The Call
Chapter Two
He had the gall to touch me? He had the unmitigated nerve to take my arm delicately as though we were - lovers? It had been nearly a year since he'd been this near to me. Not since that damned phone call from Sherlock bidding us to the aquarium.
I must have been as tired as Greg looked. My eyes wouldn't stay open without my full concentration, and I was again drifting back into the memory of that night. It had been perfect. The heat of his attraction to me pressed against my inner thighs, throbbing through both of our trousers. The smell of his cologne as I kissed his neck. The warmth in my stomach as he pressed his groin harder and harder against me. We were perfectly primed to lather one another with soap from head to toe with the improvident purpose of making each other as unclean as possible. We would have been enraptured by one another under the steady fall of water and steam.
We were both fulfilling our professional duties by reporting to the aquarium. Who was to know that we'd be there to watch Greg's friend, Mary, as she liked to be called, take her final breaths? Who would have imagined there existed a woman who would lay down her own life to spare Sherlock's? I surveyed Greg with alarm in my eyes as he watched Dr. Watson grieve over her body. I watched as his resolve became fissured. Each of Dr. Watson's sobs chipped away another, then another promise Greg had made to me.
"Mycroft?" His voice broke through my retrospection.
I opened my eyes and immediately pulled my arm from his grasp. "I'm growing impatient, Detective Inspector. I'll ask once more. Why am I here?" I spoke as I would to any other simpleton. He didn't deserve my favour let alone any bit of humanity I might be able to muster.
"Look, Myc, I'm sorry. We had to be sure you were okay. And I couldn't stay with you. I had to take care of things, and this was the easiest way to keep an eye on you. We talked when you got here. You don't remember."
I used the bed's controls to bring myself to a ninety-degree angle. The last thing I remembered was my brother preparing to shoot himself clean through the brain. "My name, Inspector Lestrade, is Mycroft. It has been at least thirty-five years since anyone has been able to justify a need to - keep an eye on me. And I am perfectly alright. I was locked in a room. That's hardly cause to hospitalise someone."
Greg reached for my arm again, but I moved it abruptly before he could make contact with my skin or the poplin barrel cuff of my shirt. "You were almost killed. By your brother. You could have been in shock."
"To be completely accurate, I was nearly killed by my sister," I corrected. "I'm not in shock. I don't have a trauma syndrome. I am perfectly capable now, as I always have been, of contending with Eurus' onslaughts."
"I just wanted to be sure you were looked after." His voice, then, dropped several decibels as he continued, "I always try to protect you."
"Laughable," I thought to myself without saying it aloud. I chose my words deliberately, "Well, then, in the future, perhaps you'll find the solicitude to protect me from you," I chided.
He awkwardly adjusted his jacket, clearly not sure how to respond. His voice was again hushed, but there was now panic in his tone. "Look, Myc, that's why I said we need to talk."
"Then let's talk." I sneered.
He immediately started, "Well, I just think you need to kno-"
"You will speak when spoken to," I interrupted, "if you wish to avoid a report of unwarranted behavior being offered to your Chief Super." His eyes glassed over as I claimed my authority. He stared out the window at the sunrise, realising that I wouldn't be surrendering to his efforts. "Tell me the situation at Sherrinford."
"It's -uh - we're - we're securing it."
"Sherlock?" I prompted.
"He's fine," Greg said with confidence. "Worried about you, though."
"How fraternal," I droned in response. "Dr. Watson?"
"Rattled, but fine. We pulled 'im out of a well."
"And?" There was more, of course.
"And bones. A child. A boy."
"His name, if I recall, was Victor," I commented. "Eurus?"
His voice cracked as he replied, "She's being evaluated. Sherlock broke through to her or something. Says she's different. Farther away."
"Indeed she is, and no one will succeed in reaching her," I guaranteed.
He offered no reaction but then informed, "We've had to call your parents."
"Pardon me? Your office most certainly has a record of my specific orders never to contact them regarding Eurus." Had he actually contacted my parents?
"We needed next of kin, and you and Sherlock were compromised," he explained.
"I'll thank you for getting me out of here, then, Inspector, so that I can deal with the mess that has certainly made."
"I already asked them to start your discharge papers," he assured me. "Your mum seemed fine when I spoke with her. Maybe a little confused. A little angry. But, you're right. You should talk to them. But, later - well, tonight. Could we-?" His guilt caused him to be even more slow-witted than usual. Despite that, and regardless of the anger I felt toward him, he was still undeniably tantalizing.
"Tonight," I began, "I believe you have a wife to attend to." I tried not to imagine him sitting up with her in the evening, toying with her hair as he had mine.
He stood silently at my side, holding himself differently than usual. There was no confidence or braggadocio in his posture. He was guilty, ashamed. "If there's nothing else of relevance, you're free to leave," I suggested.
He wrung his hands with exasperation. "Oh, come on, Mycroft! You have to talk to me!"
As Greg's voice rang in the void of the sterile room, two nurses entered and began disconnecting the wires from my chest and arms. As long as they remained present, he wouldn't press matters. A third attendant brought a clipboard for me to sign in cognizance of the ridiculous risks they believed could result from my departure. I hastily scribbled my name and stood to find my black Brunello Cucinellis tucked beneath the bed. I quickly put them on as the nurses continued to straighten the machines and poles. I started toward the door, buttoning my shirt as I walked. "Good day, Inspector."
As I passed him, he cleared his throat. Out of habit, I stopped and glanced in his direction. Without a word, he reached out to hand me my umbrella.
***
I heavily inched my way up the staircase. Two days - I'd spent two days reasoning and negotiating with my parents. It had ended in a visit to Sherrinford so that they could be with all their children at once. Our intelligence stemmed from our mother, but, unlike her progeny, she was an appallingly frequent victim of sentiment.
I was ready to welcome sleep. As I reached the door of my bedroom, I felt my body involuntarily relax. To my dismay, though, that release lasted only seconds, for as I opened the door, I saw an envelope resting on the foot of my bed. I towed myself to the bed and sat down next to the envelope. In Greg's distinctively haphazard penmanship, it was addressed simply, "Mycroft." I suddenly remembered he still had a key.
"Oh, fine," I murmured as I reached for the envelope. If I was ever going to rest, it was probably best to deal with this first. I slid my thumb under the seal and opened the flap. I imagined his agile tongue having licked that adhesive. As I unfolded the paper, a trace of cigarette smoke caught my nose. I couldn't help but stop to savor it for a moment. My memory flashed to my kitchen, about two years ago. We had spent most of the night together in the cemetery with Sherlock. Greg was covered in dirt and sweat. After watching him dig in the dark for hours, I was desperate for him. I'd pinned him against the counter as soon as we'd entered the room. In one motion, I ripped his shirt open and licked the perspiration from his chest. His hands clutched my backside as he pushed his body even harder against mine. I spun him around and leaned him over the countertop, reaching around his waist to unfasten his belt with my still gloved hands. His impatience matched mine. He moved my hands out of the way, pulling down his trousers.
"Fill me up, Mycroft," he groaned as he reached around to unfasten my trousers as well. "And keep the gloves on," he requested as he slid my trousers off my waist. He was the only reason I wore those gloves. He told me once they were "kinky." As I raised his hips higher, I ran the tip of my tongue down his spine, eventually stopping to use my saliva to prepare him for what I had to offer. It wasn't the best option, of course, but neither of us was willing to wait. He whimpered as I bedewed him. As I stood upright, Greg reached for my right arm, moving my hand to the front of him. As I gripped him in my fist and arched my back, preparing to indulge, I rested my chin on his shoulder. He inhaled, readying himself for me. I breathed in unison with him. His skin smelled of earth and cigarettes.
Cigarettes. The same odour of this letter. I opened my eyes and warily read:
​
My dearest Mycroft,
I know you'll never consider me an intelligent man. I can't talk or write with elegant words the way you can. But I am an honest man. So, even though this letter might seem inadequate to you, I can promise you that it's honest. I can promise you that I mean every word. I know you don't want to hear it, but I'm sorry. I'm sorry for everything that happened this week - everything you went through. But I'm even more sorry for this entire year. I let you down. I just couldn't handle the guilt I felt watching Mary die. John was a wreck. His heart was broken. How could I walk away and disregard my wife by calling for a divorce? I thought I was doing the right thing by trying to make it work. I thought if she ended up at gunpoint like Mary, that I'd regret it if I hadn't tried. I thought I'd regret leaving her for you. That sounds horrible, but it's the truth. But this week, I realize that I was wrong. It's you I regret not being with. You were the one staring down the end of a barrel. You were the one I risked losing. And I've never been so terrified. I'm writing this in the car park. I just started divorce proceedings. I don't want to live without you, and I wish you wouldn't make me. I've been told you were seen socially with Lady Smallwood. If you've discovered something new, I can respect that and wish you the best. But God, I hope not. I miss you.
Greg
​
That was it. It ended there. No real closing or suggestion for a way forward. Not at all an intelligent man. He wasn't mistaken.
Those words, though. "I miss you." They did affect me. I would sleep. Perhaps in the morning, I'd be able to make a clear decision as to whether or not I wanted to reply.
***
The morning had come too quickly. I settled my pocket watch in its pouch and straightened the trinity knot around my neck. In an unexpected way, I found comfort in the idea of returning to work. After the events at Sherrinford, some regularity was startlingly inviting.
I made my way to the dining room, where I had already set a table of soft boiled egg and toast. I sipped a bit of Assam as I slid into the high backed wooden chair. It was a great room, and the clink of my knife touching my plate echoed loudly. I'd moved into the home nearly fifteen years prior. Within that time, no one else had ever joined me for a meal in that room. Over the course of the past year, during my estrangement with Greg, I had found myself assuring my brother that I was not lonely. I was, though, without question, alone.
I ate speedily and ignored two intrusive texts from Sherlock while clearing the dishes to the kitchen. As I reached for my coat and attaché, I nearly fell into the wall. I was startled by a thunderous rapping on the door. If it was little brother, he was most assuredly high. I dropped my case and walked toward the door. As I opened it, a potent fetor of butane overwhelmed me. I tried to exhale but was startled to see Greg standing at my stoop, dripping wet and covered in blood.