The Call
Chapter One
We had planned it. The night. The conversation. I watched as the man I formally addressed in public as Detective Inspector Lestrade carelessly spilled beer foam on my bar top. He wiped it with his already filthy handkerchief before delivering a glass of chardonnay to my side table and joining me on the sofa with his stout. He pulled out a cigarette and reached for his lighter, which he had left on the glass tea table before us.
Just that. That was all it took to put me into a trance. The way he held the tiny cylinder between his teeth as he prepared to light it. I rarely speak in colloquialisms, but he was sexy as hell. As a rule, I had always avoided the more vulnerable aspects of human existence - intimacy, sex, sentiment. I made a calculated effort to keep a safe distance from the disadvantage of emotional entanglement. To my dismay, though, the universe saw fit to bring one man into the world who challenges everything I am - one man with the unique ability to disarm my glacial heart. This man.
Greg and I had been enjoying the pleasure of one another's company for a few years. Greg was married, and I was often preoccupied with my work. We had arrived at an impasse, however. The desire to make our relationship official, structured, exclusive, and, perchance, committed was mutual, though not always spoken. We had set aside this evening to ascertain the best way forward. After years of our intricately choreographed tango of elusion, we would sit. We would discuss. We would compromise. Once and for all, we would thrash out the details of an arrangement with which we could both be content.
I watched from my periphery as he rolled up his white sleeves and buttoned them at the elbow. His left hand unfastened the top four buttons of his wrinkled oxford as his right arm landed to rest on the cushion behind me. I couldn't help but turn to gaze at him. I could feel my trousers become a bit tighter as I noticed that his chest was freshly and flawlessly waxed. Clearly, he assumed tonight's conversation would go quite well.
"So, whaddya think?" he asked calmly while offering a slight grin.
"I think I would like to hear you say exactly what it is you want." My complete opposite in some ways, he was so relaxed and casual. I wanted him to feel the frustration and urgency I'd been experiencing for more than a year.
"Gimme your hand. I'll let ya' feel what I want."
Why did he do this? Of course, I was not one to lead with feelings, but his frequent attempts to escape meaningful conversations by assuaging my hunger for him were growing old. "No! Greg!" I raised my voice with insistence as I abruptly stood and faced him. "We agreed." I allowed my eyes to pierce through his, reminding him that lustful gratification would not suffice on this night.
I watched as Greg's face softened. "Come 'ere." He took my hand in his and pulled me back down to the sofa. This time, I landed in his arms. My shoulder rested on his chiseled chest so that my head fit perfectly into the crook of his neck. "I'm sorry," he whispered.
I felt. I can't really say for certain what I felt. It was different. This moment was different from any other moment we'd ever shared. His apology was sincere. I could feel that, somehow, in his body. He gently kissed the cartilage of my ear and then began to nip it with his teeth. "I want this."
"So do I," I confirmed as I traced his pectoral muscles with my middle finger.
"You know this is difficult for me." He mingled his fingers with mine.
"What is it people say?" I began, "that difficult things are sometimes worth it? I suppose I might have hoped you'd feel that way about me."
"You know I do," Greg assured as he kissed the top of my head. "You know a few solicitors?" he asked, pulling his wedding ring off his left hand, placing it in his pocket.
"More than a few," I hummed. "You would actually need to phone one, though," I added, looking up at him.
Greg's rugged hand cupped my jawline as our eyes met. "I promise. I will. Tomorrow morning."
"And then?" I prompted.
"And then, if ya' agree to get rid of a suit of armor or two," he said, motioning around the house, "I'll live here."
My décor was archaic. I fancied myself a collector of art and antiquities. It was clean, structured. Greg often called it: "cold." I summoned the courage to admit, "I would sacrifice anything."
Greg reached his arm around my shoulder and began unfastening my waistcoat. I felt every hair on my body stand on end as he leaned down to kiss me. He gently used his hot tongue to part my lips. I welcomed him with pleasure. His entire body was solid, strong, like a rock quarry made into the shape of a beautiful man. His lips, though, were pillow soft.
"Do you wanna tell people?" He interrupted my thoughts.
"You know I don't care for people," I remarked as I reached up to brush his silver hair from his forehead.
"Right. But maybe Sherlock?"
I pulled my body away from his enough to offer a cantankerous look.
"Oh, come on. He doesn't know about us," Greg said with the slightest bit of indignation.
I maintained eye contact, raising my right brow.
"He would've said somethin' by now," Greg insisted.
I used his hard chest as leverage and pushed myself up to a seated position. "We may function in this world as machines, Gregory," I began, "but Mummy did teach us manners." I removed my silk waistcoat, folding it neatly onto the arm of the sofa. My brother had known about my attraction to and encounters with the Inspector for many years. We had even discussed it briefly on a phone call he'd made to me from Dartmoor several years ago.
"Sign for divorce and move in, then," I instructed with a sudden surge of authority as I stood and began removing my cufflinks.
"Anything else you'd like me to do, Mr. Holmes?" He stood and walked toward me, backing me into the ornately carved wooden door.
Alone with Greg, behind closed doors, was the only place where I felt little need for supremacy. He did seem to relish it, though, when I took charge. I arched my back toward the door and unfastened my shirt down to the bottom. "It's been quite a long day, Detective Inspector." He was a doltish man, of course, like most others. He could, however, glean information from me almost as quickly as I could from the rest of the world.
"You want me to wash it off ya'?" He twirled his fingers in the tuft of ginger hair on my chest. Unlike the hair on my head, my body hair hadn't darkened with age. Excluding my personal physician, Greg was the only man who knew that. He was the only man with whom I'd ever been entirely vulnerable - and completely intimate.
"Please," I said simply as I took his hand, leading him out of the sitting room in the direction of the shower.
He stopped me in the hallway, pushing me against the wall. He held my wrists at my sides as he softly bit my neck. We'd spent weeks in conflict, and my body was anxious for this resolution. As I felt his pelvis thrust firmly against mine, I heard a mechanical hum. Then, I felt it. Both of our mobiles were vibrating in our pockets at the same time. I emitted a long, frustrated breath as Greg began to back away from me. "For one night. Just one night," I reiterated, "could we please not fret over little brother?"
Greg shot me a condemnatory glance as he reached for his phone. His look acknowledged both my insensitivity as well as the arrogance of my deduction that Sherlock was responsible for the interruption. He rolled his eyes as he answered, "Hello?"
I pulled out my phone to see one word: Secretary.
"Alright, Sherlock. Yes. I'm on my way," Greg reassured as he disconnected the call.
"I'll see you there then?" Greg probed as he buttoned his shirt and combed through his hair with his fingers.
"London Aquarium," I said, hoping my dishy clod would consider the obvious need for back-up.
There was no way even I could understand at that moment what that phone call would do. One call from Sherlock to Greg's mobile. It would change everything. If I had known, I would have stopped Greg from leaving. I could have encouraged him to send a Sergeant in his place.
"Damn you, Sherlock," I shouted toward the ceiling as Greg left earshot. Someone would likely die tonight and if it wasn't Sherlock, so help me!
***
I awoke in a cold sweat. I'd been dreaming. I'd been remembering, rather. There was an alarm waking me. I moved my hand, only to feel the tug of medical tape on my skin. My eyes opened to the glare of fluorescents. I was in hospital - attached to an excess of monitors, one of which was letting off the ghastly distress signal.
Had all that horror actually happened? I scanned my body. I felt no twinge of pain - no injuries or maladies. I was able to focus on my cardiovascular function enough to conclude that I wasn't compromised by medications and was being pumped full of saline. It was real. It had all been real. Why was I here?
A young, blonde nurse walked through the door and stopped at my bedside. "Awake, are we now, Mr. Holmes?" she declared with a distinctive Irish lilt.
I nodded my head slightly to signal both affirmation and annoyance. "I'm not hurt. Why am I here?"
"Oh, now don't you worry about a thing, Mr. Holmes. We were just told to observe you for a while. Seems you had a bit of a fright."
"Told by whom?" I quickly scanned what of the corridor I could see. No one.
"Scotland Yard. They're quite worried about ya' down there. Do you remember what happened?" She was cheerful. She began filling a glass with tepid water from a pitcher that had most certainly been sitting on the nearby tray since my arrival.
"Scotland Yard," I repeated without acknowledging she had asked a question. This was Greg's doing. Some sort of power play? That was unlike him. Still, though, why was I here?
Suddenly, I heard voices outside the room. "Yes Inspector. He's just woke up," an East Londoner confirmed in a particularly deep tone.
"Good. Thank you for everything, Oliver." That was Greg. The sound of his voice created a tightness in my chest, and the increase in my heart rate was audible, given one of the machines to which I was strapped. Greg entered the room. The cuffs of his trousers were covered in soot and mud. The loose skin below his soulful eyes was darker than usual. He was exhausted. He was worried.
I spoke first. "Is everyone alive?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he walked toward me slowly.
"Well, I ought to leave you to your witness, Inspector," interjected the nurse. I'd already forgotten she was in the room. She scurried out the door awkwardly, latching it as she disappeared from sight.
"Why am I in hospital?" If he didn't like my first inquiry, perhaps he'd answer this one.
Moving closer, he wrapped both of his weathered hands around my left wrist. "We need to talk, Myc."