Forgetting the Past

        "Sir?" Anthea's voice attempted to break my trance. Two days had passed since Greg left home, and I had yet to sleep at all. I'd spent most of the morning staring at my office wall. "Sir, did you want to dictate that report?"
        I shook my head slightly so that my gaze could find Anthea, though I couldn't focus my vision on her. "Perhaps we should save that for tomorrow," I suggested.
        Her stiletto heels clicked on the cold floor as I looked up to find her walking toward me. She slipped past a table and lamp to stand beside me. Leaning against my desk to face me, her right thigh, clad in black hose, resting against the arm of my chair, she said, "Do you know where he is, Mycroft?"
        "I've made my deductions," I replied, finally landing my gaze on her dark blue eyes.
        "But you refuse to see him?"
        "What reason is there to see him? Nothing is going to change."
        She sighed. Folding her arms across her torso and shaking her head, she continued, "Do you happen to remember how you met me?"
        "I do," I managed, though it seemed quite irrelevant. 
        "You took a criminal under your wing. You gave me a job and a home," she deliberately moved to bump her hip against my elbow as she finished, "and a friend."
        Leaning back in my chair, I cocked my head as I continued to stare at her. "What does that have to do with my current situation?"
        "You trust a reformed art thief with your secrets, your livelihood, and your life. Why is it so hard to trust a reformed sex addict with your heart?"
        We rarely allowed it to enter our conversations, but she was, in fact, a thief. She had been put in my custody nearly thirteen years prior, having completed a string of high profile rare art heists within multiple Embassies. She'd been abandoned by her family and did what she was able to survive. Once I realised that she was a gentle and kind woman, armed with brilliance just shy of rivaling my brother's, I was sure to put her on a different path.  I reached up for her hand. "My dear, you have never once lied to me. That's the difference." Her strawberry-scented hand cream stole my breath as I kissed the back of her hand.
        She turned her hand over in mine, lacing our fingers together. "Yet you're sitting there trying to lie to me ." Without releasing my hand, she moved to sit on my lap. "The lie and deceit isn't the problem, Mycroft. You're frightened."
       "Am I?" I snapped, raising my chin with a slight hint of arrogance. "Of what, might I ask?"
       "Comparison," she said bluntly, straightening my tie tack. "You've spent your entire life skating by on your intellect and authority - areas in which there is no one to compare to you. But personal entanglements, sensuality, intimacy - those are your shortcomings. You can't bear to think that he might hold you in his arms and compare you to someone else."
        She was the only person on earth who I'd allow to speak to me so directly. Had anyone else made such a suggestion, I would have ordered them gone from my presence. Anthea, however, had my respect. In some ways, I'd allowed her to fill the role in my life that probably should have belonged to Eurus. She was the baby sister I'd never really had. "And you think that's ridiculous," I assumed.
        "Does he love you?"
        "Of course he does." I blurted the answer without even thinking.
        "Well, then you're not such a genius if you let him go," she said softly. "I've watched the way he looks at you, Mycroft. Trust me; he's not comparing you to anyone." Cupping her hand around the side of my neck, she kissed my forehead, then stood to walk around to the other side of the desk. "Of course, if you don't want to be compared to the fantasy, you could just become the fantasy."
        "Meaning?"
        "Meet him there - at that club. If you experience it, maybe you'll feel differently about it."  A moment of silence passed between us as she straightened the files strewn around my desk. "With all due respect, though, you've been useless around here for a week. So, whatever you do, just do something. You know as well as I do that you don't actually want to be rid of him. You're going to have to swallow your pride and admit it eventually." She winked at me before slipping out the side door toward her own desk.

***
 

        Against my better judgment, I'd spoken to Dr. Watson and learned that he and Greg were already planning to be in Lambeth that evening. According to John, Greg hadn't been completely sober for more than an hour since he'd left home. It sounded as though he was spending most of his time barricaded with gin in the basement flat at two-hundred twenty-one Baker Street.
        "How many waistcoats are you going to try?" Anthea sat in the corner of my dressing room, checking the time on her phone.
        "If I'm going to go through with this asinine plan, I need to look the part."
        She stood, examining me from head to toe. "Then you should consider that you're going to a sex club, not Buckingham Palace." She smirked at me with amusement. "Allow me?"
        I stretched my arms out to my sides, inviting her to add, remove, or adjust whatever she saw fit. Without hesitation, she unfastened my waistcoat, tossed it to the side, and began rolling up the sleeves of my linen oxford. She buttoned them at the elbow, then pulled off my tie before opening the two buttons nearest my neck.  "Ring, please," she said, opening her hand.
        "Absolutely not," I protested.
        "Some gay men wear commitment rings on the right hand, Mycroft. You can't go there looking like you're spoken for."
        "I'm not trying to entice anyone besides Greg. He knows I wear a ring."
        "Still, it tarnishes the illusion. You're trying to be his fantasy, remember?"
        "It doesn't come off."
        "I'm going with you. It's safe," she insisted, wiggling her fingers with impatience.
        "What if something happens?" I begged.
        Her eyes rolled toward the ceiling. "I'll wear it around my neck. Then it's still with you - or near you, at least."
        My hand shook a bit as I hesitantly slid the gold-colored band off my right ring finger. The ring never left me. On its underside was embedded a small tracking chip. If I was ever missing or under threat, MI5 could locate me.
        "Your brolly stays with me too," she said, stringing the ring onto her necklace.
        "This is ridiculous. Tell me again why I'm doing this."
        "Because seducing your handsome Inspector is apparently more appealing to you than apologising to him," she teased.
        I tilted my head to give her a scolding glance and suddenly noticed the extremely minimal length of her skirt. "Why exactly do you look the part? You're not staying there, remember," I ordered. "You'll get me through the door, but as soon as I find Greg, you return to the car. Promise me." I knew I wouldn't muster the confidence to walk into that place independently, so I'd agreed for her to come along. However, I was far too protective of Anthea to leave her alone with those sorts of people. I often took advantage of her appearance, using her to distract or convince, but I would never dream of putting her into a situation where anyone might consider laying a hand on her.
        "Yes, sir." She said with a smile, reaching out to unfasten one more button on my shirt.
        "Remember, if you do this, you have to be able to forgive him. Are you ready?"
        "We'll find out," I said, extending my elbow to her, ready to escort her to the car.

***
 

        There I stood - at the door to a sordid sex club with a magnificently alluring woman on my arm. "To most men, this would be the perfect moment," I said aloud.
        "Neither of us would be standing here if you were most men," Anthea replied, tugging my arm and leading me closer to the door. As she reached for the handle, I pulled her back. "He's in there, Mycroft. Do you want to let him go?"
       "You know I don't."  I said quietly.
       "Then stick that conceited nose of yours in the air and take me in there."
        I pulled the door open and guided her through by the small of her back. "This is the most humiliating thing I've ever done," I mumbled.
        As we entered, the same woman who had greeted Sherlock, Greg, and me several nights prior turned from a small podium near the door. "Well, well," she sang, "It's nice to see you back." The woman walked toward us. "You do have good taste, don't you?" I watched her eyes assess Anthea as intently as they had studied Greg. "Let me know if anyone gives you trouble getting into the high roller room," she said, turning her attention back to the man she'd been speaking to as we entered.
        Greg, of course, wouldn't be in the high roller room. I searched the central space of the club but didn't see Greg or Dr. Watson. "Let's have a drink," I said, leading Anthea through the crowd. Men and women alike ogled her as we walked. It took every bit of composure I could manage to resist the instinct to cover her with my coat and march her back to the car.
        I felt her nails dig into my arm as she suddenly stopped walking. "There," she said, nodding toward the corner of the bar area.
        The breathtaking woman clenching my forearm barely caught my eye, but that man...   Greg was leaning over the bar top wearing a skin-tight long-sleeved Henley. His silver hair was an absolute mess, which somehow made it even more touchable. He was already drunk. 
        I gripped Anthea's hand, took a deep breath, and started walking toward him. He didn't notice us approaching. When I was finally close enough to touch him, I reached out my arm. It was unsteady, and my heart was racing. "Are you here with anyone?" I asked, tapping him on the shoulder.
        Slowly, with a shocked look of confusion in his eyes, he turned to look at me. His eyes darted from me, then to Anthea, and me again. "What the hell are you doing here?" he said in amazement.
        Anthea wiggled her hand from my grasp. "You know where to find me," she said, turning and walking back toward the door.
        "Hi," I said. I could think of nothing else to say.