Christmas in the Cotswolds

        I rushed outside only to remember that I'd had my car drop us for the day. I had no way to drive anywhere. That, however, meant that Greg couldn't have gone far either.

        How could I have done this? How could I have let myself snap at Greg?  Sherlock. That's how. It was all because of Sherlock. Who did he really think he was fooling with his act? He wasn't fooling anyone, and he was completely ungrateful. I'd found him. I'd pulled him out of his stupor, not just last night, but what felt like hundreds of times since he was just a child. Did he ever bother to thank me? No. Every time, he chose impertinence, deriding me at any opportunity.

        That certainly wasn't any fault of Greg's. What did he mean by that, though - blocking me from Sherlock? He knew how upset I'd been. Why did he choose to protect him? If he really loved me the way he claimed to, shouldn't he be just as angry with Sherlock as I?

        No sooner did I reach the small iron gate than I caught a glimpse of Greg in my periphery, propped up, seated in the snow against the side of the house, cigarette hanging out from the side of his mouth. I walked toward him in silence and stopped a few paces away, unsure of what the best words might be.

        "Fag?" he offered, holding the box up in the air.

        "Thank you, no," I said, shuffling my feet in the snow. What could I possibly say? I should have thought it through before walking over to him.

        "I just needed some air," he explained, pushing himself up to his feet and walking away from me, toward the back of the house.

        I approached him, placing a hand on his shoulder, "Greg. I didn't mean that."

        "Ya' know - we say that don't we? People always say that they didn't mean something - that it was just said in a moment of anger. But the truth is if it comes out that quickly in a moment of anger, it's been harboring in there for a long time."

        That made sense.

        "I don't want to talk about this right now, anyway," he said, throwing his half-finished cigarette into the snow. "We're being incredibly rude to your Mum."

        "She told me to find you. Please let's talk?"

        "I don't want to. We're going to go in there, pretend this hasn't happened, enjoy your parents, and we can deal with it later." He began walking toward the front door. "You know," he said, pausing and turning back toward me, "the worst part is, you know how I feel about you. You know how I've always felt about you. Whatever you were accusing me of in there - you know how completely idiotic the entire implication is."

        "Greg, I wasn't...."As I expected, he didn't let me finish. "Later!" he insisted, opening the front door.

        Even as a child, I'd never been one for fantasies and imaginings. Sherlock had been. He favored pirates of course, but I could recall he also had a wooden toy box he'd insisted for years was a time machine.

        If I had H.G. Wells' time machine or even Sherlock's little toy box, I would, without question, go back to that silly tree lighting ceremony in Bourton-on-the-Water. If I could just get back there, standing with Greg in my arms, and never move from that spot, maybe I'd have a chance to finally comprehend happiness.

 

***

 

        As Mummy boiled the third kettle of the day, I found myself seated between Sherlock and Greg. It may have been the most uncomfortable I'd ever felt.

        Hours had passed, but I finally mustered up the humility necessary to acknowledge what I'd done. With a deep breath, I managed, "Apologies, brother mine."

        "Unnecessary, brother mine," he replied, rising, with his usual grace, and then walking across the room to begin steeping another cup of tea.

        "How about another cuppa, Dr. Watson?" my mother called across the room.

        "I'll get it. Please," insisted John, walking to join Sherlock near the table.

        I watched my Mum stop to look out the nearby window. "Greg, dear?"

        "Yes, ma'am?"

        "Father looks to be struggling with all that firewood out there. Would you mind very much helping him?"

        "Of course," Greg answered, leaving me to sit alone.

        I pulled my watch from its pocket to check the time, noticing my mother land beside me before I could process the placement of the dials.

        "It's too easy to get them all to do what you want them to, isn't it?" She laughed, looking up at John pouring his own tea as Greg shuffled through the door with an armful of logs.

        "Not all of them," I replied, turning my gaze to Sherlock.

        "He's just a bit too clever. The rest of them, though," she continued, "you and I could move them around like marionettes if we wanted to."

        "I suppose," I agreed. My mother's intellect and my own were quite equal, as were our talents for manipulation. "Why are we talking about this?"

        "Dear boy, you've been sitting here for hours looking dejected. It's as if you really believe that man over there," she nodded toward Greg who was on his way back outside, "is actually going to give up on you."

        "You said yourself," I reminded her, "I shouldn't speak to him in that way."

        "And well you shouldn't. Mycroft, you have to see it, though. He worships you. He really does. You know everything will be alright after you leave here."

        "I hurt him."

        "And the fact you've grown enough as a man to admit you're bothered by that will be enough to talk him 'round." She put her arm around my shoulder. "Trust me, Mycroft. There is nothing you can do that will chase that boy away."

        "How would you know?"

        She slowly stood. "I know things. I talk to people."

        "What people?"

 

***

 

        For the entire car ride home, Greg had been taciturn.

        He walked straight for his Christmas tree, as we entered the house, bending to light it, then sitting on the sofa.

        I paced in the foyer for a few minutes before following him. I was still quite unsure as to what I would say to smooth things. As it turned out, that didn't matter.

        "Mycroft?" Greg called to me from the sitting room.

        I made my way to the sofa, sitting next to him.

        "I should show you something."

        "Alright," I offered in anticipation.

        He reached into his back pocket, pulling out his billfold. He turned it on end and out fell a glimmering golden chain onto his lap. He picked it up between his weathered fingers, dangling it at eye level. I quietly examined the run of metal links as Greg stared me in the eyes.  It was mine. I'd lost my watch chain several years prior and could never imagine what had happened to it.

        "Did you steal it?"

        "No. I found it."

        "Found it?"

        "On your precious blanket."

        "On my blank......" I stopped myself mid-word. It must've come loose and dropped onto the blanket in the sitting room the first night we were together. I lifted my hand to take the chain from him as he tossed his billfold onto the nearby chaise.

        I watched as he unfastened his oxford and kicked off his shoes, leaning back into the sofa, resting his arm on its back. He was relaxed, calm, not angry.

        "I had to buy a new one," I said simply, examining the chain once more.

        "You want me to pay you back?" Greg mumbled, reaching his fingertips to coax my back toward his arm.

        "Don't be absurd. You've carried this with you for six years?" I asked, lying back onto his shoulder.

        He leaned down so that his lips touched my ear. "You're not the only one who holds onto things," he whispered.

        "Greg, I really must apologise. My behavior was appalling."

        "Yeah. It was."

        "You were correct. When we say things as the result of upset, they have, in fact, been harbored. The truth is, though, Greg, I would have said the same thing to anyone else in that house today. It was not in any way personal to you."

        "You've lost me."

        "For as long as I remember, Greg, everything has been about Sherlock. He's everyone's first thought. He is everyone's priority. He is utterly incapable of behaving himself. As a result, we all spend our time catering to him and either worrying about him or, at the very least, worrying about what he might do next. It never ends."

        "So, you just automatically assume that everyone will choose him over you?"

        "Apparently so."

        "Well, you're free to search my wallet. But I can guarantee ya' there aren't any of Sherlock's belongings in there."

        I laughed, only slightly. "I am sorry."

        "I know you are. But, Mycroft, know this. I might call on him for help when I'm in over my head. And, yeah, I guess in some strange way, I consider him my friend."  He paused to check for a reaction, but I hadn't one to offer.  "But there is no one in this world who I'll ever prioritize over you."

        My body relaxed as I nestled my head against his neck. "I suppose he did only learn your name a year or two ago."

        "I'm still not really sure he knows it," Greg laughed.

        "Let's please go up to bed now?" I said.

        "You go on up," he said. "I'll be there soon."