Forgetting the Past

         I remained frozen on that spot as the three women were pulled out and taken away in police
cars. Suddenly, I felt Sherlock approach my back. "Mycroft?"
        "Yes," I mumbled, awakening from my trance.
        "You alright?"
        "Yes. Of course," I said, pulling myself together, straightening my coat, and walking toward the exit.
        "You didn't know."
        "Sherlock, not now."
        "No. I think now," he argued, reaching out for my arm, stopping me mid-step.
        I huffed a lung full of air in his direction as he moved to face me.
        "You didn't know, did you?"
        "Did I know that the only person outside of our family I've ever allowed myself to care for - the only man I've ever slept with - the man I love - used to be part of some indiscriminate sex club? No, Sherlock. I didn't." I could feel myself snapping. I had to get out of there. I turned and walked as quickly as I could, short of actually running.
        "Mycroft!" Sherlock's voice rang through the corridor as I got into my car and instructed the driver to take me home.

 

***

 

        The taste of strawberry wine laced his lips as I kissed him. His rough hands gripped my biceps, rolling me to lie on my back. The heat of the nearby fire mixed with the warmth of my skin as he traced my body with his lips. His fingers returned to my tailbone, causing my head to drop onto the blanket as I gasped for air. Suddenly I felt the same fingers at the nape of my neck.
        "Breathe," he whispered into my ear. His gruff voice sent a chill through my spine as I inhaled and felt the utterly confusing sensation of him entering my body. My long fingers dug into his shoulder blades as I yelled. I couldn't tell if I was feeling pain or pleasure. I had spent the darker, private moments of my life imagining an experience like this one. The delectation became more undeniable with every thrust of his vigorous hips. I tried vainly to relax my muscles and maintain my composure. At forty-five years of age, I couldn't bear to let him realise this was my first time.

        "Mr. Holmes?"  My driver's voice pulled me abruptly from my memories.
        We had arrived in my circular drive after our trip home from Lambeth, and I could see a lamp lit in the parlour window. Greg was already there. I had no idea what I could say to him. I'd spent the entire car ride fighting both the urge to punch the seats and the instinct to curl up in a ball and cry.
        I stepped out of the car, landing shakily on the brick path. My gate was unsteady, and I felt a cold weakness in my neck and head as I turned the brass doorknob. Setting my umbrella in its stand, I walked through the foyer toward the parlour. Staring into the fireplace at dry, cold, hickory logs sat Greg. I watched from a distance as he raised a bottle of whiskey to his lips and chugged. I'd never seen him do that. Even with his limited refinement, he always used a glass.
        "You think I don't know you're standing there?", he barked, his Estuary accent thicker than ever before.
        Without a word, I nervously walked in his direction, taking a seat in the chair opposite his. I remained silent, studying his body. I could read everything about him in his movements. I could see his soul in his face and hands. How could I have missed all this?
        "This doesn't make any sense," I said.
        "What do you mean?"
        "That's not you. That place. Those sort of people. That's not you," I insisted.
        "You can believe it or not, Mycroft," he began, still staring ahead, "but whatever you do, it's still going to be true." He placed the now empty liquor bottle on the floor between our chairs and pulled a cigarette from his pocket.
        "Why?" That one word was all I could manage.
        "Why was I part of that lifestyle?" he asked, bringing his lighter to his mouth. "I was young, Mycroft. I was young and scared."
        "What fear could possibly lead to that?" I continued to stare at him as he began removing his shirt, cigarette hanging from the side of his mouth.
        "When did you realise you were attracted to men?" he asked.
        Why would he ask that? "I don't remember not knowing that about myself," I replied.
        "Well, I didn't know until I'd been at that place," he said, tossing his shirt on the back of his chair, then leaning against the wall in front of me. "And it terrified me," he finished.
        "Why were you there at all?"
        "I had an adventurous girlfriend. She was bored with me but didn't want to give up the security of having a steady relationship. She wanted to go, so I went along with the idea. It was a one-time thing." He paused, looking out the window. "At least it was supposed to be."
        "Why wasn't it?"
        "Because I enjoyed it. I ended up with a man that first night, and I enjoyed it, Mycroft. I didn't know what that meant, but I had to find out."
        I looked up at his burly torso, lit by the moonlight that flowed through the window. It made my stomach churn to think about another man's hands on him.
        His eyes finally met mine. "We can talk about this for hours. You're never going to understand. So, how about you just tell me how you're feeling?"
        The vapor of his menthol wafted into my face as I began to speak. "I feel like I'm dreaming."
        "You're going to have to give me more than that, Myc."
         "Greg, I'm genuinely struggling to process it all. I don't think I can give you more at the moment. How did I miss this?" I looked into his eyes. They were cold, distant. The man I was staring at wasn't the man I'd loved for so many years.
        "I'm going to bed, then." He threw his cigarette into the fireplace and headed up the staircase.
         Standing from my chair, I fetched his whiskey bottle from the floor and carried it to the bin in the kitchen. I leaned over the countertop, resting my head in my hands. "This isn't happening," I said to myself, feeling tears and nausea both rising to my face.
        I swallowed forcefully, then headed to the sitting room, glancing at the staircase on my way.         I couldn't bear to go to bed. I could hardly stomach looking at Greg after all this. How could I possibly lie next to him? I was disgusted - not because of things he'd done, but because of my internal reaction to it all. Whatever I was feeling was some rare combination of jealousy and insecurity. My, admittedly, deficient emotional intelligence wouldn't allow me to delve any deeper.
        I reclined my body on the sofa, staring at the ceiling, and found myself longing for the memory I'd visited in the car earlier that evening. Closing my eyes, I hoped I could get back there.
        It worked.

        I could feel his warm breath on my shoulder, whispering, "I have to go."
        "Stay," I pleaded. I could see the beginning sunrise through the parlour window from my spot on the sitting room floor.
        "I have to be at the Yard in an hour."
        I rolled toward him, running my fingers across his chest. "Come to me again tonight."
        His beautiful eyes closed as he kissed my neck, then whispered in my ear. "I'll be here."
        I watched as he stood, bending his nude and magnificent body to fetch his clothing from the floor.

 

***
 

        "Mycroft?" I heard Greg's voice speak my name quietly as a hand rubbed my shoulder.
        I opened my eyes to find him perched on the edge of the tea table, coffee in hand.
        I sat up as he handed me the cup. He'd filled it with cream and sugar. Greg drank his coffee black. "Thank you," I said quietly accepting.
        He was freshly showered and shaved and smelled of his usual earthy cologne. His hair was damp, and he wore only denim trousers and a thin, tight white tee shirt. "You never came to bed," he said as if I needed to be informed.
        Before I could offer any explanation, he began again. "Mycroft, I'm sorry. I'm just so sorry."
        I couldn't let him continue, knowing that it wasn't going to do him any favors. "Greg. I don't need any apologies." I leaned over, resting the coffee cup on the tea table next to him. "I've been very happy with you. I love you, Greg."
        "I love you, too. You know that. You're my world."
        "I can't be your world any longer, Greg," I explained, looking directly into his eyes.
        "What do you mean?"
        "I can't do this. I can't get past this. You lied to me, Greg. Worse than that, though, I look at you now, and I don't even feel that I know you. You're a different person. You're a stranger to me. I can't read you. I can't..."
        "Deduce me? " He rolled his eyes. "What do you mean you can't do this? Mycroft, please don't do anything you'll regret. Let's just talk."
        "I've no desire to talk. You said last night that regardless of how much we discuss this, I'll never understand. You are entirely correct."
        He took my hand from my lap. "Myc, there's a difference between understanding and acceptance."
        "Well, I surely don't accept it," I snapped, pulling my hand away. "You can stay here as long as you require to find a flat. I will ask, though, that you transfer your belongings to one of the guest rooms. You may treat this as a hotel until you find other accommodations, but I will not live with you as your partner from here on, Greg." I paused, closing my eyes to manage, "I'm sorry."
        Greg dropped to his knees between my legs and the tea table. "Mycroft," he began, gripping my thighs with shaking hands. "Don't. Don't do this. You can't do this. It's in the past. Please just let it go."
        "I can't!" I caught myself raising my voice as I stood to escape his grasp.
        "Why?" he yelled back.
        "You're mine, Greg!" The words sounded preposterous as they flew from my mouth.
         "Of course I am," his voice turned calm again.
        "I can barely look at you without thinking about the things you did at that place. I won't simply discount this."
        "What if I told you everything I can remember? Every detail? Would that help?"
        "It most certainly would not," I bucked. I glanced at Greg. He hadn't moved from his knees and was ghostly pale. "How many?" I asked suddenly, confounding myself.
        "How many? How many people?" He hesitated. "I honestly don't know, Mycroft. A lot."
        "Estimate, Greg," I said curtly. "Twenty or two-hundred twenty?"
        He stood, walking in my direction as he cocked his head in a show of sympathy. "Probably around one hundred."
        My skin chilled. My heart rate climbed. I reached behind me for the chaise as I felt myself losing balance.
        Greg immediately lunged, hoping he could steady me. "Mycroft, I didn't even know any of their names. It meant nothing."
        That was far from a comfort, but I hadn't the breath to say so. I waved my wrist, signaling that he should cease talking. "Greg," I managed. "You're my only."
        "I know that," he confirmed, kneeling next to me again.
        "You're my only, and I'm nothing. I'm one of more than one hundred notches in your vile bedpost. That's all."
        "That's not true, and you know it."
        "I will not do this, Greg. Please leave me alone. They'll have delivered the Evening Standard by now. You should search for a flat."
        "Mycroft. Please."
        "Leave!" I'm not sure I'd ever screamed so loudly as I did at that moment. Greg's face weakened with shock, and he walked out of the room.