"I really don't know why you never visit," Alanis complains, ending the sentence with a resounding crunch that tells Greg she's eating some unfortunate vegetable. Greg wrinkles his nose in distaste but doesn't remark on it. Whoever stated that vegetarians are weaklings can go chop off his balls and stuff them down his throat, because Alanis is in no way a weak person. "It's not like you don't have the money."

Greg presses the tip of his tongue against his teeth to cut off the sigh threatening to leave his chest. Alanis will kill you, he reminds himself. Even a thousand miles away, she's capable of doing that. "I visited," he argues as he shifts the cordless phone to his other ear. The movement stretches the stitches on the back of his hand. Instinctively, he bites back a wince. Alanis doesn't know about that. No one does, really, except Mycroft who'd narrowed his eyes at him but was unable to make any sort of remark because Sherlock had come in the room, demanding to be entertained. His parents believe it's from a motorbike accident. Luke's parents believe Luke's staying at Chuck's for a while though Greg's learned from Lucca that no one's seen him since the party. Alanis definitely doesn't need to know about any of it. She won't understand.

Greg doesn't really understand, either.

Alanis snorts. "Yeah, right. That was three years ago, Dingo, and it was only for a week. Haven't even met your boyfriend yet. Oh wait, fiancé. What do you even use? Come on, mate. Bet he's never stepped foot in Australia."

"I prefer boyfriend, thanks," Greg answers wryly. "And I'm pretty sure Mycroft's been to Australia already." He's pretty sure Mycroft's been to more than twenty countries already, during the weeks when Greg doesn't see him or when they have family trips, about the same time Greg's father insists they visit his side of the family. An image of Mycroft in Hawaii has him grinning like an idiot. He clears the thought away. "And stop calling me Dingo."

"He hasn't met us," Alanis argues, ignoring the last bit.

That's because you'll probably give him a heart attack. Greg doesn't say this out loud, though, knowing all too well that Alanis will only take it as a challenge. He's not sure how Mycroft will react if he ever does take him to see his family on his father's side. They're not Australian, not really. A number of them live in Australia, but the rest are spread out across the globe, travelling and occasionally settling down long enough to breed like rabbits. He has Vietnamese cousins from one uncle and Russian cousins from one aunt. It's a bit strange.

Alanis 'hmm's' in a vaguely displeased way. Greg can just see her in his mind's eye, phone cradled in the space between her neck and shoulder, feet propped up so that her toes are against the cool glass of one of the many aquariums in her house. They don't see each other often as Asutralia's too far away and Greg's not really the kind of Lestrade whose level of adventurous extends to travelling. But she writes letters—long, winding ones almost worth a plane ticket.

"If you do come bring Luke again, alright?" He can practically see her grinning from here, mouth shaped to form her customary shark's grin. "He's not going to cheat in Monopoly again. I'll make sure of it."

Greg laughs. It sounds a bit forced but Alanis doesn't seem to notice. "Aunt Giselle there?"

"Nah, she went with dad to the reserve. Baby dolphins to study, yadda-yadda." There's a scratchy sound, followed by a muffled yell that he guesses might be a swear word. Greg stares at a fly making its way to one of his socks while he waits. "Sorry," she says, sounding exasperated. "Frankie's messing with the fish again. Talk to you soon, okay?"

"Okay, bye—" She hangs up, though, but not without Greg hearing her little brother get an earful about not putting his hand in the tanks.

He tosses the phone to the pile of clothes at the foot of his bed and tries not to think about Luke or Mycroft. But it's not easy, edging near impossible to be more specific. Luke's out there doing god-knows-what and Greg can't even tell anyone because it feels wrong. It's not his story to tell, anyway, because he doesn't even know half of it. And he and Mycroft still haven't gotten over whatever it is that's plaguing them. It might be fear or distrust or a little bit of both, but it's clear that neither of them are willing to talk about it.

Pull yourself together, Greg. Wake the hell up already.

There's a sharp rap on the door, followed by his father's head poking from behind it. "Lunch," he calls cheerfully. "Get your arse out of bed. You've been there all day."

"I was talking to Alanis." It's not a justifiable excuse when used on his mother but his father's face visibly softens. He likes Alanis since she's a mini version of his sister, minus the consumption of vegetables, and the dreadlocks springing from her scalp. Greg uses this fondness to his advantage as much as he can. It has yet to fail.

"She badgering you to come visit again?" he asks. Greg confirms it with what he hopes might be a dismissive grunt. But instead of leaving, his father takes it as an invitation to come in the room and sit on the edge of his mattress. Greg groans and rolls onto his belly so that his face is pressed into the pillow. "Go away," he mumbles, but his father rests his hand on the middle of his spine, a clear indicator that he's not going anywhere.

"Your hand doing well?"

"'m fine."

"Still angry about me taking your bike away, aren't you?"

The truth is, he hasn't even thought about it once, not after begging Quentin to drive it into a tree to make his story more believable. Between worrying about Luke and Mycroft, there really isn't any time to think about his bike. Okay, he did think about it a few times, but that thing's been with him for two years already and, well, can you blame him for getting a little sentimental from time to time? Still, he lets out an annoyed huff, hoping his father might think that it's sincere. Luckily, he falls for it.

"Lunch," he repeats firmly. The hand is removed and when Greg looks up, his father's already gone, the door left wide open. Greg toys with the idea staying there all day, but another call of his name has him rolling out of bed.

"I really wish you'd stop wearing that shirt, Greg," his mother chides as soon as he takes a seat. "It looks like it's about to fall out of you."

He rolls his eyes at her. "It's vintage, Mum."

The kitchen smells of cumin and basil, a combination of scents that directs Greg's olfactory sense to the word 'home'. They don't look it, he knows, especially with his whole leather jacket-vintage band shirt getup, but they're the kind of family that insists on eating every meal together. The kind with the embarrassing parents who still pinch his cheeks and show whoever unfortunate being manages to get stuck in the living room long enough for them to pull out all of Greg's baby pictures and recite anecdotes that, for some reason, are never not humiliating.

"Your hair needs to be cut again. You look like a pineapple," his mum says. She takes a strand of it between her fingers and eyes it critically. "Washed as well," she adds, unfazed by Greg's indignant cry of 'Mum!'

"Don't nag him Denise. He's seventeen-years-old—he can do whatever he wants. Within reason." This last is directed at his injured hand. Greg scowls and hides it under the table.

"Why can't you be in a business trip right now?" Greg mutters.

His father shrugs then turns to his mother with a conspiratorial grin. Greg hangs his head and tries to concentrate in finishing his meal.

"Do you remember when I was in Finland—"

"Oh my god, the toilet—"

"The Paddington Bear toy—"

"Cried the whole time! Ha, he looked like a little Noah—"

"In my defence," Greg says loudly before his parents can further compare him to Bible characters, "I was five and Uncle Jack said I'd go to prison if I ever did something bad with the toilet and I had no idea that it can overflow so can we please stop talking about this now?"

"You were so adorable at five," his mother sighs wistfully which Greg feels ought to be offensive. "I wish I'd taken a picture of that moment." She turns to his father again, much to his dismay. Greg thinks he's only alive because there isn't a guest present. He remembers the last time he and his mates gathered in his house. No one really wants to know about the time Greg ate a caterpillar, thank you very much.

"…used to sing it all the time in the bath, didn't he, Noel?" his mum recalls, laughing. And then they're off, singing a toneless rendition of 'Jailhouse Rock'. Greg winces and wishes that he didn't remember, but he does and the song brings back memories of his childhood obsession with Elvis Presley.

He hides his grin with another scowl. "You guys are ridiculous."

"Compared to my sisters I'm the normal one," his father snorts. "Speaking of which, Pauline's inviting us to Marseilles for a week or two. You can bring Luke."

Greg tenses and this time, he isn't so lucky. His mother's always been the more perceptive one. "Have you and Luke been fighting?" she asks, concerned. "I haven't seen you two together since you left for Charles' party."

"Daniel says Luke's staying in London for a while." His father looks at him for confirmation.

"He's seeing someone," Greg lies, not trusting himself to meet their eyes. He's snorting cocaine doesn't seem suitable in such a domestic setting. Greg winces inwardly. "You know, by 'seeing' I really mean sleeping with god-knows-who. I give it two weeks."

"Using himself as a heat-aide again." She clicks her tongue. "Well, as long as he's careful. Then again, maybe Isobel should have taken Theodore's offer on a pre-bond for Luke. You remember him, Noel? He's got a lovely girl Greg's age."

Greg doesn't voice his opinion. He tries but fails to imagine Luke in any sort of long term relationship. He would hate it, he thinks, would hate being strapped to someone.

Is that how I think of Mycroft?

He shakes his head, scolds himself. No. That's not it.

The conversation shifts to his father's work and Greg uses it as an excuse to leave the table and head to the living room.

The whole house dates back to the 1920's and remains dimly lit no matter how many windows they add. It's much smaller than the Holmes' manor but somehow more welcoming in spite of the darkness. The living room's always made Greg think of a fancy bar in a mafia movie. If his parents ever complain about his nights out with friends, he thinks he can always blame the way this part of the house is designed. What doesn't look so accommodating is the cow skull hanging over the wall behind the bar. It's another one of those odd gifts his father's brothers or sisters send from their current location. When they were younger, Luke would take it down and set it on Greg's head, the two of them tearing off to scare the locals. He'd tried to scare Mycroft which had failed miserably. He'd tried—and succeeded—in frightening Sherlock to tears.

"I was four; don't be so smug about it."

Greg whips his head to find Sherlock standing behind him, hands on his hips and a displeased expression on his face. He's dressed in a shirt that's at least two sizes too big and dirt-stained cargo pants with torn knees. For some reason, he's also barefoot. "How the hell did you get in here?" Greg hisses. His eyes widen when they move past Sherlock and onto the footprints all over the carpet. "Sherlock!"

"The door," Sherlock replies in his best you're-an-idiot voice. "I saw your mother buying honey yesterday and since your father's a diabetic and you don't really care much for sweets, it means your mother's baked a cake and that she still has some to spare. I'm looking for dessert."

Greg glares at him. "Don't you have any at home?"

"I was outside investigating a beehive. And our kitchen's full of nosy people who'll report to my mother that I'm not in my cleanest state." An annoyed look at his clothes tells Greg he's not oblivious to how he must look. Right, he remembers. Sherlock is, at eleven, vainer than any eleven-year-old ought to be. "Mother thinks it's unhealthy for me to eat too many snacks," he adds as he scratches at a dirt stain on the shirt.

"It is unhealthy."

"They're the only foods that stimulate my mind," Sherlock argues. "I haven't eaten in two days. School food is disgusting regardless of the school's status."

Greg thinks about disagreeing then decides against it and just takes Sherlock to the kitchen. Half an hour later, he's sitting on Greg's bed, newly-bathed and with a plate of honey cake balanced on his lap. Greg waits for him to say something but Sherlock is silent, his attention on the food in front of him. Finally, Greg puts on a record and lies back on the floor, his face turned toward the bed so that he can see Sherlock's feet sway to-and-fro. The third track is finished by the time the plate's cleaned.

"My brother's become more of a nuisance ever since you started this nonsense," Sherlock announces as he sets the plate on Greg's bedside table. "I'm only here for the weekend but I can't enjoy the comfort of my own home thanks to my brother's presence. Talk to him."

Greg sits up and stares at him in disbelief. "You're seriously giving me relationship advice?"

A wrinkle appears in Sherlock's forehead. "I don't know anything about…romantic relationships," he mutters. "Frankly, the whole notion of it disgusts me. But if I can force you to talk to him then it may get Mycroft off my back, long enough for me to conduct my experiment. It's to do with bees," he adds for Greg's sake, "and neither Mycroft nor my mother approve."

He taps the tines of the fork against his lower lip in a contemplative manner. It's a childish gesture, and when Greg looks at him, he sees just that—a scrawny kid in an old The Clash shirt and a pair of jeans he grew out of. They're still too long for Sherlock, the legs having been turned a number of times so that his feet stick out like clappers. He sets the fork down then looks at Greg beneath the wild mess of his hair. "Is that what all relationships are like? Fighting all the time?"

Greg's startled by the genuine curiosity in Sherlock's face. Surely, he doesn't think that. But then Greg remembers Sherlock's parents and his family, remembers what Priam said about them being so dysfunctional it's a miracle they even reproduce. And then this, this thing he can't even explain which is beginning to affect Sherlock in a way that has Greg fearing can't be undone. Now that he thinks about it, it isn't exactly shocking that Sherlock sees things that way.

"No," he says carefully, aware of the weight of each word he delivers. "Not all relationships are like that, Sherlock. People fight, you know? You can't really avoid that. But that's…that's not what having a relationship is all about. There are good times, good experiences."

He sighs when Sherlock doesn't react. "Look, I know you're worried about your brother." Sherlock flinches like Greg flung a severed body part at him. Or not that since Sherlock would probably rejoice upon having something new to experiment on—not a thought that should be dwelled on. "But uh, I guess we're learning to stay apart? Did I phrase that right? Anyway, it's just…sometimes it's not good to stay too long with one person."

"You're starting to hate it," Sherlock says and this time, it's Greg who flinches from the close scrutiny. "The pre-bond, the way people keep associating you with Mycroft. You're scared."

Greg grits his teeth. "Why would I be scared of Mycroft?"

"It isn't Mycroft." Sherlock tilts his head to the side then grins, his eyes shining brightly. "I get it! You're afraid of losing the life you have. You don't want to grow up yet. You only have what? Four years before you get bonded to Mycroft."

"It isn't that." It is that now that he thinks about it. It's not that he doesn't love Mycroft anymore. It's just that loving Mycroft might not be enough. His eyes widen with the realization, and Sherlock beams smugly, simultaneously observant and oblivious.

"You don't have a choice. That's the bad thing about being the eldest." The stethoscope is cold against his chest, making him flinch in spite of himself. This close, Mycroft can smell tea and cigarettes on Priam's breath, inexorably making him crave for the latter. His attention wavers for less than a second but Priam sees. He shakes his head.

"I'd offer you some but I'm afraid my staff won't think kindly of me if you come out smelling of smoke." He slides the stethoscope lower, pauses, then adds, "And I advise you not to smoke for a while. Your heart rate's high. Stress?"

"Of course not. I am, as you see, perfectly relaxed," Mycroft says in a sardonic manner that surprises himself. Priam cracks a smile. "Stress, then," he confirms as he sets the stethoscope on his desk. "You ought to come to me more often. Sherlock, as well, though you'll have to find him another doctor as soon as his secondary gender reaches puberty. I'd handle him myself but Omegas tend to get uncomfortable when around Alpha doctors."

He rattles on about medical procedures while Mycroft buttons up his shirt. He reads his uncle silently, taking note of his bloodshot eyes and unkempt hair, of the coffee stain on the left cuff of his shirt with a bit of guilt. As guileless he may be, sometimes to the point of cruelty, he has a caretaker's attitude, seen from the way he dedicates himself to his work. Mycroft is aware that he judges him too harshly.

"I don't mind," Priam tells him. He looks over his shoulder, eyes scanning down Mycroft's body to take note of his stance and connect it to his thoughts. "But I did nothing wrong. I said nothing but the truth." It's meant to be casual but the delivery is tarnished by the way his eyes are trained on a pile of books at his desk, purposely refusing to meet Mycroft's.

"I like the boy," Priam mutters and this time he's defensive, arms crossed over his chest and looking far too much like Sherlock. "He's a good influence on you. And he's fun—he's different. Siger made a good choice in picking him for you. But I can't say that you're a good influence on him."

Mycroft frowns at that, but it may be the truth. And it hurts, of course it does. "I'm sorry," Priam tells him. "I just don't want you to hurt that kid, Mycroft. And I don't want you to hurt yourself for hurting him."

You're not your father. The words hover behind Priam's lips but the moment passes and he doesn't say it out loud. "You keep secrets," is what he says instead. With a small shake of his head, he asks, "Why didn't you tell him about his cousin?"

Mycroft shrugs. "I don't know." It's a lie. I didn't want Greg to hurt. But it's clear he made a mistake by not telling him earlier and Greg's hurting now, both physically and emotionally. And the thing is, Mycroft's not sure what he ought to do. His Alpha instincts keep pointing to him that he should comfort Greg, take him in his arms, and keep him safe. But Greg values his independence and he'd hate it. He's starting to hate it now and Mycroft sees it, sees the uncertainty in Greg's eyes whenever he looks at him but there's nothing he can do about it. Greg won't stop being uncertain, he knows, even with a full bond. Unless of course, he lets him go.

His family would disapprove. They always stick with the people chosen for them but that's because they don't fall in love. It's always a duty to the family, the bond more an arrangement for procreation.

Would he even let him leave?

"Mycroft," Priam says and Mycroft tears his attention away from his thoughts and focuses on Priam. His uncle is looking at him thoughtfully. "If you were never in a pre-bond with Greg—if, for example, his father had no association with Siger—would you have even spared him a second glance?"

Mycroft is quiet for a moment. "That's a question with no right answers and you know it," he says and this time it's Priam who shrugs and tells him that it does have an answer. Mycroft just doesn't know it yet.

"Boy isn't a duty, Mycroft," Priam reminds him. "Don't treat people like they can be rescheduled, like you own them."

"I don't—"

"You do."

He huffs, defeated. "You were the one who told me that the work is important. You approved of it."

"Ingfred said that, not me," Priam snorts even though he did say it. Mycroft remembers it, remembers everything he says, whether he likes it or not. "You'll be—or rather, are—successful. I know what you're doing Mycroft. Your mother told me and I pieced it together. Future politician? That's bull. You're making those officials adore you. You're weaving a network and that's impressive, Mycroft, how can anyone not be impressed? But if you can't answer that question, then nephew dear, I feel sorry for Greg."

"Don't!"

Greg runs to him, hands resting firmly on his shoulders even though it makes pain bloom on his injured hand. His face twists in a grimace but he keeps his hold on Mycroft. "Don't hurt him," he pleads. Mycroft isn't even attempting to fight him but the fury must be in his eyes because Greg's grip tightens. Luke is shaking on the sofa, curled in on himself with his face pressed against his knees.

The rest of the house is still. What a picture they would make to Greg's parents, Mycroft thinks. He feels the Alpha in him rage, fills him with the urge to grab Luke by the throat and throttle him. But Greg's holding him to the point of pain and he knows that he'll never forgive him if he hurts Luke. Slowly, he tears his eyes away from the miserable ball on the couch to stare in Greg's face. He's unhurt (physically) and he smells faintly of Luke's blood, the source of it on the knuckles of his uninjured hand. Always resorting to violence, those two. He stamps down the fury and tells himself that no, he's not like Greg—if he hurts Luke he won't be able to stop himself.

Mycroft steps back. Relief washes over Greg's face and he exhales loudly. "Let's talk somewhere else," he suggests. He warns Luke not to run off then grabs Mycroft by the wrist to take him to the dining room.

"You knew," Greg accuses once it's clear Luke won't be able to overhear them. "Why did you never tell me?"

"The same reason why you're not telling his parents or yours," Mycroft answers carefully, watching as Greg's face moves from furious to confused and finally to resigned.

"I need to help him."

"Help him?" Mycroft sneers. "He hurt you. Why would you waste your time fixing something that's broken beyond repair? He's an addict and it isn't just the cocaine. Luke has the tendency to be easily influences by his friends, and unfortunately it does not extend to positive effects."

"He's my best friend," Greg snaps. "I can't just leave him."

He hurt you, he lied to you, you can't trust him, don't take that risk.

"There's a rehabilitation facility nearby," Mycroft suggests. It's futile, though. Greg frowns and goes from furious to defensive.

"No…not like that. I need to know why."

Mycroft grabs his hand. Stop it, listen to me for once! "Understand that I only want to protect you. Do not get involved in this. Let me take care of it instead."

"How? By treating him like something that you need to get rid of?"

"There is an easy solution. If you just look at it in a different light."

"You don't know Luke, Mycroft."

"Don't be ridiculous; I had the misfortune of spending my childhood with him." To force Luke into rehab isn't going to truly cure him of his addiction. It will be an everyday battle. Mycroft's seen it from his cousins, the knowledge of their vices an open secret that no one dares talk about. Still, it's the easiest way to keep him away from Greg. To keep Greg safe.

Greg shakes his head. There's no convincing him to turn away from Luke.

"Then do whatever you please," Mycroft mutters bitterly, hating himself and Greg for the words that come of out his mouth. "I won't speak of this to anyone but neither will I help you."

He doesn't expect the hug that follows. It's a little awkward and just shy from being painful when Greg's head accidentally knocks against his chin before he settles. But it's good, too, and it doesn't feel fake, doesn't feel like they have to do it.

"I'm sorry," Greg says when he pulls away. "I just need you to trust me on this."

He doesn't. That's the problem. But Greg's begging him, pleading, and Mycroft can't do it.

He can't deny him this.

They don't have ice. It's unsanitary and more than a little disgusting but a cold steak to a bruise is better than nothing at all. Luke doesn't even cringe when Greg hands it to him. He mutters his thanks, his mouth slow in forming the words. That will hurt more in the morning and Greg feels a small satisfaction, followed by a bit of guilt.

"Mycroft's not very pleased to see me, is he?" Luke asks.

"I'm not very pleased with you either." But I'm glad you're not dead in a ditch. He doesn't have to say the words out loud. Luke looks like shit. His skin's turned sallow and he seems to have lost half his weight. He looks like he's drowning in the leather jacket wrapped around him. Looks like a proper junkie, Greg realizes with a sinking heart.

"About your hand," Luke says. "I'm sorry. Again. I'll never stop being sorry about that, I think."

"Why?"

Luke shrugs, mutters something that Greg doesn't quite catch. Whatever it is, it isn't the truth. "Don't give me that shit, Luke," Greg snaps. "Why?"

"You know the first time we smoked?" Luke says. "When Brandon taught us and…and it just felt right? There was a party and…and someone offered and you know me. Never says no. And…honestly Greg it didn't feel good the first time but it kind of helped. Controlling the ADD. It helped me think straight and the first time became a second then a third and…" He stops, voice shaking. Greg looks away, his hands curling into fists when he hears Luke sniff. God, he's seen Luke cry loads of times but he's never seen him broken and Greg doesn't want to start now. "I can't stop, Greg."

"You need help. We need to talk to your parents, explain things to them. But you have to decide. I can't make your decisions for you. You'll go against them anyway."

"I know, it's just…This isn't something I can easily get out of."

Greg opens his mouth to argue but closes it again when he sees that Luke isn't meeting his eyes. There's something else, something worse. "Luke," he starts, fearing the conclusion. "Do you deal?"

Luke seems to deny it for a moment but finally, he says yes.

"Fuck. Fucking hell, Luke, you idiot!" He stands up, looms over him and is startled by how Luke shrinks away. "You owe someone don't you? How much?"

"2 380 pounds," Luke answers quietly, still not meeting Greg's eyes. "I made a mistake. A big one."

Greg closes his eyes. "That's why you're here isn't it? You're running away from them. Fine. I don't have that kind of money but I'll help you. Somehow."

"What? No!" Luke glares at him. "I came here to check on you, not drag you into this. Fuck, Greg, if anything happens to you—"

"You're not going to answer to Mycroft because he already made it clear that he's not going to get involved in this."

"And if you get hurt you think Mycroft will forgive me just because of a few words? And what about me, huh? I'll carry that burden for the rest of my life! I'm not going to allow it."

"Yeah, well fat chance of that happening." Greg sighs. "Does Chuck know?"

"Chuck doesn't deal."

"Then what the fuck happened to you?"

Luke growls but the anger isn't directed at Greg. "I made some stupid mistakes and now I can't get out."

"Then let me help."

"I can't—Greg, I'm sorry but that's not happening. You don't know them. They'll hurt you…they won't stop."

"Luke, you're an idiot if you think I'm going to let you get killed. Please."

Luke stares at him, wide-eyed and face pale.

"Luke."

"Okay," Luke mutters and Greg feels the ghost of a smile form on his mouth.