greg stares at them, at the girl. She's younger than he first thought, he realizes, his heart skipping a beat when he sees that underneath the makeup, she can't be more than thirteen. He's not one to talk, he knows. He started smoking at thirteen but he's never even thought about doing more than that. The girl puts out her cigarette and stares at Priam coldly.
"I can get my own fucking drugs," she says as she stands up, leaving Greg to stare after her in surprise.
"You're a doctor," he says to Priam. He's lighting another cigarette, not even the least fazed about what happened. It almost looks like it's normal. It is, Greg realizes. "Why don't you do anything about it?"
"Because it's not my problem. It's not anyone's problem until the media exposes it," Priam says matter-of-factly. "And that Greg—that's what our family's like."
Do you want to spend the rest of your life with that? Priam doesn't say the words out loud but Greg can hear them in his own head, can see it in the way Priam narrows his eyes at him.
"Yes," Greg says before the word 'no' can even come up as an option. Mycroft is different and Sherlock is different and Greg knows who they really are. At the end of the day, that's all that really matters really.
"Yes," he says again and Priam smiles at him warmly.
"You'll be staying the night, darling?"
His mother's look is sly and it embarrasses him more than the kiss she plants on his cheek. Beside him Mycroft exchanges pleasantries with his father who merely grunts back his replies.
"If you don't mind," Greg says, even though he knows that his mother won't. She probably even encourages that he sleep in Mycroft's room. They don't talk about it but it's no secret that he occasionally sleeps with Mycroft if the pills she dropped in his hand one morning is something to go by. His mother isn't one to talk, anyway. If Luke's mother is to be believed, his mum had a bit of a reputation when she was his age. Greg thinks she's just amused that he's sleeping with the same guy he once complained was a posh and boring know-it-all.
Mycroft kisses him later, after everyone has left and after Mycroft has carried a slightly intoxicated Sherlock to his room, leaving Greg to see that John and his family are settled in their respective guest rooms. They'll be gone by tomorrow, off to their hometown in Scotland, long before Greg will have woken.
Mycroft kisses him in the darkness of his room, his mouth sliding over Greg's, soft and gentle, and somehow still polite, which makes Greg think that if Mycroft were to fuck him in front of his whole family, he'll still be able to make it look like he's being a gentleman. The thought threatens to make him laugh but his breath catches when Mycroft drags his mouth across his jaw to nip at the side of his neck.
"I love you."
It's not a revelation because he's always known this, always felt it, Greg thinks, even when they were kids and the thought of kissing Mycroft was more repulsing than pleasant. He always says it, anyway. "I love you" after sex, before sex, and sometimes even at just the mention of sex. "I love you" to annoy Sherlock, who always pretends to vomit when he hears it spoken, his face crumpling like he's swallowed a lemon.
Greg says it again, just to confirm it to himself. Priam is wrong, he thinks as Mycroft's weight presses him into the matress, and as he kisses him and kisses him and kisses him until their mouths taste the same. Priam is wrong. Greg wouldn't mind doing this for the rest of his life.