Forgetting the Past
Chapter Seven
I stormed through my office door with an air of indignant fury, a coursing anger akin to molten lava surging through my veins while my heart propelled boiling blood through my body. The side door within my office was ajar. Without hesitation, I entered the corridor, which led to Anthea's desk.
"I didn't expect to see you today," she said, a tone of surprise floating over her usually calm, mellifluous voice.
"Where is he?" I hadn't intended to yell but was incapable of controlling my vehemence.
Anthea suddenly jolted from her chair and stood at attention. "Where is whom, sir?"
"Enough with the charade. Dispense with the formalities. Where is he?" The authoritative urgency in my tone resonated through the room as I abandoned any veneer of civility.
Her head titled slightly as she examined my eyes, never saying a word.
"Where is Greg?" I asked once more, my gaze fixed unwaveringly upon her.
"Mycroft, why would I know where he is?"
"You were there. You were at Baker Street where he's been staying." My vocal cadence descended to a hushed tone as I closed the physical gap between us. "Why were you there?"
A cascade of raven hair partially veiled her right eye as she took a measured pause, scrutinizing my form with a thoroughness that suggested an attempt to decipher the nuances of my being. "I know what you're thinking, and you know better." She spoke, perhaps, with a quiver of pain in her voice.
"Don't deduce me," I snapped.
"Well, I'm not wrong, am I? I learned from the best, after all," she replied, extending her hand to rest upon my shoulder. "You, however, are wrong this time. He's not quite my type."
"What is your type?" Despite her exceptional beauty, in all the years I'd known her, any entanglements with the opposite sex on her part had eluded my awareness.
She lowered her arm and returned to sit in her chair, her ever-present poise intact. "Oh, you know - older, tall, well-dressed, Mensa-level genius, socially incapable," she paused, apparently for effect, "incontrovertibly gay, and emotionally unavailable." She looked down at her desk to hide the sideways grin that manipulated her lips.
"This isn't a joke, Anthea."
"Mycroft, I was there, but I don't know exactly where he is now."
"Why were you there?"
"He needed help." It was her indirect admission of involvement, carrying with it a nuanced vulnerability that lingered in the air. She knew how I would react.
"Help?" The resonance of my voice reverberated within my chest. "Why, in any moment of need, would Greg Lestrade turn to you, when he has me?"
"Well, from what I gather, you left him with the impression that he doesn't have you." Her head tilted in judgement. "Look at yourself," she instructed, nodding toward the expansive pane of glass on the wall.
I pivoted to confront my own reflection.
"You're allowing pain and emotion to obscure your logic. Take a few breaths. Straighten your tie." Following a series of succinct taps of her pen against the polished mahogany desk, she continued, "Now, where does my loyalty lie?"
"With me."
"As it always has and perpetually will," she expounded, her voice almost intimately gentle.
I approached, cornering her between her desk and the wall. "Then why don't you explain the nature of circumstances that would lead him to need your help?"
"I can't say exactly."
"Unless you'd like to lose your job, your home, your reputation, and depending on how horrible this is yet to become, your entire domicile, I suggest you say."
"Mycroft, he'll be fine. I've taken care of things."
"Out!" I slammed both fists against her desk as I bellowed. "Get out!"
"Myc....."
"Don't," I interrupted, "even entertain the notion of speaking again. You are no longer employed by this office. Leave."
I watched, my mind spinning with fury as my most steadfast ally shook her head in disgust and exited the reinforced door.
***
Following a cigarette that simply did not agree with me, I hastily made my way to a COBR facility situated across the building. In a matter of moments, the entirety of London sprawled before me on the array of screens.
Screen one, normal.
Screen two, man with dog missing from newsagent's.
Screen three, tramp not in phone box. I'd have to deal with that later.
Screen four, normal.
Screen five, normal.
Screen six, Sherlock Holmes, leaving 221b at teatime with his violin case.
No. He wouldn't. Would he?
***
After a bit of a respite, locked away in my office alone, I made the journey home. From there, I'd ascertain Sherlock's location and would know for certain what he... and Anthea... had done.
My driver maneuvered into the entrance where we were welcomed by the sight of an abandoned cab waiting inside my gate. That gate, meticulously secured by rotating access codes, was impervious to even Sherlock Holmes. How had he gotten in? And where was the cabbie?
I opened the door and was met by the distinct aroma of A Goodnight Kiss. So, that's how he had gotten through the gate. I could feel my blood pressure skyrocket. I disassembled my umbrella down to the pistol and slowly stepped through the foyer.
"Reveal yourselves, both of you." My demand was met with silence. "I will not be played and manipulated," I declared. "Sherlock Holmes!"
Silence. But then....
"Lower the gun," a soft, female voice insisted from behind me.
My body spun 'round to see Anthea, now brandishing a gun aimed, unflinchingly, at my chest.
"You wouldn't dare. It's beyond you," I asserted with a touch of hubris.
"I'm not you," she countered, cocking her head to make a point of the insult. "It's protection. You're irrational. Drop yours, and I'll drop mine."
With meticulous care, I lowered the pistol to rest on the nearby wingback chair. "Only that's not yours," I elucidated as Anthea let go of the weapon she'd been holding. "That's a Scotland Yard issue."
She said nothing.
"I'm growing tired of these games," I growled, stepping nearer to her. "Where is he?"
A voice floated down from the staircase. "He? Who? Me? I'm here, brother dear."
I glanced up at Sherlock as he descended. "How wonderful," I exclaimed with sarcasm.
"Mummy wouldn't like you waving that gun around, you know."
"Our mother is not my concern at the moment. Now, tell me why you are both here and where is Inspector Lestrade?"
Sherlock cleared his throat. "Regrettably, your Detective Inspector is otherwise occupied at the moment."
"I told you he needed help, Mycroft." Anthea, in an unconscious gesture, reached out to straighten my tie. She didn't even notice the force of habit.
"He was facing a truly desperate conundrum, and without your support, brother, he had nowhere to turn." Sherlock spoke as if he were reciting Shakespeare, then popped his coat collar. "After all, besides you and, arguably, Buckingham Palace, there's only one other entity in all of jolly old Britain capable of making people disappear." He walked toward the door, then turned with eyes wide and whispered, "poof!" as he flicked his wrist in the air like a magician.
My body suddenly stiffened, and I could feel an impending cold sweat as it grew nearer. The violin case. "William Sherlock Scott Holmes," I managed, with an audible tremor in my voice. "What did you let him do?"
Sherlock lowered his head in a deliberate effort to shadow his eyes. "Let's just say," he crooned, "he struck a deal with the devil."
In a post-Moriarty world, that phrase had only one meaning.
I sprinted toward the door as Sherlock and Anthea stepped through it, dialing my mobile with one hand. "Dispatch an Apache AH1 to my roof now," I yelled into the phone as my strides carried me toward the garden. "Clear the airspace over Pembrokeshire and issue a standstill on all Welsh marine craft. Operation Azrael is go."