Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Greg has known Molly Hooper long enough to see the annoyance in how her mouth twists. But it’s not his fault the murderer didn’t leave enough bloody clues and that the chief is breathing down his neck, is it?

“Just give me something,” he asks, his tone apologetic.

Her features remain hard for another second before Greg sees he's won her over.

“All I found was a puncture wound, but I haven't had time enough to determine the origin.”

“Needle? Knife?”

“Maybe, but it's inconsistent with anything else I've seen before.”

“Tell me as soon as –”

“Yes,” she cuts in, already turning away. Of course, the case Sherlock is on is much more pressing than a petty food delivery boy. Even if the bloke was killed under circumstances that have even Greg puzzled.

“Oh,” comes an awkward voice from the door.

Turning on the soles of his shoes, Greg sees Jim from IT whom Molly had been so proud to introduce as her boyfriend a few weeks ago. Greg and Sally have a bet going on what happens first: Molly realising Jim is gay, or Jim cutting loose because he can't stand listening to Molly talk about Sherlock any longer.

“Afternoon,” Greg says, just to be polite. At least that's what he was aiming for – why it makes Jim stop short and smile shyly is even more baffling than the damn case.

“Do you live alone, Detective?”

Greg hesitates. “Yeah.”

“Do you have a pet?”

“What's with the interrogation, Jim?” He keeps his tone light even if alarm bells are ringing inside his head.

“Oh, sorry.” Jim ducks his head. “I just... Arthur needs a new home.”

“You got a flatmate?”

Last Greg heard, Molly and he watched that silly high school singing series in Jim's single flat. A bit difficult to do with people around who value their sanity.

“Oh, Arthur's not mine. One of the chaps in IT is moving and the new landlady won’t allow them to keep him.”

“And Arthur is...?” Greg prompts.

“A snake,” Jim says, voice level.

Greg waits for the punchline.

It doesn't come.

Jim from IT just blinks naively at him.

“You’re asking me if I’d adopt a snake.”

There's that shy smile again. Jim looks up at Greg through his lashes. “Well, you’re able to stomach Sherlock Holmes – a snake would be a step up.”

From Jim, the name sounds like an insult. Seems like Greg will win the bet after all.

Not that it matters when there’s a snake in the room. At least figuratively.

“No chance in hell,” Greg tells him. “All I’ve got is a one-bedroom. Besides, I don’t have time for a pet what with the hours I keep.”

“Arthur doesn’t need much, Detective.”

“That's another thing – I really can’t afford whatever the hell this beast is going to need.”

“He’s cheap. And I’ll bring Arthur’s stuff.”

“I don’t have any more space.”

“I can help you clear some.”

“No.”

“Detective –”

“Does that sodding snake do anything?” Greg interrupts, drawing himself up to his full height which puts him a few inches above Jim. “Can it help with rent? Can it hoover? Yeah, didn’t think so.”

How he gets from there to Jim ringing his doorbell in the evening and dropping off a terrarium and bags of additional stuff... not even Sherlock Holmes would be able to determine.

*

The snake – named after King Arthur, according to Jim, since his friend’s a history buff – isn’t as big as Greg expected.

Truth be told, he imagined a boa constrictor, not a two-year-old ball python that’s barely even a full metre long. Still, Greg likes to think it could swallow the ankle biter his neighbour calls a dog in one go. The mental image is amusing enough to mellow the wariness towards the thing the smallest amount.

And if Greg is completely honest – something he rarely is, since it tends to end in divorces and custody battles – the animal’s dark-and-light-patterned skin is fascinating.

“Guess I’m stuck with you, eh?” Greg rubs a hand across his face. “At least I got a system upgrade for my laptop out of it.”

The snake doesn’t stir in its terrarium.

“You don’t give a toss, do you?”

No reaction.

“Thought so.”

*

It turns out, Jim wasn’t lying. Arthur is easy to care for and rather frugal. Jim brought Arthur’s terrarium when he came by, along with heat strips, hides, substrate and water supplies. The only problem is food.

Jim blinks owlishly at him when Greg calls him back from the door with that question.

“Arthur prefers mice over rats.”

Good thing Greg is used to corpses. “Can I buy them frozen?”

Jim tilts his head. “Arthur prefers live prey.”

“So what, I just buy a mouse every other day?”

“No!” Jim protests, and it’s the strongest emotion Greg’s ever seen him display. “No more than every six to eight days! Don’t you know anything?”

“Well, feeding snakes isn’t exactly my division.”

“Well,” Jim replies with a hint of mockery, “it is now.”

“Listen, chap, if you don’t like it you can take that thing right back to your flatmate.”

That shuts Jim up but doesn’t change the fact that Greg will have to buy a live mouse in a few days and feed it to Arthur.

A few days morph into a week – there’s a homicide that has Greg away from his flat for most of the time period, but once all is neatly wrapped up with a bow tied to the paperwork, Greg packs his stuff early on Tuesday.

Sally does a double. “Leaving already? Hot date waiting for you?”

Greg snorts. “Oh yeah. Gotta buy dinner supplies before the shops close.”

“So who are they?”

Sally works in the pronoun without a moment’s hesitation. Greg regrets ever having agreed to pub night with his colleagues.

Well, two can play that game.

“His name is Arthur.”

“How’d you meet him, boss?”

“Where’d be the fun in just telling you, Sergeant?”

Greg is joking – at least for the most part – but he discounted how competitive the woman is. Or has to be, rather, all things considered.

“At the gym?”

“You know my schedule better than anyone, Donovan. D’you really think I’ve got time for that rubbish?”

“Then he’s a neighbour. Can’t have met him through the job or I’d have read the name, and you’re either here or sleeping.”

“Could’ve met him through friends.”

“What friends?” Sally shoots back with a grin.

Greg barely stifles the defensive scoffing he was about to dive into because, well, he doesn’t have a leg to stand on, does he.

He leaves her with the mystery still unsolved.

Greg should’ve known better.

*

They find another body with weird marks Molly can’t explain with anything approaching certainty, only this one’s slightly older and decidedly more high-profile. Greg is still trying to figure out what the bloody hell connects the last two. He’s getting too old for all-nighters.

“You look appalling, boss.”

“And you’re really trying to win ‘employee of the year’ this time, aren’t you, Donovan?”

A few metres away, Anderson snaps on a pair of gloves with a leer. “Maybe he’s just had a rough night.”

“Between the synapses of your boring little brain that conclusion might have proven absolutely sound, but anyone with eyes will know better.”

Greg is rarely glad to see Sherlock – not everyone gets to have their own walking reminder that they’re not smart enough to solve a case – but times like this make Greg glad he let the hollow-cheeked junkie get a word in edgewise all those years ago in Surrey.

“Go on then,” Anderson challenges.

“There’s a dead body back there,” Greg points out in the hopes it will distract Sherlock long enough to keep him from deducing him instead.

Of course, because this is Greg's life and not some utopian realm where justice and fairness reigns supreme, Sherlock has already fastened his gaze on his ruffled appearance.

“It seems our dear Inspector has a pet.”

The reveal makes both Donovan and Anderson laugh. Greg is grateful for small mercies.

Sherlock grimaces at their scepticism, yet apparently decides these two aren’t worth the energy to explain his reasoning. In gratitude, Greg orders Anderson to stay away from the crime scene for five minutes. It gets him six theories and a jovial, “I'll need a consult on this,” before Sherlock exits stage left, coat billowing in his wake.

Greg already looks forward to hearing John complain about his flatmate interrupting his clinic hours next time they’re out for a pint.

*

Which John does, at length. But after spending several identical evenings with the bloke listening to variants of “And wait till you hear what I found in the fridge!”, Greg knows what to expect.

Once, he suggested to John he move out.

“Why the heck would I do that?”

“Oh, I don’t know – all the hassle?”

John insisted he couldn’t since he wouldn’t find a better flat on his budget and Greg was generous enough to pretend to believe him.

“Sherlock mentioned something interesting today.”

Sipping his pint, Greg raises an eyebrow.

“Said you have a pet snake.”

“Was he able to deduce the breed, too?”

John shakes his head. “How’d you end up with a snake?”

Greg relates the story, glossing over just how, exactly, Jim convinced him to actually do it by focussing on all the positive aspects of having Arthur around.

“His scales are really nice – never thought a snake would be soft, but they are. Arthur’s got a great morph, too. Hang on, I’ve got pictures.”

Even John admits the black-and-gold pattern is exquisite.

“Makes him difficult to find when only the telly’s on, though.”

“You let him out?”

“Course! He’s quite curious but he’s cold-blooded so he usually ends up curled underneath my shirt on the sofa,” Greg says before pausing. Huh. When did he start enjoying this forced cohabitation? Could you develop Stockholm Syndrome for a snake?

“Sounds a bit like Sherlock,” John muses.

“Oh yeah? He curls up on the sofa with you, too?”

Greg cackles when John shakes his head but proves unable to fight the colour rising in his cheeks.

He regains his composure quickly and levels a snarky, “When do I get to meet your new flame, then?” at Greg.

It only makes Greg laugh harder. “Show a bloke a picture and he immediately wants to fondle Arthur.”

John throws his napkin at him. Five minutes later they make plans for the following week.

*

They never get around to actually doing it because then, Jim from IT robs the Tower of London.

The implication hits Greg while he’s absentmindedly caressing Arthur and pouring over his case notes in order to have everything in order for when the courts come knocking.

He pulls his hand back as if he’d been burned.

Arthur looks up at him.

“Bollocks,” Greg mutters.

Arthur remains unimpressed.

*

Five hours later, his doorbell rings. Greg darts for his weapon – there are exactly six people in London who know his address, and neither of them should be calling at half eleven on a Tuesday night.

The spy hole reveals an unremarkable dark suit and shades that might as well have “government” plastered all over them in bright neon letters, accompanied by the stunning woman with the hardest job in Britain.

“Could’ve called, mate,” Greg jeers. “It's rude to just turn up.”

“As rude as I believe it is to open the door with a firearm concealed on your person.”

“See, I knew you’d spot it, so I didn’t conceal anything.”

The woman arches an eyebrow. “We come to get the snake.”

“What?”

“There is currently a ball python in your possession.”

“What do you want with Arthur?”

“Arthur.”

Greg refuses to get defensive over referring to his bloody pet by name.

“The snake has been classified as evidence. Withholding it will incur consequences.”

“Yeah, like Mycroft’s actually going to charge me with obstruction of justice.”

Anthea’s eyebrow twitches. “Do you wish to test that theory?”

“Tell your boss he’ll have to ask me himself if he wants anything from me,” Greg replies with an easy grin. God, he loves it when he gets the chance to annoy the older Holmes brother. Almost as much as he enjoys shutting doors in the faces of said Holmes brother’s minions, which is exactly what he does.

To his surprise, Mycroft actually turns up in his flat.

Unfortunately he does so while Greg is in the shower, meaning Greg is only wearing pants when he spies the intruder.

He groans and runs a hand through his still-damp hair. “You could’ve at least made coffee.”

“My apologies, but I prefer tea,” Mycroft says. Pointedly, he takes a sip from the most boring cup Greg has in his cupboards. “I can wait while you get dressed.”

Greg doesn’t miss a beat. “I prefer drinking my coffee in my underwear.”

Mycroft’s expression sours slightly. The git probably isn’t used to people refusing to go along with him. With a smirk, Greg prepares the machine and flicks it on, then takes his time selecting his most obnoxious mug – a colourful monstrosity his daughter crafted for him in kindergarten – and making toast.

“You want any?” he shoots over his shoulder.

“No, thank you. I would like to talk about the snake in your possession.”

“My snake, eh?” Greg teases, half-turning towards the man who remains utterly unaffected by the innuendo. Well, it wasn’t Greg’s best attempt at riling him up.

“Did you or did you not receive the animal from James Moriarty?”

“Said it belonged to a friend.”

“Just like the condoms in your ex-wife’s tennis bag belonged to a friend?”

Greg feels his expression fall. That utter wanker. “You’re not really making me want to help you out here, Mycroft.”

“I thought we’d agreed on Mr Holmes?”

“Not before coffee.”

The pot’s almost done so Greg pours himself a cup. The toaster is finished two sips later, offering a reprieve from the verbal sparring matches all his conversations with Mycroft tend to escalate into.

It’s all Greg can do to restore some of his self-worth. In addition to the Holmesean ability to tell he’s staying in a hotel rather than his wife’s bed, whatever position Mycroft occupies supplies him with too much bloody power. Taking him down a notch, even if it’s just by snarky retorts, makes Greg feel much better.

Mycroft clears his throat.

Greg takes another bite.

He hasn’t sat down, hoping the prolonged nudity will continue to irk his intruder. Judging by the thin line Mycroft’s lips have become, he’s succeeding. Eventually, Mycroft sighs.

“As I’m certain even you were able to determine, James Moriarty wanted to get caught.”

“I’m actually a decent copper, you know.”

“Then you will also have concluded that placing his pet with you is curious on several levels.”

“Yeah, ‘s why I checked Arthur for bugs and whatnot. He’s just a snake.”

“I have better means at my disposal. It’s highly likely you missed something. You might be a ‘decent copper’, Gregory, but you’re no match for Moriarty.”

“Thought we’d agreed on ‘detective inspector’, eh?”

“I have laid eyes on your growing waistline. Referring to you by title strikes me as too formal now.”

“Oy!” Greg protests while definitely not shifting his stance or glancing down his torso. “It’s not growing!”

Mycroft sends him a challenging look. “The aging process stops for no man.”

Greg moves to put down the slice of toast he was munching on, then decides Mycroft can toss off and resumes his breakfast. Holmes’s eyes are a testament to how miffed he is. Well, if an encounter goes by without Greg making him curse the day his younger brother ever decided that Greg’s sofa was a great place to crash while he’s off his tits on cocaine, something’s missing in his life.

He needs to get dressed for work but that would mean leaving Mycroft alone in the kitchen while Arthur’s in the living room, unguarded. Greg smirks after putting his plate and mug in the sink and passes by Arthur’s terrarium on his way to his bedroom.

Holmes, probably switching to one of his sterling back-up plans, appears in the doorway. He spares Arthur, who has curled into a ball against the pillow, a quick glance before taking in the sight of Greg putting on his suit with an arched eyebrow.

“You will never stop buying subpar suits, will you?”

Greg grins. “Was it the years and years of cheap jackets that gave me away?”

“I could recommend a stellar tailor.”

“Sure you could, mate. Could also pay for it.”

“Would that make you more inclined to handing over that vile animal?”

“Who’re you calling vile?” Greg scoffs.

He picks up Arthur in one smooth motion and holds him against his chest. The snake slithers forward immediately, burrowing between Greg’s shirt and his skin-warm vest.

Mycroft traces the proceedings with widening eyes. “Oh, I can see it’s a veritable cuddly toy.”

“He especially loves the Bake Off.”

It almost elicits an eye-roll – Greg can practically taste how close he is to making Holmes lose his composure. He steps forward.

“You wanna hold him, Mycroft?”

There – Holmes takes a step back, unable to school his features and hide his horrified reaction. Greg throws his head back and laughs in victory.

“If you’re quite done with this childish display of immaturity?”

“Aw, not used to people taking the mickey?”

Mycroft’s glare speaks volumes.

“Listen, mate,” Greg says, running a hand over Arthur’s scales. “You’re not getting my snake. Is it so hard to believe the bloke just cared for his pet and passed it on to me for safekeeping? Even a crook like Moriarty’s got to care for something, eh? I checked him thoroughly, and unless you’re actually willing to order your lackeys to break into my flat and battle the lawsuit I’m going to throw your way – and don’t think I won’t. I’m sure Sherlock’s more than happy to help out. Anyway,” Greg continues, “if that’s how low you wanna stoop, go ahead. But the next time Sherlock ignores procedure and the Superintendent whinges at me to stop letting him help out, guess what I’m going to do?”

The threat couldn’t be more obvious.

Mycroft raises his chin. “You wouldn’t risk someone’s sanity like that.”

“’S not like Sherlock’s alone anymore, though, is he?” Greg points out. “John’s blog is bringing in some clients. He’d be fine.”

The older Holmes contemplates him, jaw set and a protective hand on Arthur’s body. Two seconds pass in tense silence. Then, wonders of wonders, Mycroft Holmes yields.

Greg sees him to his front door, grinning like the proverbial cat that got both the cream and the canary. “Good luck running the country.”

“I assure you, there is little luck involved. You, on the other hand, will need considerable amounts to catch up with your current cases.”

“I reckoned you’d be a sore looser.”

Mycroft turns to go yet pauses mid-movement. “There will come a day when my presumptions will prove correct, Gregory. You should do your best to remain vigilant.”

“Arthur, say ‘goodbye, Mycroft’,” he says pointedly and Holmes gets the message.

Greg celebrates by bringing pastries and cake into work and takes a picture of his slice. He sends it to the last number Mycroft called him from with the caption, “Sweet victory” and smirks all the way through Donovan’s progress report.

Chapter Text

Greg solves - well, mostly at least - the case of the weird puncture wounds two weeks later when another body turns up. This one was unceremoniously dumped in a park, happily decomposing until a rebellious child decided to run off and hide from their parents.

Time of death suggests the newest victim - rent boy, 19, squatting close to where the corpse of the pizza delivery bloke was found - saw the killer dispose of their other victim, providing motif if not much else.

Greg is on his way to get a clean shirt and maybe shave after twelve hours of dead ends have run him ragged when he remembers he’ll need to stop by a pet shop first and get Arthur’s food very soon.

That’s when it hits him.

“Snake bites?” Donovan echoes. “What kind of sick person would train their snake to kill?”

“Moriarty.”

“What?”

“Went back to talk to the delivery boy’s neighbours. Turns out they remembered him having his computer fixed by someone called Jim a while back, who mentioned a pet snake.”

Sally immediately connects the dots. “Did this Jim used to work at St Bart’s, by any chance?”

Greg nods. It doesn't feel like a win, however, seeing as their prime suspect is nowhere to be found. At least that means he can get away with not declaring Arthur’s evidence. Greg needs any silver lining he can find.

*

Life goes on. Molly dons a tantalising dress on Christmas and to Greg's enormous amusement Sherlock makes a fool out of himself. Arthur grows and Greg pays a considerable amount of dosh for a new terrarium. He punches DI Harrington, the homophobic prick of a colleague who’s also been delivering skits against Sally, fully aware that she’d rather endure the subtle harassment than be branded a telltale.

All right – Greg more than punches the bloke. There might have been a broken jaw involved.

Because the world is buggered, the chief lets Greg off with a warning and a forced holiday which Greg can’t even enjoy since being gone means Donovan has to cope with that pillock all on her own. And since this is Greg’s life, that’s when Mycroft orders him to Dartmoor.

“Toss off,” he tells the arrogant wanker on the phone. “I’m enjoying the sun.”

“You’re currently working on cold cases and testing whether close proximity to a swimming pool is a sufficient alternative to personal hygiene.”

Greg regards the hotel's CCTV with renewed suspicion.

“I’m on vacation, Mycroft.”

“Your frequent texts to Sergeant Donovan would suggest otherwise, Gregory.”

He scowls at the files in front of him. “That can’t be legal.”

His protests go ignored, yet at least now Holmes changes tactics. An hour later, Greg is on a plane back to Britain and DI Harrington’s transfer to the middle of nowhere, Wales, has been confirmed.

Sally’s splendid mood is even worth listening to being called ‘Geoff’ for a few days.

*

Greg might have fallen into a rut in the wake of Harrington’s much celebrated departure, though as always, whatever bad karma he has raked up in past lives comes back to haunt him. This time it takes the form of flu season that has half the department out of commission, meaning remaining personnel has to shoulder all cases.

Meaning Greg’s flat has more in common with a pigsty than a place fit for habitation.

It wouldn’t be a problem if it weren’t for an unexpected visitor at half past one on a Saturday morning.

“Debbie?!”

The 14-year-old attempts to smile but it comes across more like a grimace. “Hi, Dad.”

He lets her in, painfully aware that he hasn’t done the dishes in who knows how long and that he’s been planning on hoovering for… quite a bit longer than that. Yet he can’t exactly leave his daughter on the doorstep, now, can he? No need to serve Tracy reasons to complain about on a silver platter.

“This is a surprise,” he says at length. “Not that I’m not glad to see you, luv…”

“But you’re wondering why I didn’t call first?” Debbie finishes the thought for him, because in addition to his stubbornness and his perseverance, she has also inherited his wits. At least Tracy got to pass on her looks… which she claims Debbie is ruining with all the football practice. Greg couldn’t be prouder of his goalie daughter.

“Could’ve tidied up a bit, then.”

“On second thought, that would have been a good idea,” Debbie mutters.

She looks tired. Her light brown hair is tied into a ponytail, nothing unusual about that – what is curious, however, are the smudges of dirt on her trainers and the streaks of green on her jeans. Not to mention the duffle bag slung over her shoulder.

“Darling,” Greg begins, “did you run off?”

Debbie squares her shoulders. “Yeah.”

His first impulse is to shout but he manages to bite his tongue. Huffing, he asks instead, “What happened? You all right, kid?”

For her to come all the way from Birmingham… Greg fears the worst. But his daughter gives a one-sided shrug. “I’m fine.”

He cocks an eyebrow, teasing a genuine smile out of her. “How about I make us some cocoa and you explain why your mother’s going to call me a wanker tomorrow morning?”

“Do you even have the ingredients for cocoa?”

“Oi, sure I –” He hesitates. “Hang on, luv.”

Accompanied by her soft giggling, Greg rummages through his kitchen cabinets. Ten minutes later Debbie and he are seated on his sofa, hastily cleared off all files and potentially confidential materials, sipping some chocolate chai concoction Greg once got in Secret Santa and grinning at each other over the rims of their mismatched mugs.

When Greg fixes her with a long look, Debbie sighs and lowers her hands, her grip on the mug tightening slightly. He braces himself.

“Keith was promoted. Mum and he told me tonight.”

“And?”

“He’s taking over the offices in Sydney.”

Greg releases the breath he didn’t realise he was holding. At least she’s neither up the duff nor wanted for a crime. “The one down under, eh?”

“How many other Sydneys do you know?” Debbie snaps none too gently and Greg could hit himself.

“Sorry, luv.” Greg runs a hand through his hair while the other sets down his tea. It buys him enough time to select his next words more carefully. “So they’re moving, done deal, and you’ve gotta come with? And you don’t want to?”

Debbie shakes her head vehemently. “I don’t want to leave my friends. I’ve got school and practice and besides,” she adds, bringing her hands up before noticing she’s still holding her mug. It finds a spot next to Greg’s one on a pile of – hopefully – stain-resistant files. “Well, becoming a journalist is going to be hard enough as it is in my home country. Don’t need to complicate the stuff.”

“With you so far, luv. But what’s the plan? Tracy’s got custody,” he reminds her as gently as possible.

His daughter mutters something too low for him to hear.

“What was that?”

Her eyes snap up to meet his. Bugger, this isn’t going to be good.

“I want to stay with you.”

“Darling –”

“No,” Debbie says, rising to her feet and starting to pace in the (relatively) tidy strip of flooring next to the sofa. “Don’t ‘darling’ me, Dad. I’ve thought this through –”

“What, in the six hours since they sprang it on you?”

“Yes,” Debbie barks, her entire body coiled like a spring ready to unleash. “Now let me finish.”

Greg rolls his eyes at her theatrics but falls silent even as she takes a deep breath.

“I was going to apply to Wilder College for sixth form anyhow, so moving to London a year earlier isn’t really that bad. I’ve researched schools on the bus and there are two good ones I can apply to until then near Scotland Yard, and I’ve already bookmarked some two-bedroom flats for rent that aren’t too expensive. Even more if we get Keith to pay my share. I had a summer job lined up in Birmingham at a local newspaper but London offers more in that regard, so I’ll manage. And, uh…” Debbie deflates a bit. “If you want, both schools offer boarding. If you, you know.”

If you don’t want me to stay with you.

Greg doesn’t need to even think about it – he is off the sofa and pulling his daughter into a hug before the insecurity in her features has any chance of consuming her fully.

“Bollocks, of course I’ll want to room with you,” he tells her, tone firm. She presses her face closer against his chest. “I’m not gonna lie to you, luv, it’ll be more difficult than you imagine but if that’s really what you want I’ll be there every step of the way.”

It was the right thing to say, if the way Debbie clings to him in relief is any indication. He doesn’t comment on the tears she angrily wipes from her eyes, merely offers a smile and his bed so she can get some sleep.

Greg resigns himself to kipping on the couch under Arthur’s watchful eye (he has been awake ever since Debbie cooed over how big the snake has become), barely remembering to shoot off a text to his ex-wife so she won’t have a heart attack when she finds her daughter missing in the morning.

*

“You put her up to this, didn’t you? You’re an utter wanker, Greg!”

If it weren’t six o’clock in the bloody morning, Greg would find the combination of words funny, yet since it is six o’clock in the morning after a very, very short night, all he manages is a noncommittal hum.

“What do you expect to happen now, Greg? You’re still in that tiny flat and you have a snake, for God’s sake –”

“Debbie adores Arthur –”

“It’s a snake!” Tracy repeats, as if his very species were an insult. “And you’re still keeping the same hours since before the divorce, aren’t you? Running about with that consulting bloke and his blogger. You’re not fit to raise –”

Greg never hears the rest of the sentence – though really, he’s familiar enough with this song to fill in the gaps – because his doorbell rings. He rushes to the door, glad he at least managed to put on his least dirty pair of jeans and a white tee that’s only slightly torn, then freezes as he checks the spy hole, already opening the door.

“Bugger.”

“Good morning to you as well, Gregory.”

“Bad time, Holmes. Kindly piss off.”

Mycroft Holmes, dark suit immaculate as always and looking entirely too awake for this awful hour, remains unaffected. “There is a situation that needs my brother’s input.”

“Bloody well go and get him, then.”

“Sherlock is currently refusing to speak with me.”

“I wonder why,” Greg snarks, keeping his voice low because the very last thing this day needs is for Mycroft Holmes to meet his daughter.

“Do you have company, detective?”

Too late. Of course Mycroft deduced his thought process.

“Yes; now sod off.”

“I’m afraid I cannot do that, no matter how many insults you fling in my direction. This is a matter of national security.”

“And this is a family emergency, which trumps whatever petty brotherly feud you think you can use me as a messenger for, and my ex’s going to call back any –”

As if on cue, Greg’s mobile rings. He waves it at Mycroft and makes to shut the door in the man’s face, only to have his action thwarted by the man’s daft brolly.

With a groan, Greg gives up. Maybe if he’ll ignore the man, Holmes will vanish on his own. It speaks volumes that he would rather deal with Tracy than Mycroft at the moment. After letting her rant for another few minutes, Greg tells her to come down to London at their earliest convenience so they can talk about this with the one person it’ll actually affect most.

“She’s fourteen, Greg, she doesn’t know what she wants.”

“That kid is more of an adult than you and me combined, Tracy, and I’m not gonna stand by and let you make decisions for her, all right?”

“You’re choosing a hell of a great time to act like a father, Greg.”

“Text me when you arrive tomorrow,” he clips back, then hangs up.

“Could have told you they won’t be able to make it down here before tomorrow. Keith has a thing.”

He whips around to see his daughter standing in the doorway leading to his bedroom, wearing soft cotton trousers and an oversized jumper. Her expression is half exasperation, half curiosity. Following her gaze makes Greg want to bang his forehead against the wall.

Because of-bloody-course Mycroft Holmes is standing between the hallway door and the rest of the room with a curious glint in his eyes, both hands resting on his umbrella.

“Is that your boyfriend, Dad?”

Greg splutters. “What? No!”

Something darkens Mycroft’s face but it’s gone within the blink of an eye. Instead, he turns more fully towards Debbie with his usual gravitas. “If you genuinely wish to pursue a career in the tedious field of journalism, you will forget you ever saw me here, Deborah.”

Greg could have told him that’s the wrong thing to say.

“Oh, really? Why’s that, sir?” Debbie asks, crossing her arms.

“You are of above-average intelligence. I believe you will come to the correct conclusions without further assistance.” With a sneer, Mycroft turns back towards Greg. “Now, Detective Inspector. There has been a kidnapping.”

“Pity for them.” He turns his back on Holmes and flicks the kettle on.

“Detective.”

“Do your own damn legwork, Holmes. A bit busy here.”

The ensuing pause is entirely too silent. Greg slowly turns to find Holmes cataloguing every inch of the flat, coming to a rest on a still-scowling Debbie.

“Ah,” Mycroft breathes.

“No, no, you’re not getting involved,” Greg tells him.

“Why not? It seems to me you are in dire need of a new flat. Preferably with a cleaning staff,” he adds, wrinkling his nose. “It is also the last trimester of the school year, meaning accommodating Deborah’s studies will require more energy and influence than a simple DI possesses.”

“So what, you’re offering to pull some strings if I get Sherlock to solve your case?”

Mycroft’s silence is confirmation enough.

“Forget it. I don’t need you to micromanage my life, Holmes.”

“Be that as it may. It is not your life alone that would profit from this arrangement.”

Mycroft meets Debbie’s gaze across the room, whose eyes have been following the exchange as if it were a tennis match. Greg can’t quite put his finger on what she makes of all this, but he knows for a fact that it’s too bloody early for this.

He makes tea, handing Holmes a cup as well because he wasn’t raised in a barn and has to set an example for his daughter, then starts cooking breakfast. No one speaks even though Greg can practically hear the questions piling up in Debbie’s mind.

Holmes declines the food but sits down, adding a splash of milk and half a spoon of sugar to his tea. The silence offers a welcome reprieve for Greg to think and by the time he clears the table, he has cooled off enough to admit he’d be daft not to take Mycroft up on his proposition.

Half an hour later, the bloke is out of the door, leaving a baffled Debbie in his wake.

“I thought he wasn’t your boyfriend.”

“He’s not.”

“So why is he arranging dates for flat viewings? And how can he promise I’ll be fine to miss a few days of school next week? Who is this bloke?!”

This is not a conversation Greg ever wanted to have with his daughter. He’d much rather explain sex to her, really. He lets out a long breath.

“Remember Sherlock?”

“The rude one who slept on your sofa once at Christmas?”

Greg winces at the memory. “Mycroft’s his brother. He’s working for the government in some capacity…” He trails off, hoping his daughter will get the implications. “Darn overprotective, if you ask me. Showed up for the first time when I’d taken Sherlock back to mine to sober up.”

It’s technically true. Greg just glosses over a few details, like how one of Mycroft’s agents pulled a bag over his head and knocked him out because Greg had realised he was being followed and refused to come quietly. Or Mycroft accusing him of exploiting his vulnerable younger brother for sex. Or how said agent - Rakif - became a real mate until he was killed in the line of duty.

Debbie mulls this over. “So, he’s exchanging favours?”

“I prefer to think of it as me coercing him into stuff,” Greg says with a smirk. “Bloke’s a genius, really. Least I can do is take him down a notch or two every couple of months.”

“You’re refusing to help solve a kidnapping just to annoy a civil servant?”

Greg’s hands shoot up. “Relax, luv. Mycroft and I both know I’m just playing hard to get.”

Only when Debbie's brows climb towards her hairline does Greg notice how that sounded.

“Hang on, that didn’t come out right.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” she says at length.

Another moment of silence, then they’re both laughing.

*

Seeing as even Mycroft Holmes can’t make his workload magically decrease - though to be honest, if anyone could it would be that man - Greg has no choice but to allow Debbie to go off on her own and explore the city while he does his job.

Which includes dropping by 221B, where John looks about ready to shoot someone.

“Please tell me you have a case.”

“I have a case.”

“Ta, mate.”

Sherlock’s voice rings out even before they have reached the first floor. “Tell my brother’s lapdog that I'm not interested!”

“Shut up and listen,” John commands, sounding every bit the soldier Greg knows him to have been. “I’ve about had it with you. You’re bored, there’s a case. You’re solving it.”

Sherlock does, and by Monday morning Greg gets to relish watching the bloke squirm at the press conference.

“Is that why all the flats are so…” Debbie begins, but doesn’t continue.

Greg knows what she means regardless; it’s hard not to. They have five appointments in total before Debbie takes the train back to Birmingham. Thursday evening and all of the flats they are viewing should be a lot more expensive than the agency says they are.

His personal theory is that Mycroft is physically incapable of uttering anything close to “Thank you”, meaning he needs alternatives for showing his gratitude. If that secures Debbie and him a decent two-bedroom flat with separate kitchen and living room and an office on top of that? Yeah, Greg will keep his mouth shut about it.

*

“I swear, if I never see the freak again, it’ll be too soon.”

“Come on, Donovan, it wasn’t that bad.”

Sally fixes him with a glare. “You weren’t the one to talk down six separate witnesses from filing a lawsuit!”

Greg shrugs. “Being the boss has gotta have some advantage, eh?”

When his Sergeant continues to glare at him, he suggests drinks to celebrate. It also happens to be his last day living on his own before his daughter moves in and Greg needs the distraction.

“It’ll do you some good, having her there,” Philip comments later over pints. “It could stop you working so much.”

“I would have thought that Arthur bloke might have done that… he still around, boss?”

“Huh?”

“Arthur,” Sally repeats. “The bloke you won’t tell us where you met him.”

“Which is just unfair,” Anderson practically whines. “The entire department’s got a lot of cash riding on this.”

Greg isn’t quite sure he is hearing this correctly. “But that was ages ago.”

Two sets of brows furrow.

“The freak asked you about him just a few days ago, boss.”

When Greg's mind supplies the memory, he has to laugh so hard both Donovan and Anderson seem so wonder if today’s the day he finally goes off the deep end.

“Bugger, I can’t believe I didn’t notice – daft git was toying with you,” Greg explains eventually, still catching his breath. “He told you I got a pet. That’s Arthur. He was asking if my pet is gonna move in with Debbie and me, not any imaginary boyfriend.”

He brags a bit with photos of his new terrarium and promises to introduce both his colleagues (and Philip’s wife, now that’s going to be awkward with Sally there) to the snake at his house warming party...

... which never happens because someone decides to steal the Crown Jewels and send all their lives into absolute upheaval.

*

Greg expected a lot of things from his first year with Debbie.

He expected having to buy tampons and taking her to the gynaecologist, hearing only the highest praise during parent-teacher night and arguing about curfew (“All my friends get to stay out much later!” – “You know I’m obligated to ask something about jumping off bridges, eh?”) or hanging about with the wrong crowd (“You had a leather jacket, too, Dad. Mum showed me pictures.” – “That traitor.”).

He did not expect, not one bit, to be attending Sherlock’s funeral with her. Four years ago maybe, when Sherlock had been in a real dark place, but not now. Not after John.

Greg also never expected to be putting up John Watson on his sofa because the ghosts in Baker Street are just too much for the chap, or to be the one to call Mycroft for a favour on his mate’s behalf.

It all happens, though, and Greg can’t even really move on considering there’s a daily reminder in his flat of who, exactly, helped Sherlock over the edge.

“I could give you away.”

Arthur meets his gaze, unblinking.

“Yeah, you’re right. Mycroft would probably just snatch you up. Dissect you. You think he’s the sort that condones advanced interrogation techniques?” Greg shakes his head. “Bloody hell, of course he is.”

Arthur slides off, back to his hide.

“Yeah, mate. No worries. You’re safe.”