Forgetting the Past
Chapter Six
"You've completely lost your mind," Greg said, looking me up and down, his eyes finally resting on my unbuttoned collar. "Why are you here, Mycroft?"
I cleared my throat nervously. Anthea had told me what to say. "I was hoping I could interest you in joining me in one of the playrooms." I turned my head slightly to direct his attention to the row of doors that lined the side of the room.
Greg reached out for the shot glass that sat in front of him on the bar and quickly swilled it down. The glass slammed back onto the bar top as he looked at me again, shaking his head. "You - and every other member of your family - should be studied," he said, grabbing my arm and pulling me toward the gallery of doors.
He led me into one of the rooms and closed the door behind us. My eyes were drawn directly to the contraption hanging from the ceiling. It resembled a perch from a bird's cage with chains and handcuffs hanging from it. One wall featured what looked like a built-in armoire. In the middle of the room was a large, circular - bed or cushion? It appeared to be made of some sort of plastic meant to imitate leather.
I turned back toward the door to find Greg standing against it with his arms crossed. "Alright. Now explain yourself. Why are you here? What exactly do you want?"
I wondered if he could see my heart beating through my shirt. My chest felt like it was about to implode. I stepped toward him, resting both my thumbs in his belt loops. "I want whatever you want," I said, leaning down toward his ear.
His rough hands joined together on my chest and pushed me backward with enough force that I stumbled and had to find my balance. "The last time I saw you, I was told you wanted nothing to do with me. Do you remember that, Mycroft?"
I tried again. This time, I stepped close enough to Greg to trap him in the corner of the room and reached my hands around his waist to rest on his backside. "You didn't believe me. You said I still wanted you. Perhaps you were right," I whispered with my lips nearly touching his.
He used all of his body weight to force me away, ramming his pelvis against mine and knocking me onto the plastic cushion. Without a word, he sat next to me. "Mycroft, you've pushed me away, forced me out of our home. If you want me to be completely honest, this whole situation has completely broken my heart. I've been drinking - a lot. I'm not really in any condition to have a rational conversation, but if you want to talk, I'll try."
"I didn't come here to talk," I explained, unfastening the remaining buttons on my shirt and sliding it down my shoulders.
"What exactly do you think is gonna happen in here?"
I took a deep breath. I'd argued with Anthea, but she insisted there was one phrase that I absolutely must use. "Fuck me, Greg," I said, leaning in to brush my lips on his neck. "Fuck me like you fucked them."
He arched his neck and pulled back from me. "You don't use that word in conversation." He paused. "And you don't dress like that. And where the hell is your ring?"
"You're always telling me to loosen up. I was simply making an effort." I leaned over him, guiding his back to meet the cushion. "Now, fuck me."
"You think that's what you want?" he whispered.
"It is what I want."
"Fine," he said, grabbing my biceps and rolling me to the side. I looked up at him, straddling me. "Two rules. No kissing and no questions," he instructed as he pulled my trousers off, letting them drop on the floor. He reached to open the armoire's heavy door and pulled a black strip of satin from a drawer. He bit my collar bone as he tied the fabric around my eyes. Then, I heard the rattling of metal before feeling the smoothness of leather wrap around both my ankles. My cock ached between my legs, but I didn't get the impression he planned to touch it. Greg lifted my legs, and I suddenly found my ankles chained to my wrists with very little room to move. The chill of cold glass touched my hole, then quickly disappeared. All sound and all movement stopped.
"Greg?" I said, hoping not to be scolded for talking or asking questions.
"Damn it, Mycroft!" he moaned, ripping the blindfold from my face. "Go home!"
"I'm sorry?"
Releasing my wrists and ankles gently, he repeated, "Go home." I watched him bend over to fetch my trousers from the floor before he threw them onto my lap. "Leave. Now."
"So, what? Am I not good enough? Is that it?"
"Mycroft, please go."
I stood, so angry I could have punched through to the next playroom with my fist. "Do you have any idea what it took for me to come here?" I asked, pulling on my trousers.
"I can imagine," he said without looking at me.
"I'm not attractive enough for this? You can only screw around like this with men who look like - - you ?" Every insecurity I'd been harbouring bubbled to the surface.
"You don't belong here," he said, finally looking in my direction, watching me button my shirt.
"If you want my opinion, neither do you. This is it, Greg," I continued. "If I say goodbye now, I mean it. I won't take it back. I won't try again."
He said nothing. He simply stood, leaning against the armoire, staring at me.
"Goodbye, Greg," I said, fighting nausea as I stormed out the door.
***
As the car pulled away from the club, Anthea's voice started gently, "What happened?"
I shook my head, signaling that I didn't want to answer.
Her arm wrapped slowly around my shoulder, and without a word passed between us, I let my head and shoulder fall to the side, into her lap. Knowing she couldn't see me, I let a few tears escape as she ran her fingertips through my thinning sideburns. "This doesn't make any sense," she mumbled to herself. I heard the tink of her gold necklace as she reached up, removing my ring from her neck. She slid the ring back onto my finger, then held onto my hand, squeezing it in an effort to comfort me. "No sense at all," she repeated.
***
I hadn't eaten in two days but finally found the motivation to make a bit of tea. I stood in the corner of the dark kitchen, waiting for my Earl Gray to steep, and was interrupted by my mobile. I reached into my pocket as it vibrated, then read the text message.
Baker Street. It's urgent.
"Your definition of urgent changes with the wind," I said aloud as though Sherlock were standing before me. With a glance toward my teacup, I sighed and left the room to fetch my umbrella.
***
"What, may I ask, is so urgent this morning, brother dear?" My voice was riddled with annoyance as I entered the flat on Baker Street.
Sherlock and John sat in their usual chairs. Without looking up at me, Sherlock replied, "How are your perfume identification skills these days, Mycroft?"
"That's always been your area of expertise," I answered.
I noticed Mrs. Hudson standing near the entry to the kitchen, glaring at me as though she might be capable of spitting venom far enough that it would reach me. The look on Dr. Watson's face was comparable.
"Well, I was hoping you might have some insight on this one." Sherlock stood as he spoke, followed by John. They both walked toward me. "Your - special someone - has gone missing, it seems."
"He's not mine," I corrected. "What do you mean he's missing?"
Mrs. Hudson chimed in. "We haven't seen him in two days."
"Downstairs," instructed Sherlock, leading the way out of his flat. The three of us walked in silence, leaving Mrs. Hudson behind.
"He's taken everything with him. The whole place is empty," said Dr. Watson as we approached the door to the basement flat.
"Except," Sherlock began, opening the door, "that. That, brother mine, I believe, is a perfume called A Goodnight Kiss. I thought you might know it."
I stepped slightly over the threshold as the scent washed over me. I looked back at Sherlock, whose eyes had changed to match Mrs. Hudson's and Dr. Watson's.
"I know it," I confirmed quietly.
"What's going on, Mycroft?" Sherlock's voice was stern and accusatory.
"You think I have something to do with him disappearing?" I snapped in astonishment. "Are you quite mad?"
"Who wears it, Mycroft? A Goodnight Kiss?" Sherlock continued interrogating me while John stood silently at his side.
I glanced around the flat, searching desperately for something else from which I could glean information. There was nothing there. Only the smell of A Goodnight Kiss - a perfume that I ordered from a shopper at Selfridge's once each year to be delivered to Anthea for her birthday. It had much too large a price tag to be worn by anyone Greg might have worked with or with whom he was likely to socialise. Aside from those essential points, I could also smell the faint strawberry of her hand cream. I felt my knees weaken as I grew lightheaded, a feeling to which I seemed to be growing accustomed. I trusted Anthea implicitly. She wouldn't lie to me. Would she? My eyes clenched shut as I tried to process every thought, sans the emotion that was sneaking its way into my mind. I was utterly incapable of finding a reasonable explanation.
I burst back through the door, never saying another word to Sherlock or John. I rushed to my car, instructing the driver to take me immediately to the Cabinet Office. As the ebony Jaguar began to move, I dialed Greg's number on my mobile. There was no answer.