Chapter Text
Chapter 1:
Homecoming
Greg never realized how much weight he had been carrying on his shoulders until it was unexpectedly gone. The invisible pressure had been with him so long that it had become a part of him, and he simply couldn't remember a time without it. It manifested when Greg left home all those years ago and moved to London, not knowing if he would ever go back. He had always felt like that one jigsaw piece that got placed in the wrong box, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t find his place. His twin sister had no issues settling in and starting her life while he felt restless and lost. It wasn’t as if Greg meant to run away and never come back; he just wanted to see what else was out there beyond his hometown.
He had hoped London would have a spot for him, and while he loved it there, he still didn’t quite fit properly... he just blended in. He made friends and started a career, but the dichotomy of his life, his half-breed status, made complete integration into the mortal world impossible. Being half warlock and half shifter did not make life easy. He was toeing the line of darkness while standing on the grounds of neutrality (because let’s face it - Mother Nature’s magic was deadly and beautiful and therefore defined as neither light nor dark).
Greg had to be endlessly alert and aware of other covens, angels, packs, hunters, and anything else that went bump in the night (or day). He kept a low profile as much as he could, being a DS in a vast city. He never knew if others would figure out what he was and try to use him or destroy him for merely existing (case in point: angels and hunters). While it was freeing being on his own, it was also exhausting not having someone to watch your back.
His sister, Veronica, visited a few times, and his best friend Sally made a point to see him at least twice a year. Social media helped Greg stay connected in the meantime, even if it meant he had to put up with Sherlock deducing him every time he posted a picture. Single again, I see. I told you the cardiologist had commitment issues. That nicotine patch is not helping; switch brands. You are overdue for a shift.
Sometimes, Greg thought he heard whispers calling out to him at night, trying to lure him back homeward. He occasionally thought about it, going back, but besides his sister and one idiotic fantasy, there was nothing for him in Sherrindale. Until Ronnie had called crying and frantic; her git of a husband had left her and the twins. Greg had made up his mind before she even asked. A week later, he found himself leaving the city behind, the car packed, lease broken on his flat, and job on hold as he followed the magnetic pull towards his birthplace.
***
As Greg drives past the fading town sign, he is baffled to feel the perpetual tension in his shoulders snap and lift. The familiar “Let Sherrindale cast a spell on you” greets him like an old friend, and his hair ruffles as if there is a breeze inside the closed up car. He feels a tentative touch against his aura, and he realizes it's the town’s protective wards inspecting him. He lets himself relax, accepting the magical contact. His breath hitches, and he bites his lower lip, sharp canines almost drawing blood when it dawns on him just whose magic is protecting the town. The familiar essence of the caster’s spell sends a shiver from his head to the tips of his toes. He can practically imagine those long sensitive fingers caressing the back of his neck before retreating, the wards letting him pass.
A strange sensation settles in his chest, and it takes Greg the rest of his drive to his sister’s cottage to figure out that for the first time in his life, he almost feels as if he’s finally home.
***
Greg smiles as Veronica pokes her head into the twins’ rooms for the 20th time before silently closing the door, careful not to wake them.
“Ronnie, it’s going to be fine,” Greg says and pulls his sister away, pushing her shorter frame towards the front door. She turns around and looks up at Greg, her forest-green eyes meeting dark mahogany.
“Call me if you need me. I swear Greg--”
“Stop,” Greg interrupts and pulls her into a tight hug, resting his chin on top of her soft brown hair, breathing in the smell of lavender. “I got this. If they wake up, I can handle it. I used to watch my friend’s kit back in London.”
Ronnie’s arms wrap around his waist, and her shoulders sag as she mumbles into his chest, “A mortal kit, Greg. Satan help you, Romy and Quinn can actually turn into pups; the rules are different.”
Greg gives a small laugh, “Makes them easier to wrangle, then.”
“I hate you,” Ronnie pulls back and punches his arm. He can still see some of the stress around her eyes, but the smile on her face softens it. She looks so much like their mother, with her delicate features and pale skin, it makes his heart ache.
Greg closes his eyes and kisses her forehead gently before giving her another shove towards the door. “Go on and enjoy the night out with the girls.”
“Alright, but if anything happens, anything, Greg -- you call me.”
Greg chuckles, “Stop worrying. Besides, Sal is coming over. I think we both can handle two two-year-olds.”
“Just watch out for -” she wiggles her fingers for effect, “shifty magic.”
Greg smiles, “Yes, Mum. Now go have fun.”
After another quick hug, Ronnie leans up and kisses Greg’s cheek, “You are a lifesaver,” she says before hurrying out the door.
Greg feels the smile slip off his face as the door closes, and he sighs heavily, running a hand through his hair with his other hand on his hip. He had only been back a month, and it was the first time he was able to convince his sister to leave the house. Greg looks around the small living room at the mess that only two small children could create and shakes his head. Hopefully, they sleep through the night, and he doesn’t have to worry about separation anxiety. They seemed comfortable with him, but Greg feels guilty that he didn’t visit when they were born.
Work had been an easy excuse to use to avoid coming back, but now that he’s here, he resolves to be a better brother and uncle. Unlike werewolves, shifters didn’t usually stay in packs, but that didn’t mean they didn’t have one; they just tended to be more solitary. On the other hand, witches had covens, so Greg fought a constant internal war to have both his independence and a pack. Greg had been jealous that Veronica found a way to accept her duality and be content with it. Until Jim, that is.
The warlock had come into his sister’s life and swept her off her feet when they were still in school. Jim had been a transfer student, and when their parents had passed away their last school year, he had been there for Ronnie. Greg regrets letting Jim be her rock when he should have helped shoulder their burdens, but Greg had been too caught up in his own problems. And now Jim was gone, leaving his sister's heart in pieces, and Greg was trying to make up for the lost time. Fuck, Greg felt guilty.
Jim’s short explanation made everything worse; he left a single note behind that said that he no longer wanted to be a father and husband, that he wanted more in life. More in life, Greg scoffs, what he would give to have someone in his life that loved him the way his sister loved Jim. To have a family, to have a place, a home.
His sister’s inverted cross on the living room wall shifts slightly, and Greg squints at it suspiciously. He forgot being so close to his coven meant being closer to the Dark Lord’s presence.
“Don’t go doing me any favors,” Greg says aloud to the empty room, just in case.
The lights flicker, and the radio flares to life, first with static garbles, as if someone is switching stations too quickly, before playing the song “I Got You Babe” by Sonny and Cher. Greg shakes his head as he starts to pick up the toys all over the floor.
“I’m not making any deals with you,” he says, smiling.
The radio goes static again until Whitney Houston’s “I Wanna Dance With Somebody” comes through the speakers.
This time Greg laughs, “Oof, rub it in, why don’t you?” The music plays for a little more before the radio turns off, and the house is silent again. Greg feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, and the air pressure around him feels heavy. He knows most people would be frightened, but Greg has never been fearful of the Dark. Deep down, he just knew he was safe, and he suspected a part of that was the earth magic that was also running through his veins. He cocks his head to the side and waits, but nothing happens. He’s not sure what game the Dark Lord is playing at, but Greg’s surprised he’s gotten his attention enough to perform parlor tricks. The unseen presence eventually leaves, and Greg finishes cleaning up the living room before moving on to tidy up the kitchen.
An hour later, Greg steps out onto the aged wooden planks making up the spacious back porch and leaves the door cracked open in case one of the twins wakes up. There are two chairs with dark red outdoor pillows, and Greg can tell by the worn fabric on one of the cushions which chair Ronnie usually uses. The other chair looks untouched, and he frowns, thinking about his sister sitting out here alone while Jim sits inside. He pushes the thoughts away and takes in the scene around him. The cold night air is crisp, and Greg breathes in deep, savoring the earth’s fresh scent. He can smell wet dirt, grass, the evening dew, and damp moss if he concentrates. Can't get this in the city, he thinks.
Ronnie’s house sits close to the edge of the woods, and Greg leans against the worn oak railing, peering into the thick line of trees singing with the sounds of insects. The forest seems to breathe with the wind; leaves flutter, and branches occasionally creak. Everything around him feels so alive, and he itches to shift and go for a run, to feel the ground float by on quick paws. To feel the pulse of the earth around him and reveal in it. It was always too risky to shift and run free back in London, so it was usually a rare indulgence (confined to small areas). But here… he could run whenever he liked. Tomorrow, he promises himself, he will go for a run tomorrow.
The crunch of footsteps on gravel reaches his ears, and he tilts his head to the side for a moment. Sally’s familiar gait is about a kilometer away, and he waits about ten minutes before she is closer to the house, and he sends a quick text.
Back porch - G
He hears her phone ping and then her huff of laughter, “Bloody shifter,” she murmurs, and a few moments later, he sees her coming around the corner of the house. Her dark curls are down, and she’s changed out of her work clothes into a pair of jeans and a t-shirt that says Alumni of The Academy of the Unseen Arts. Her pebble brown eyes brighten when she sees him.
“I bring a gift,” she says and raises a bottle of scotch, grinning.
Greg raises his eyebrows, “Fuck, Sal. I’m babysitting. Ronnie would have a fit.”
“Aw, come on, Greggy, you can have a drink or two,” she teases as she comes up to him and pulls him into a hug. Greg hugs her back, smelling the fading strain from the workday under the jasmine and mint of her body wash.
Greg ends up getting them two glass tumblers. He pours himself two fingers worth and raises his eyebrows at Sally's four.
“Long day,” she explains and settles into one of the wooden chairs next to Greg. “I know this isn’t London, but you have no idea what we deal with down at the nick. You would think it would be normal mortal crimes, but you’d be surprised at the amount of supernatural shit we run into here. I had to deal with a row between an incubus and a leprechaun over a fender bender. It was a bloody nightmare.”
Greg laughs, “I would have loved to have seen that mitigation, Constable Donovan .”
Sally kicks his leg slightly, “come off it, Detective Sergeant. What was that like, by the way?”
“Not as exciting as you would think. I mean, there are a lot of violent crimes, yeah? But it’s mostly mortal crimes. London still pretends that we don't exist, so anything off the typical radar is usually explained away - mental illness, freak accident, etcetera.” Greg frowns, looking at his almost empty glass. “It’s ironic that our kind is stereotyped as monsters when the real boogeyman is just a normal human.”
Greg can feel Sally’s eyes on him as he continues to stare at his glass, trying not to think back on the cases he’s worked and the horrors he’s seen. Eventually, Sally clears her throat and asks softly, “Does Ronnie know you turned down the promotion for Inspector?”
“No,” Greg shakes his head, his tone serious, “and I don’t need you telling her, either. She has enough on her plate. I don’t need her to feel some misguided guilt on my behalf.”
Sally holds up both hands, tawny fingers still wrapped around her glass in her right hand, “I won’t tell a soul. Hell’s honor.”
Greg gives in and pours another finger’s worth of scotch into his cup, “Ta.”
“You know we have a position open?” Sally asks. “There’s no criminal department, but we could use someone like you. It’s just Dimmock and me now since Gregson retired.”
“Sally,” Greg begins and winces, “I don’t know if--”
“If you’re staying?”
“Yeah.”
Sally huffs with irritation, “Honestly, Greg,” she says but doesn’t continue. He already knows what she's thinking, that he's going to bolt as soon as he can. Greg isn’t sure what his long term goal is. Help Ronnie and the twins, that’s as far as he got. For how long? He doesn’t know.
Thankfully their conversation takes a light-hearted turn, and they trade comical stories about the job. Sally talks about her on-again, off-again relationship with Anderson while Greg bemoans his dating failures. It’s getting close to midnight when Greg senses there is something wrong. Sally keeps opening her mouth to say something before hesitating and taking a sip from her glass instead.
“Sally, you’re my best mate, just say what you want to say,” Greg says; he’s pretty sure he knows the topic she wants to discuss. For this time of year, it’s basically the talk of the town.
Sally chuckles before saying, “You came back just in time for Lupercalia.”
Bingo. Lupercalia was a week-long ritual that many witches celebrated as a “symphony of sensuality and pleasure.” It was started by Roman witches and named after the cave where the she-wolf nurtured Romulus and Remus. It symbolized fertility and health, but in this day and age, the meaning took on a more carnal nature. There were three parts: matchmaking, courting, and the hunt. The first two were innocent enough, but the last part involved a lot... more.
“Yeeeeah, Sal,” he begins, “about that-”
“You are going to participate, aren’t you?” She asks. There’s almost an accusatory tone to her voice.
“I think I’m going to pass.”
There’s a heavy silence before Sally giggles, she fucking giggles, before she murmurs, “Oops.”
Greg gives a long-suffering sigh, “What did you do?”
Sally, at least, looks somewhat embarrassed, “I may have submitted your name when I submitted mine.”
Greg groans and buries his face in his hands, “Why? Why would you do that?”
“Look,” Sally turns on her constable voice, “we know that you didn’t come back home just for your sister. You told me you felt yourself drifting before that arsehole ever left. What better way to become grounded than getting back to your roots?”
“I hardly think participating in Lupercalia is getting back to my roots. Besides, I’m not technically part of the path of the night; you know that.”
“Technically, you are part of it… well one half. Besides,” Sally nudges his ankle with her foot, “a little sex might be fun for you.”
Greg grimaces, “I’m not interested in hooking up with a stranger, and the few people I know here are not at the top of my list to... to…”
“Shag?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you really sure there is no one on your list?”
Greg feels his face flush, and he bites the inside of his cheek. When he doesn’t respond, Sally continues, “Mmm, thought so. You know he’s still single? Not surprised though, hard to get close to someone made of ice.”
“That’s not exactly fair, Sal,” Greg says and tries not to gush. “He’s incredibly intelligent and deeply committed to his position. It’s a lot of pressure to deal with, you know? Especially when you grow up in that family - look at Sherlock, for example.”
“Satan, that freak,” Sally murmurs, “it’s a shame he has the best apothecary within 100 miles.”
Greg snorts, “I need to go see him soon before he tracks me down.”
Sally takes a sip of her drink, “You can meet John. He’s a doctor at the clinic next to Sherlock’s. He moved here a few months ago; they’ve gotten really close.” She grins, “and he’s mortal .”
Greg raises his eyebrows but doesn’t comment on it. If Sherlock has found someone, then he’s happy for him. He knows Sally is trying to deflect and distract him, so he focuses on the issue at hand, “Anyway, Lupercalia is a terrible idea. The last time was enough embarrassment to last me a lifetime. You know that.”
“Yes, yes,” Sally says but waves her hand at him, “but it was the first time you participated, and that was with young, awkward Greg.”
“Ta,” Greg bites out, but she ignores him and continues.
“Now you’re…” she waves her hand in a circle towards him, “this. If I didn’t see you like a brother, I would climb you like a tree.”
“Please shut up,” Greg groans, embarrassed.
Sally grins, “You aren’t bad to look at, Greg. You know you’re fit, so flaunt it. I’m surprised he hasn’t thrown himself at you.”
Greg laughs and throws the chair pillow at her. He’s so fucked. The festival matches are random, so it’s not like he would even get matched with… Damn, why is he even thinking about this? It’s not like he’s going to go through with it, right? He glares at Sally’s smug face. She knows he’s already thinking about it. The same match is not a guarantee; lighting doesn’t always strike twice, does it?
Satan help him. When he agreed to go with Ronnie and the kids to night service last week, he knew Mycroft would be there. He knew Mycroft had been High Priest for years, but it didn't prepare him for when he actually saw the tall warlock standing at the altar of the church, sinful in his dark tailored suit. He was still so beautiful, even with the cold, calculating expression on his face, his eyes like polished metal. And the beard! Greg hadn’t expected that, and ever since, he couldn’t stop thinking about what it would feel like if they kissed. What the trimmed ginger hairs would feel like scraping down his chest, against his thighs.
He shakes his head to clear his thoughts. No, that broom had already flown, and there was no going back. Besides, Mycroft Holmes doesn’t throw himself at anyone, let alone a half breed like him.
***
Mycroft sits at his elegant mahogany desk with dark leather top, scowling as he goes over the supply checklist for the Lupercalia festival, his quill scratching the parchment a little too harshly as he ticks off the items. Sacrificial blood, milk, chocolate, figs, cherries… Tedious, Mycroft sighs. It was one of his Coven’s favorite festivals, but it was a bit of a sore spot for Mycroft. He had participated once and once only. It had been horrible and awkward, and he had no desire to do it again. He would rather stay here in his hidden office, reading a scroll by the firelight.
He’s still scowling as Alicia and Anthea spill into his office, giggling like a pair of teenagers, and he rolls his eyes after taking one look at their disheveled appearances. Alicia is wearing a dark plum v-neck sheath dress with a straight hem. The fabric is wrinkled near her hips as if someone had been grabbing it; there are a few strands of blonde hair escaping from her perfectly coiled bun. Anthea is wearing a charcoal tailored blazer over a white blouse with matching suit trousers. One of the buttons on her shirt is missing, and her lipstick is slightly smudged.
“It’s barely noon, and you two are drunk,” he states.
“Not drunk but pleasantly tipsy, thank you very much, your excellency, ” Anthea quips smartly, pushing her dark hair back behind her ears.
“The class was practicing manipulating chemical properties of wine.” Alicia clarifies, smoothing down her dress fabric and sitting in a crimson leather wingback chair in front of Mycroft’s desk.
“And you just had to sample the results?” Mycroft asks, eyebrow raised. He’s ignoring the satisfied look the two women share.
Anthea laughs while Alicia replies, “Of course.”
“You are lucky you were not poisoned.”
Anthea tuts and leans a hip against his desk, looking down at the list with its angry ink marks, “So…” she starts, and Mycroft braces himself for the inevitable.
“Are you going to partake in Lupercalia this year?”
Mycroft’s position as High Priest automatically made him Master of the Hunt, so he couldn’t avoid the rituals entirely, but he always opted to stand watch, never attempting to match with anyone. Satan forbid, he gets matched with someone like Anderson or Mrs. Hudson. The matches were supposed to be random, but Mycroft knew there was always a power at play, and the matches were deliberately made. He didn’t want to take that chance.
Mycroft barely contains his sneer, “I will participate in the same capacity that I always have. Someone has to stand watch while everyone goes prancing off naked into the woods.”
Anthea waves a hand at him, “Pish posh. You’ve been single for far too long. Even if nothing comes from it, you can at least let loose one night. What’s the point of being a witch if you cannot partake in carnal pleasures at will?”
Mycroft scoffs, “There is no one with whom I would even consider--”
“What about a certain silver fox who has found his way back to the coven?” Alicia asks coyly.
Mycroft turns his head sharply to look at her, “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Who’s being ridiculous? Is it not your duty as high priest to open your arms to our wayward flock?” She teases.
“Lestrade is simply here to support his sister. You know his half status bends the rules -- he can come and go as he pleases. I am under no obligation to contact him, and I’m certainly not going to chase after him.”
“No, that's what the hunt is for,” Anthea says, and both of the women giggle.
“Satan help me,” he mutters.
“He came to service last week,” Anthea says as if that is supposed to mean something to him.
Mycroft had noticed, of course he had. It was impossible to miss when Greg Lestrade walked into a room. He had thought that the tingling in the pit of his stomach whenever he found himself near Greg had been a schoolboy crush, the combination of teenage hormones and idiotic romanticisms. He was wrong.
He had known the moment Greg was back, and he told himself that he would remain politely distant when their paths finally crossed. But when the devastatingly handsome man had walked into his small church, the tingling came back. Greg Lestrade was undoubtedly a sight to behold. His powerful well-muscled body moved with predatory grace. Mycroft's pulse quickened when Greg leaned against the back wall, strong arms crossed casually, shirt tight around his biceps. He looked the same but was just more -- more what? More breathtaking? More built? More everything he always and still wanted? Even the dark hair at his temples that was starting to go grey, as if kissed by moonlight, was enough to make his knees weak.
Their gazes met, and an easy smile played at the corner of Greg’s mouth. Mycroft felt himself give an involuntary smile in return before he hid his face by looking down at the ancient tome in front of him, horrified. He was so fucked. Mycroft knew Greg’s shifter abilities gave the man heightened senses, and he prayed that the man wasn’t able to hear his rabbit heartbeat.
”Mycroft?” Alicia’s voice cuts through his thoughts like a hot knife, and he schools his features back into his familiar blank facade.
”Yes?”
The two witches share a knowing look, and Anthea repeats, ”Greg was at service last week.”
“And? We didn't speak.”
“Well, we spoke,” Alicia says, “he asked about you.”
Mycroft arches an eyebrow, and that’s enough for her to continue.
“Mmhmm. Wanted to know how you have been, said you looked good, said he was happy that you finally made High Priest…”
“Well,” Mycroft clears his throat and looks down at the list in front of him, fingers rubbing at the corner of the parchment. “That was very considerate of him.”
“He’s single, you know,” Anthea says, reaching over and sliding the parchment away from Mycroft’s fingers before he accidentally smudges the ink. “Claimed he had no one back in London when he heard you had no current attachments. I’m not sure he meant to let it slip, but he didn’t take it back.”
Bloody hell, Mycroft thinks. His tie suddenly feels very tight.
“He misses you,” Alicia says.
Mycroft narrows his eyes, “I doubt he told you that. ”
“No, but you can just tell, Mycroft. The whole service he looked at you with such longing.”
Mycroft gives a dry sarcastic laugh, “Oh, I’m sure.”
Anthea huffs with annoyance, walking away from his desk to throw herself in the other wingback chair next to Alicia. “How is it that you can tell me someone’s life story based on their clothing choice, but you cannot see how besotted Greg is with you?”
Mycroft closes his eyes and forces himself to squash the tiny ray of hope in his chest at her words.
“You guys should talk about what happened,” Anthea says so softly he almost doesn’t hear her.
Enough, Mycroft thinks. He opens his eyes and fixes them with a steely gaze. “I refuse to entertain you both any further,” he snaps, and he rolls up the parchment in front of him before waving his hand at the two witches dismissively. “Go, you have miscreants to teach.”
Anthea rolls her eyes and shares a silent look with Alicia, who just tilts her head in response. Mycroft ignores the way his heart clenches at their shared ease with each other. He didn’t want to admit he sometimes felt jealous of their relationship. Mycroft pulls out a thick leather-bound tome and pretends to study its pages until he hears the click of his office door shut. He’s finally alone again and too busy glaring at the pages in front of him that he misses the way the crackling fire in the fireplace briefly flares a brilliant shade of green before returning to normal.