The Call

        Forgive him? I lost myself in his eyes for a moment. He mistook my silence for hesitation.

        "Mycroft, I took you for granted. I guess I just assumed that, no matter what, you'd always be there. And that's the stupidest thing. Because you're -you're you. I mean, I know you're not out shoppin' 'round or anything, but God - who wouldn't be in awe of you?" Before I could even consider replying, he continued. "Do you remember when we met?"  His hands were trembling again. My failure to reply quickly to his plea for forgiveness made him excitable.

        "I do."

        "You were trying to be all mysterious. Sending a car to take me to your office."

        "Perhaps a slight power complex," I admitted.

        Greg leaned in and kissed the back of my hand. Smiling, he continued. "I'd heard of you, but didn't know what was true and what wasn't. And, of course, I knew Sherlock. But, when I walked into your office, and you started talking and trying to manipulate me, I got sucked in. It was your eyes. You act important. Well, you are important. But, your eyes give you away. Every emotion that you won't talk about. Everything you worry about. Everything that hurts you or makes you happy. You can keep a straight, proper face all day, Mycroft, but your eyes - they show your hand. People think you're cold, but you're actually the opposite."

        I stopped him talking by placing two fingers against his lips. He wanted me to forgive him. I suppose I already had. This moment was a perfect example of why I had spent every night of the last year thinking - or dreaming -about him. Whenever I tried to be angry with him, he said or did something that made me want to be with him until my dying day. I ran my fingers through his hair, starting at his forehead and landing at his crown. "So, what do my eyes show now, Inspector?"

        He leaned in again, this time kissing my neck slowly, from chin to collarbone. Maybe Heaven wasn't the ridiculous fantasy I believed it to be. This could undoubtedly be Heaven. Greg was, at least, my own version of it. Then, speaking incredibly slowly and quietly, he offered, "That you are a damn beautiful man who couldn't actually be angry with me if his life depended on it."

        "Perhaps you do have the gift of deduction, after all," I quipped. "You're forgiven, Greg, but we still have a lot to talk about."

        "Right. You're right." The more relaxed he was, the more distinct his Estuary accent became.
        "All the years you were away from your wife, and one night- one hour's experience - just one bloody phone call - drew you back. I need to know it won't happen again. I can't invest in this if-"

        He interrupted me. "It won't happen again, Mycroft. I don't know why I did that. I promise..."

        "Greg, you did it because you and your wife have survived on toxic codependency since you met. It's quite a simple psychological diagnosis."

        "Mycroft, don't do that."

        "Do what?"

        "Explain. I'm more than happy to accept the fact that I'll always pour my heart out to you, and you'll say something sort of pleasant in return. And you can tell me how to do my job all you want. And you can prove time and again how much more brilliant you are than me. But don't explain me to me. Not anymore."

        Is that what I did? Did I treat him that way? Is that how he saw me?

        "I'm sorry," he said quickly. "I spent a year hurting you, and now I'm criticizing you."

        "Greg," I began, "if I have ever treated you in such a manner, I am truly and deeply - sorry." It may have been the first and only sincere apology I'd ever spoken in my life. I suppose I could be arrogant from time to time, but I certainly never intended to make Greg feel lesser.

        "It's nothing," he replied, waving his hand as if he was helping his comments to waft away in the air.

        "I'm ready to make this permanent. I've no desire to continue slinking around in the dark. I don't want even one more midnight quickie. I made a decision years ago that you were the only person whose companionship I ever wanted. Living without you for a year - not being able to call on you or speak with you - it hurt me to the core of my heart - if, in fact, I have one."

        "I'll move mountains to make sure you never feel that way again," he declared.

        Despite what had happened, I knew that was true.

        "What can I do? How can I make this work?" he asked.

        "I've no need to make some sort of happy announcement to anyone," I explained. "I do, however, want to be able to move in the daylight."

        "Done," he guaranteed. "The divorce is happening, so there's no reason to hide anything."

        "Are you sure?" I questioned.

        "What reason would there be?"

        "Greg, if you haven't noticed, I am a man."

        "Yeah. I kinda like that part."

        "You've made that quite evident," I remarked with a grin. "My concern, however, is what your reaction might be if someone discovers our - relationship."

         "Mycroft, if I cared about what anyone thought of me, I wouldn't let your brother humiliate me all the time."

        "I'm serious, Greg."

        "I know you are. And sure. I guess I'll probably end up having to come out to some people. But I don't want to talk about other people now. This is about you and me."

        "Do at least bear in mind that if your Chief Superintendent learns that you've been seen in public with me, you'll be asked for an explanation. I am me, after all."

        "You and me, Myc," he insisted.

        "Alright. What about an arrangement?"

        "I think what we'd always been doing worked pretty good. I mean, any less than five times a week, and I might complain." He looked at me, unable to grin without showing his teeth.

        "Most amusing," I said, rolling my eyes. I hadn't the courage to admit to Greg, or myself, for that matter, that the thought of being together in that way again made me a bit nervous. It had been so long. Lying next to him made me crave it but also induced a bit of performance anxiety.
My mind drifted for a second to the last time we'd been together before that phone call from Sherlock. It was his birthday. Everything was so easy and natural. It had always been. "I meant a living arrangement."

        "I know what you meant. And I told you before; I can live here. No problem. I know this place is a big deal for you."

        "It was an investment."

        "If you say so," he conceded. He knew my love of architecture, art, and antiquities bound me to that home. The bookcases were a marvel as well.  "Would you truly be able to be happy here?" He thought it was cold. He'd said that before, more than once.

        Rather than answer, he opened my shirt and slid it off. The combination of satin and the touch of his fingertips sent a chill through my body. There was still so much to discuss. I should have stopped him. Being this close to him, though, after so many months, had dampened my resolve. He was like a magnet pulling me in. He started at my shoulder and kissed his way down to my left wrist. He then repeated the same on my right, as I used my left hand to toy with his tailbone.  "As long as these arms are in this house," he rubbed my biceps as he spoke, "it'll be my own Shangri-la."

        "That was good," I chuckled. "Very good," I said, recognizing Greg's valiant attempt to use a literary reference in conversation.

        "Yeah, well. I meant it, didn't I?"

        "Indeed you did," I granted, then offered a slow, deep kiss.  "So when you decide it's safe for me to be out of your sight, you can gather things and move in. I'll even help"

        "You? Do leg work?" He smiled, showing his teeth again. "I'll count down the minutes."  I'd made him nervous over the last several days. He was finally at ease again and clearly reassured that I wouldn't be snarling at him any longer. He twirled his fingers in the pelt of my chest. It felt wonderful. I had never been an incredibly confident person. Arrogance and confidence are quite different. Sometimes his smallest actions, such as stroking my arms or kissing my chest, allowed me to see myself through Greg's eyes. "Ask ya' a question?" I heard him say as he nuzzled my neck.

        "By all means."

        "Lady Smallwood." He stopped for several seconds. "Was that - was that a date?"

        "Only in as much as I wanted you to believe it was."

        "Me?" he said, sounding genuinely surprised.

        "It was a moment of weakness, I'm afraid. I was, most assuredly, endeavoring to make you jealous."

        "It worked." He had nothing else to say on the matter.

        "It was wrong. I can admit that."

        "It's fine," he mumbled. Clearly, the incident had truly upset him. "While we're talking," he said, clearly redirecting the conversation, "I want to make sure you know something."

        It shocked me that as I spoke, he spoke in unison with me, knowing precisely what I was going to say: "I know most things."

        "Yeah. I know. I know," he continued after me. "This isn't really your area, though."

        "What is that?"

        "Just know that you don't have to reply or anything. But, you need to know that I love you, Mycroft."

        My entire body reacted, but every part in a different way. My feet tingled. My hands went numb. My pelvic floor contracted. My stomach warmed. My breathing quickened. My heart rate became erratic. My mouth was dry, and my cognition suffered. I found myself incapable of processing words, though I wanted to more than I have ever been able to explain since.

        Before I could even recover my breathing pattern, there was a sudden echo of wood hitting ceramic. My "protection" had set up hurdles throughout the property in order to increase the likelihood that he'd be signaled of an intruder. Greg immediately shot to attention.  "Shh," he instructed as he quietly crawled out of bed, picked up his Glock, and walked, flat-footed and slowly toward the window. He parted the curtain slightly, scanning what he could see of my home's perimeter. "Stay there," he whispered as he moved from the window to the door.

        "Mycroft Holmes!" a voice echoed outside the room. It was a woman again, but English this time.  Greg readied his finger on the trigger and opened the door.  "I'm unarmed, Inspector."

        "Why would I believe that?" Greg pressed.

        "I have something far more threatening than a gun."

        Greg ignored her claim. "How did you get in?" His eyes darted toward me, knowing that I had an answer to his question.

        "No building is ever completely secure when you have the right information," she boasted. "And I have plenty of information. But I would have thought you'd figured that out by now. You certainly encountered a great deal of my handy work this morning."

        "Armed or not, you won't get near Mycroft Holmes."

        "Well, Inspector, the truth is, I already have.  Greg looked at the woman inquisitively, still steady with his weapon.  "I have Mr. Holmes' laptop. From what I understand, that's more powerful than any weapon. Even you - his big strong bodyguard - can't protect him from me now."  Greg didn't relax his grip on the trigger.  "Besides, I thought you'd remember me."

        Greg's stance remained firm, but his face creased in confusion as he looked the woman up and down, trying to recall from where he might know her. Finally, he slowly lowered his pistol and looked toward me with disbelief.