Forgetting the Past
Chapter Nine
As I gasped for air, the wind whistled through the hawthorns at the far edge of my estate, carrying with it the slightest, but unmistakable, trace of A Goodnight Kiss. Feeling suffocated, my chest tightened as I saw Anthea's figure entering my periphery. What had always been a comforting presence was now ominous.
Before I even made eye contact with her, I found myself yelling in Anthea's direction "Why? I've given you everything. Why would you do this to me?"
"I haven't done anything, Mycroft." Her voice seemed controlled, but I could hear the slight tremor beneath the surface.
The air between us was charged and thick. My hands clenched and as I finally looked into her eyes, I saw a flicker of empathy.
"Oh, you bloody well have. You orchestrated this entire thing. He couldn't have managed all this on his own."
The wind howled through the trees, whipping at my coat as I crouched to catch my breath, my hands pressed to the damp earth. I could barely hear the rustle of the leaves over the pounding in my head. Why had I let things go this far?
Anthea's hand on my shoulder sliced through the haze. “Why did you lie to him?”
The question hit me harder than expected - the weight of it settling into the pit of my stomach. “My choices in my own relationship are none of your business,” I replied, my words sharp, though I was beginning to realise I was angrier with myself than I was her.
There was a long pause before she spoke again, her voice low but unwavering. "Fine. It’s not my business. It’s his, though." She nodded toward the cellar door, her gaze heavy with implication.
The wind picked up again, tugging at the branches overhead as if the garden itself were alive, reacting to the tension. My thoughts became a swirling mess of guilt and regret, too many questions crashing against the walls of my mind. I suddenly yearned for the time in my life before Greg - before I'd ever truly felt. How could I convince him to forgive me? I couldn’t see a path forward. There was no way to rewind the damage, no way to undo the lies I’d told, no way to regain his trust. Under what circumstances would he ever be able to love me again?
My thoughts were abruptly cut short as the squeal of tires grabbed my attention. The distant hum of an approaching vehicle became a frantic roar. A cab came racing toward the cottage, its tires skidding slightly on the gravel. Before it came to a complete stop, Sherlock flung open the back door and shot out, his long legs carrying him toward the garden with his usual unrelenting speed.
“What are you doing?” he called out, his voice urgent and demanding.
I stood up slowly, trying to steady myself. “I’m thinking, you right little prat,” I spat, not bothering to hide the irritation in my voice. I had no time for either of them - not now - not when I was already this far gone. My mind was a mess, tangled in a web of decisions I couldn’t undo.
Sherlock’s eyes were fixed on me, calculating, probing. “Well, I certainly hope you’re thinking about saving him. Time is of the essence."
“You ridiculous little muppet," I bit off the words as they left my mouth. "There are three garden hoses within spitting distance. He’s fine as long as he doesn’t move. I’ll go back down when I’m ready.”
Sherlock's voice was maddening as ever. "Seeing, but not observing again, brother dear?"
"What are you on about?" My words were tight, sharp, and I could feel the frustration rising inside me like a slow boil. If I had the energy, if I weren’t so damn tired from this endless charade, I would have knocked him and that curly head of his straight to the ground.
My brother's eyes narrowed, assessing, never missing a beat. “You can't simply save him with a hose."
"Oh, for God's sake" I muttered, racing toward the nearest hose and opening the tap, ready to water down the petrol so Greg could exit the cellar.
"No!" Sherlock and Anthea yelled in unison, rushing toward me as I neared the entrance to the cellar.
Before my foot even touched the top step, the atmosphere seemed to fracture and gravity felt disturbed, both splintering apart in a high-pitched screech that dug into the very marrow of my bones. Then, the heat - sudden and asphyxiating - slammed into me with the force of a furnace door thrown wide open. It was an overwhelming wave of raw energy that pressed against my skin, suffusing my body with a pain I could neither describe nor escape. Every nerve in my body seemed to ignite in a simultaneous shriek. The force of a blast impelled me into the garden. I felt my body twisted, crumpling into the sod. My spine hit the earth, and my metal hip released a nauseating crack. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move. The world spun away from me in great sweeping arcs of light and shadow. My vision was little more than an incoherent haze. I could barely distinguish glaring streaks of orange and white where fire had taken hold of the cottage roof.
"Focus." I could hear my mother's voice in my mind, flashing back to maths puzzles and deduction games when I was a child. "Focus," she would say.
I had to force myself to survey the situation. My left arm was bleeding, and I could feel blood trickling down my hand. My hip was completely displaced, pushed out of alignment. My spine stung, but nothing was broken. I would be fine but wouldn't be able to stand independently. The fire was massive, but not nearly as aggressive as the fire I'd seen just moments before in Greg's eyes.
Greg. I had to get to Greg. My chest burned as I reasoned through the entire scenario, realising I couldn't conceive of a way he would have survived the blast. Greg. What had I done? My stubbornness. My craving for control. My deep insecurities. I hadn't just destroyed me. I had destroyed us. I couldn't let this destroy him. He had to be alright. I had to get to him.
As I tried to move my arms to brace my weight and attempt to crawl back toward the cottage, I felt Anthea's hand press against my chest. "Don't move."
I heard the distant wailing of sirens. "Greg," I managed aloud before everything faded to nothingness.