It's not like he's ashamed of it.
Even though few people know about it Gregory Lestrade has never been ashamed of being a sub.
The days where subs were looked down on or treated badly are gone, for the most part. There will always be the occasional prick who thinks all subs should live on the floor but that's never concerned him all that much. He grew up with two doms for older brothers; he knows how to handle himself, knows how to steel his will against the mental press of a dom and refuse to back down. It's one of the reasons he hopes he'll eventually promoted to Detective Inspector. Not many subs can face a dom unflinchingly.
There are even fewer subs that can face down Sherlock Holmes.
"I'm telling you, you've got this all wrong," Sherlock hisses. His eyes are wild, the pupils fully dilated, and the mental press of his will is staggering. It takes Greg everything he has not to fall to his knees the first time those otherworldly eyes are turned on him. The fact that Sherlock also recites, in a bored voice, the nature of his relationship with his girlfriend, what he had for lunch, and how he got the bruise on his left cheek just makes it worse. How he gets stuck taking this boy in, he'll never know.
"And I'm telling you we're not about to listen to a junkie who knows too much for his own good," Greg answers mildly. "For all we know you committed the murder and chose the world's worst way to cover it up." The chances of that are not high. When he looks at Sherlock - scrawny even though he's tall, wild hair, looks like he hasn't eaten in months - he doesn't get the feeling of "murderer". But Sherlock knows things, things only the murderer would know, so he has no choice. It's conflicting and unsettling.
"Just because I'm high doesn't mean I'm wrong." Sherlock's eyes narrow.
Greg has no answer for that. He steps away from the holding cell, leaning against the wall in a subtle movement to hold himself up as the press becomes stronger. He has a fleeting moment to wonder what it would be like if Sherlock wasn't high. Good God. "We'll discuss it when you've come down," he says.
Sherlock says something that sounds suspiciously like "that's what you think" but Greg doesn't stick around to hear it.
His legs are shaking by the time he gets to his little office and he sinks into his chair gratefully. Jesus Christ. It's been years since he met a dom that strong, and the last time was an experience he does not care to repeat. For a moment, the memories well up and fold over him, trapping him in their ugly world. His hand tightens around his pen and he takes a series of short, quick breaths that leave him feeling light-headed.
There's a knock on the door and his eyes fly open. This is not what he needs right now. But before he can respond to the person on the other side, the door is already opening. It's on the tip of his tongue to scold for the intrusion when the feeling hits: the strongest mental press he's ever encountered. His mouth snaps shut, the words dying before they make it into the air, as the man in the doorway gives a polite smile.
"Good afternoon," he says.
It takes Greg a moment to remember how to talk. Then he gathers the shreds of his own will together and stands. "Good afternoon. Can I help you?"
"I understand you have my younger brother."
Younger - bloody fuck, there's two of them. Greg hopes his face doesn't display the sheer horror he feels at this new information. "You must be referring to Sherlock."
"Unfortunately." The man's smile is thin. "My name is Mycroft. I've come to collect him." He steps forward, a sweeping gesture that sucks all the air out of the room, and crisply lays paperwork across the desk. Greg shuffles through it. It's all perfectly filled out even though they only arrested Sherlock less than two hours ago.
"He's down in the cell," Greg says. Surprisingly, instead of feeling annoyed, he's actually... amused. And a little bit relieved. He really doesn't think Sherlock is guilty of this. It must show in his voice or on his face because Mycroft looks a little surprised by his reaction. "I'll have someone show him up."
"Thank you," Mycroft says. He studies Greg in the way that is rapidly becoming familiar, if only because Sherlock has been doing it repeatedly for the past hour. It's a way of stripping someone bare without touching them. "You are not what I expected."
Greg grins and comes out from behind the desk. Now that he's had a moment to get used to it, Mycroft's mental press no longer makes him feel like folding instantly. It's a good feeling to stand up to. "That's alright. I've never met anyone like you Holmeses before, so I guess we're even."
"Imagine that," Mycroft says softly as Greg leaves the room.