The Call

        As I leaned farther toward the glass to glean more information from the vehicle and weapon, another shot rang out. Within seconds, Greg had pushed me toward Sherlock, covering my body with his. The rear passenger side window shattered. Greg yelled for the car to stop. "Don't move," he instructed, squeezing my arm, then exited the vehicle. "Police!" he yelled, aiming his sidearm at the still moving Bugatti. It pulled up beside us. Greg was steady as a rock. His training, instincts, and adrenaline had temporarily erased the trauma from the morning's events.

        Slowly, I reached for my umbrella that was resting on the floor of the car. Sherlock watched me. "No." His tone was hushed.

        I could still see the car that had pulled up beside us. A woman stepped out; her weapon pointed directly at Greg. As I expected, she was of average height, athletic build, and dressed in combat clothes. Her long black hair was tied into a ponytail. Bulletproof padding was visible under her jacket. Greg muttered under his breath, "I don't have a clean shot." Pedestrians were beginning to gather on the footway opposite.

        "She's padded. Your only kill shot is a headshot. Not worth it," whispered Sherlock.

        "Where is he?" the woman demanded of Greg in a thick Israeli accent.

        "Who?"

        "Holmes," she said, adjusting her finger on the trigger of her revolver.

        Sherlock opened his door.  "No. Sherlock. Please," I pleaded. He ignored me and stepped out of the vehicle.

        The woman looked in his direction but kept her aim on Greg. "Mycroft Holmes," she yelled in frustration, clearly having identified Sherlock on sight.

        Greg and Sherlock moved their attention from her long enough to look at one another and close the back doors of my car in unison. "Take him home. Now!" Greg instructed my driver, using his free hand to pat the roof of the vehicle. My driver sped away as quickly as was possible with a deflated tire. I watched in the mirror as Greg's figure grew smaller, still in a standoff with the armed woman.

***
 

        I'd been home for nearly an hour and had heard nothing. I wasn't able to reach anyone by phone or text. I found that I was capable of nothing but pacing in front of my parlour windows. Faintly, I could hear an engine. The back door opened and then latched. I passed through the parlour into the sitting room and picked up my umbrella from its stand.

        "Myc," I heard Greg warn, "it's me."  At the sound of his voice, my grip on the brolly loosened. His pace quickened as he walked toward me. He stopped abruptly once he was less than half a meter away. He reached out to grab my biceps. "Are you okay?" he asked awkwardly. It was apparent his instinct was to embrace me, but he wasn't sure how it would be received.

        "Fine," I assured him. "What happened?" I probed. I knew the woman we'd encountered was merely a hired hand, but that's all I knew. I'd no idea of what she may have been capable.

        "You're not gonna worry 'bout that," he said. "We have men on it. And Sherlock." He stopped, clearly having more to say but hesitant to say it. "Your job is to stay home and safe." Another pause. He looked behind me and shuffled his feet nervously. "And I'm your protection."

        "My protection," I parrotted.

        "Official detail. You don't leave my sight until this woman is taken care of." This time he looked down. He spoke again, but almost in a whisper. "I hope that won't be a burden."

        I closed the gap between us, taking his hand in mine. "There's no one in the world who could make me feel safer."
 

***

 

        "Is there anything else you need?" Sergeant Donovan asked as she placed three large market bags in the kitchen.

        I watched her from the corner of the room as Greg answered, "No. That'll do it."  The Sergeant nodded in confirmation and headed toward the door. "Sally," called Greg.

        "Hmmm," she hummed inquisitively as she spun around.

        "Keep an eye on Sherlock."

        "I always do, don't I?" she said matter of factly as she exited and latched the door behind her.

        I had very little fresh food in my house, and Greg insisted that takeaway wasn't a particularly safe option. He was correct. He'd had Sergeant Donovan bring supplies that would last the two of us approximately four days. I walked toward the bags to unload the contents.

        Greg grabbed my arm as it reached for a box. "Go sit down. Relax. I've got it."

        "You're sure?"

        "Yeah. I'm gonna throw things together and get a hotpot stewing for later. Relax. You never relax."

        "That's not completely true," I contradicted as I walked from the kitchen into the sitting room. Maybe it was true. I stood in the center of the room, faced with a sofa, three wooden chairs, and a chaise that I couldn't recall anyone ever using. My instinct was to sit up in a high back wooden chair - with a book, a file, or to give orders on my mobile. "Relax," I thought to myself, making my way to the far end of the sofa.

        I sat down. What now? I heard Greg clanging around the kitchen. I wished he'd tell me everything that was going on so that I could help to combat and solve the problem. More so, I struggled with the idea of not having eyes on Sherlock. He was always on watch. I consistently tracked his movements. I knew Greg wouldn't tell me anything. In fact, he had requested not to be briefed on anything unless it was relevant to my safety. He was determined to protect me, even from my own deductions. This wasn't the first time.

        My eyes drifted shut. All I could see was the image of him pointing his pistol at that woman. I often used his job as evidence that I was superior to him in most ways. He, after all, did - leg work. The truth of it, though, was that I admired him. He wasn't a man of great intellect. His instincts and ability to quickly extrapolate information were, of course, rubbish in comparison to mine - but whose weren't? His gallantry, however, was something of which I'd always be in awe. His bravery in the face of physical danger never wavered. I recalled the way he threw his body over mine in the car. He did it without hesitation, without thought. He'd spent no time considering his own mortality. His instinct in moments of urgency was to protect the well-being of everyone but himself. I had once believed that bravery was equivalent to stupidity. Greg made me feel differently.

        "Nope. Stand up," Greg ordered, walking into the room.

        "What?"

        "Come on," he coaxed with his hands as I looked at him in confusion. I obliged. Greg stood in front of me, removing layer by layer of clothing down to my Buttercloth shirt. "You can't relax in a three-piece suit."  I always wore a three-piece suit. The most I ever did privately in my sitting room was strip it down to the waistcoat.  "Better?" he asked. Before I had time to reply, he interjected, "probably not. You've got garters on too, don't ya'? Maybe just go lie down."

        "Greg...."

        He interrupted again, "Don't argue. Go. No reason at all for you to be dressed and sitting up."

        I looked at him intently. He was clearly fully functioning, but his eyes resembled someone in suspended animation. He was on duty. That's what it was. He was trying to separate his "official detail" assignment from our intimate dynamic. His movements resembled that of a child's toy that had been wound - mechanical and deliberate.  "Following my lead, I suppose, after our exchange in hospital," I considered silently.  I reached for his shoulder. "Come talk with me?"

        The haze left his eyes as they darted to look out his periphery at my hand. Then he looked up at me. "Ten minutes," he suggested, patting my hand and quickly walking toward the kitchen.
 

***

 

        I found myself sitting up in my blue satin pyjamas, nose buried in a novel when Greg entered my bedroom. He was, again, in joggers and socks. The joggers were perhaps a bit too small. The waistband was a perfect fit, but the crotch was left little to the imagination. His hair was mussed but presented its usual shine. His face was stubbled, and more gray hair rested below his collar bone. It covered the entirety of his center torso. His deltoids were defined, and there was a ligament always visible that strung from his left clavicle to his biceps. He was tanned, as usual. Dried blood covered the first few layers of his wrapping but was well clotted. He stood still in the doorway, arms at his sides, not quite sure how to approach me.

        I tilted my head to the empty half of the bed to my left. His head tilted downward as he raised his brows. Without a word, he pointed his right index finger first to himself, then to the bed. This was my problem, my weakness. I was wholly enslaved by how utterly adorable he could be. I smiled and reached out my hand.

        He matched my grin and sauntered toward me, clearly giving up his previous efforts to separate personal and professional. He took my hand in his left and crawled under the eiderdown, moving his pistol from the back of his joggers onto the bedside table. He then took my book from my hands and placed it next to his weapon. We sat for a few moments, fingers intertwined, looking at each other. The silence seemed to reverberate around the room.

        Greg moved my hand to his lap, covering our entangled fingers with his right hand. "Mycroft Holmes," he started, looking me intently in the eye, "I am a coward and a failure. I hurt you, and I hate myself for it."

        I clutched his hand tighter, remembering my reflections on his fearlessness. "You hurt me more than I knew I had the capacity for," I replied. "But, there is one thing in this world, Greg, that you for certain are not - and that is a coward."

        His shoulders dropped from strong, broad, and bold to vanquished. "Only a coward would have done that."

        "Done what? Make one last attempt at honoring a commitment? Try to wash his hands of an extramarital tryst before it got the better of him?" I released his hand, moving mine to rest on my lap. Now, I was beginning to feel self-reproach. "Those sound very much like the actions of a good and honourable man to me," I admitted.

        "Good and honourable men don't deal with their wives' infidelity by bedding other men. Good and honorable men don't get married when they're not in love, Myc."

        Love wasn't an emotion I was certain I ever fully discerned. I cared for my brother deeply and worried about him constantly. I could go no more than moments without something reminding me of Greg or experiencing a desire to be near him. Was that love?  "We all do the best we can with whatever we're equipped at the time," I suggested.

        Greg shifted so that he could cup my face in his sun-dried hands. "Mycroft," he said, pausing for so long it felt as though he was trying to unearth my soul with his eyes. He cleared his throat, signaling to me that his words were prepared. "Everything we talked about, everything we planned - I want all of it. I never stopped wanting it. I don't deserve your forgiveness, but I'm not too proud to ask for it. And the only thing I deserve less than your forgiveness is the only thing I want even more."

        I cocked my head and crinkled my brow with a genuine question in my eyes.

        "You," he said.

        My eyes involuntarily closed. My lungs reflexively inhaled - as if I was trying to take him in somehow. This. Perhaps this sensation of ice and fire running through my veins simultaneously - was love?

        I felt his hands stiffen as his smooth lips delicately touched mine. My mouth naturally opened at his touch. My body weakened as his hands moved from my face to my hips, pushing me to lie flat on my back. Greg's body rested atop mine. I could feel the peaks and concaves of his defined chest as it pressed against mine. I ran my hands along his firm forearms and then embraced his rib cage, feeling the gauze against my skin. His kiss was deep, warm, and familiar. The taste of his mouth felt like something that belonged only to me. He broke away from my lips, lowering himself to kiss my chest, my upper abdomen, and then just below my navel, all on top of my satin shirt. He again shifted, this time to lie next to me, propped on his elbow. He leaned in, pecked my lips again, kissed the mole on my right cheekbone, and then took my earlobe in his teeth with such gentle care I could just feel it. With his husky basso profundo, he quietly breathed into my ear, "Will you forgive me?"