Forgetting the Past
Chapter One
My ringing mobile woke me out of a dead sleep. I felt Greg stir, his head lifting off my chest as I reached for my phone.
"Mycroft Holmes," I said gruffly.
"Sir, the Director General of MI5 has been murdered." Anthea's voice was panicked.
Before I could ask for any details, I heard Greg's mobile begin to ring.
"Send my car," I ordered, disconnecting the call, as Greg rolled over to lift his phone from the other bedside table.
"Lestrade," he said, clearing his throat. "Sally, slow down." His eyes finally opened and met mine with concern. "Okay. I'm on my way."
Greg rolled back toward me and nibbled my ear. "I've got a murder in Knightsbridge," he whispered.
I turned, took his face in my hands, and kissed him, inhaling as I massaged his tongue with mine. "I've got one at MI5," I said, pulling away. I looked at him intently, running my hands through his hair. "Be careful."
"You too," he answered, placing one last peck on my forehead before sliding out of bed.
​
***
​
I had just arrived in the security room at the Cabinet Office to view surveillance footage when Sir Edwin's agitated body flew through the door behind me. "Two MPs," he managed, gasping for breath.
"Three murders within the governmental hierarchy just this morning?" I phrased it as a question but spoke aloud only to force myself to evaluate the information.
My mobile vibrated in my pocket. Stepping back from Sir Edwin, I checked the screen to see Greg's message: Director General of the Confederation of British Industry.
"Edwin."
"Yes?"
"There have been two other high-profile murders in London this morning as well."
"What are we dealing with here, Mycroft?"
"I'm not sure yet, but I'll find out. Stay here," I instructed, heading back outside to my car.
​
***
​
"Hey there, handsome," I heard behind me as I opened the door on Baker Street five hours after leaving the Cabinet Office. I turned around in the doorway just in time to see Greg wink at me.
"What are you doing here? You don't need him," he questioned.
"No, but you do."
"You think our murders are connected?" he asked, with a genuine tone of surprise.
"No. I don't think they're connected."
"You know they're connected," Greg corrected himself.
I couldn't help but smile at his adorable ignorance.
I stepped aside to allow him to ascend the stairs first. "Up we go," I coaxed.
Before we were even halfway up the staircase, Sherlock's voice bellowed from his flat, "Are you boys going to come in? Mrs. Hudson might not take kindly to her hallway being used as some sort of mating ground."
I took the last few stairs two at a time, walking into the flat with my head held high, nose in the air, and chest puffed. "At times, I'm tempted to carry a recording device so that I can capture these lovely, brotherly moments and share them with Mummy."
"Shut up, Mycroft," Sherlock moaned, parking himself in his favourite chair.
Greg walked through the door and sat. "Where's John?"
"He's fetching Rosie from Molly's. Now, how many murders?" asked Sherlock, looking at Greg.
"Now, wait a minute, how do you know there were murders?" exclaimed Greg.
Sherlock's voice was already irritated. "That's your murder face. Of course, there were murders."
Greg's eyes darted to meet mine. "I have a murder face?"
I smiled, nodding my head in confirmation.
"How many?" Sherlock was growing impatient.
Greg passed two file folders to Sherlock as he answered. "Two."
"Five, actually," I corrected. "All this morning."
Sherlock squinted his eyes in my direction. "So you're just here to make sure I agree with you."
Greg's eyes darted to me again. "You've got this all solved?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes as he opened one of the files. "Of course, he has it all solved, Greg. He just can't be seen doing the dirty work alone." He looked up at Greg. "You do realise that's why he keeps us both around, don't you?"
I heard myself exhale as I wandered toward the fireplace. "Sherlock, enough," I ordered, handing him my mobile.
"What am I looking at?"
"Scroll through. That's all five. Tell me what you see."
Only seconds of silence passed before he answered, "adultery."
"Anything else?" I prompted.
"Sexually indiscriminate adultery."
"Excellent, little brother."
"Wait. What does that even mean?" chimed Greg.
Without answering, Sherlock reached for his laptop, beginning to type furiously. "There's one in Southwark and one in Lambeth," he announced.
"One what?" Greg was beginning to raise his voice now, frustrated that we were leaving him out of our deduction game.
"Look at them," I encouraged.
Sherlock took a moment to search for photos of each establishment. "The one in Southwark only has one entrance, on a well-traveled road. Let's go," he instructed, standing as he shut the laptop.
"We're going to Southwark?" asked Greg, patting his side to reassure himself that his sidearm was still there.
"No, Greg," Sherlock said with a mocking tone, "to Lambeth." He swung his coat around his shoulders, quickly sliding his arms into its sleeves and popping the collar. "I do hope you brought your leather chaps, Inspector."
"Leather chaps?" Greg looked at me with confusion.
"Just follow him," I said, waving my hand with an invitation for him to go first.
​
***
​
As the car entered Lambeth's borough, I could feel Greg's body tighten next to mine. He was strangely uncomfortable.
"So - so - umm - where exactly are we going?" he asked, looking at Sherlock.
"We're going to enjoy a night out at the local swingers' club, Greg," said Sherlock with a mischievous grin.
"Swingers' club?" Greg unfastened another button on his oxford as he spoke, clearly so uncomfortable that he was becoming overheated.
"It's a sex club, Greg," I explained. "It seems our victims were targeted because they frequent such a place while also having the sort of power or influence that could be used to destroy the proprietors if secrets got out."
The car slowed to a stop in front of the dark building.
"Alright, gents. Maybe we should talk about this. I... I think you may be jumping to conclusions. You think all five of them came here?" Greg's voice was breathy, and he wiped the sweat from his brow as he spoke.
I reached over, placing my hand on his knee as a source of reassurance. "We're sure about this."
"Right. Of course," he said, looking down rather than make eye contact with me.
We exited the car and walked around the building to its alleyway entrance.
A ravishing young woman with dark hair and green eyes met us as we walked through the door. Her gaze landed immediately on Greg. "Well, hello," she said, reaching out to stroke Greg's solid triceps.
He immediately recoiled, backing up so that his hip rested against mine.
"Oh, I'm sorry," the woman began," you must be first-timers."
"Indeed," replied Sherlock, stepping in front of Greg. He purred at her. "Maybe you'd like to show us around?" For all the other things my brother wasn't, he could be quite charming if the situation called for it.
"I'd be delighted," she said, moving in my direction. I watched as her eyes scanned my body, examining my clothing and even breathing in my scent. "Maybe we should start in our high-roller room."
"There's gambling as well?" Sherlock's voice was filled with ambivalence.
"No. No. That's just what we call it," she explained, still not taking her eyes off me. "That's where our wealthiest members spend their time." I felt Greg's hand touch my thigh as the woman winked at me, making it clear that she could read my status and power in my appearance.
"That sounds perfect," said Sherlock, not willing to decline a chance to be taken immediately to the room our murder victims likely would have frequented.
The woman's gaze shifted to Greg again. "Follow me, gorgeous," she said.
In my periphery, I could see Greg shift his feet and gulp as she spun around to lead us toward the back of the building.
As we walked, we passed dozens of oversized sofas, most of them claimed by two or three people each. There were cages of some sort hanging from the ceiling and doors lining one entire wall.
"Those are private play spaces," said the woman, following my eyes. "Fully equipped with anything that might tickle your fancy."
Sherlock marched along beside her.
Dr. Watson had written once that Sherlock was like a trained bloodhound picking up a scent. He wasn't wrong.
"We also have larger rooms," she began again, "if the three of you prefer to stay together."
"Mycroft." I heard Greg's hushed voice plead for my attention.
"It will be fine, Greg," I reassured under my breath.
The woman breezed through a set of saloon doors, turning slightly. "Here we are, gentlemen. Have fun." She turned and exited the swinging doors.
The room was dark, lit only by candles and blacklights. There were couches and cages again, as well as a separate bar area.
"I need to have some conversations. You two blend in," ordered Sherlock, his eyes bouncing between Greg and me with a hopeless expression.
"Go sit over there and kiss. I need five minutes," he said, gesturing toward an empty couch.
Greg and I walked toward the empty cushions. "I'm not sitting on that," I said defiantly.
"I'm not kissing you here. I don't want to be here, Mycroft. I need to talk to you," said Greg.
Before I could acknowledge his distress, my glance landed on a man across the room. I felt my eyes grow wide and my face flush with dread.
"What is it?" asked Greg.
I grabbed his face and kissed him, forcing my tongue into his mouth as I pushed him down to land on the sofa. I released his lips just barely enough to say, "the Queen's personal physician." I kissed him again, this time running my hands over his groin.
"Are you mad?" he scolded, pulling away from me.
"Greg, he can't see me. He knows me. Blend in." Once more, I snatched his lips with mine, reaching to unbutton his shirt.
"I knew that wouldn't take long." Sherlock's voice came up beside us.
I pulled away from Greg to examine my brother's face.
"Out front. It's the owner."
Greg glared at me, wiping saliva from his lower lip. "The owner is the killer?"
"Yes, Greg," droned Sherlock, leading us out of the room.
My brother led us to a small podium, covered on its side by sets of keys. At its easeled top rested a bell. Sherlock tapped it expectantly.
A short, muscular man walked up behind us. "Yes, sir?"
"Andrew Vincent," Sherlock began as four Scotland Yard Sergeants entered the doors in front of us. "I'm afraid you're under arrest for murder." Sherlock turned to look at Greg. "Sorry, Inspector. I texted them while you two were busy enjoying yourselves back there." He motioned toward the doors to the high-roller room.
Greg's eyes were huge, and I could see his pulse running through the artery in his neck.
Andrew Vincent began to stare at Greg. In response, Greg stepped toward me. "Mycroft."
Two of the Sergeants yelled so that I could barely hear him speak my name. "Everyone out. Clear out." They rapped on every door as people rushed out of the club, holding loose clothing to their bodies to maintain some semblance of pride. Three women, however, remained and moved to crowd around the owner.
Sergeant Donovan secured her handcuffs on Andrew Vincent as he continued to study Greg. I moved my gaze to Greg as well, ready to deduce him. I was interrupted, though, by the man's thick voice. "Come on, Greg. You're not going to keep quiet, are you? We thought you had our backs."
Sherlock's eyes ran up and down Greg's form, trying to deduce the reason such a man would know him by name.
Greg remained silent as my body froze in place.
The man became more anxious. "We've always been proud to have one of our old guard at Scotland Yard. Now you're gonna tell me it's done us no good?" He resisted the grip of the Sergeant holding his arms in a manner that suggested he'd lunge at Greg if he'd had the freedom.
"Old guard?" Sherlock asked, his eyes still not leaving Greg.
The man yelled over his shoulder as Donovan pulled him toward the door. "One of our original members, he was. Now he thinks he's better than us."
I watched Greg as his muscles tightened even more and his skin became chalky white. Sherlock's eyes darted to meet mine.
"Take care of the others," Greg ordered his remaining men. He walked past me, never making eye contact, went outside, and left with Sergeant Donovan.