Forgetting the Past

        Three weeks passed.  Greg slowly moved his belongings back in from the storage unit he had procured through Scotland Yard when he decided to vacate the basement apartment at two hundred twenty-one Baker Street.  Life still did not resemble what had previously been our normal.  He spent a great deal of time "out" with Dr. Watson, Sgt. Donovan, and others.  I didn't ask questions; Greg didn't offer details.  He was less affectionate, but still chose to sleep by my side.  He usually left for the Yard before I was out of bed, but every morning I'd enter the kitchen and find the kettle on.
        This particular morning, a Saturday, I found a note next to the kettle.  It explained that he would be viewing football for the day, but hoped we could share a meal when he returned home.  I immediately texted Anthea, instructing her to arrange dinner from Le Gavroche to be brought to my home and laid out in extraordinary fashion. 

Is that dinner for you, or for him, then?

 
        I stared at the reply on my screen.  She was right.  I would enjoy that extravagant meal, but Greg would not.  He'd be full of beer and meat pies after a day at the football club anyway.  
 

Alright. Find out the best chip shop in London and bring it 'round, please.

       She replied so quickly, my screen hadn't yet faded.

Am I more shocked at the "please" or the "bring it round"?  I can't decide.

 

        I ignored her completely and prepared my morning tea.

 

***

 

        Later, I built a fire, followed by a shower.  I chose my clothing carefully.  A sapphire blue Windsor shirt Greg had chosen for me a few years ago.  I had never actually worn it, but he'd do anything to force me into an open collar.  A violet cashmere vest Mummy had sent for my most recent birthday, having obviously colluded with Greg in his mission to make me "comfortable".  Navy corduroy trousers.  They were terribly heavy and burdensome, but, historically, Greg liked to touch them. 
        As I scrutinized myself in the mirror, I heard Greg enter and climb the stairs.  He passed the bedroom we shared.  The water in the nearest guest shower ran.  He'd been bathing and showering privately since he'd moved back in.  I glanced in the mirror again and took three deep breaths before turning around to my dressing table.  My hand was unsteady as I reached for the small grey box.  I opened it in the palm of my hand and my heart palpated. Within it sat a perfectly crafted band - two expresso coloured tungsten panels with a mahogany panel in the center.  Three brilliant round cut diamonds were spread out and set into the mahogany. 
        We needed to talk.  We had so many things to resolve and iron out.  We needed to heal.  We needed to get back to where we'd been a couple short months ago.  But, I could think of no other way to prove to Greg that I didn't look down upon him.  The only way to definitively convince him that I saw him as my absolute partner and equal was to ask him to take on that role legally.  My mind knew that this was not at all the time to ask.  We had too much to overcome.  Whatever semblance of a heart beat inside me that day, though, felt it was right. 
        I snapped the lid shut and slid the box into the pocket of my trousers before gathering my composure and heading downstairs.

 

***

        I stoked the fire as I heard Greg descend the stairs. 
        "Hi."  I heard behind me. 
        I turned to find Greg with wet, tantalizingly tousled hair, but a full tailored suit.  It was the only proper attire he owned and it was typically reserved for his rare visits to the witness stand.  I didn't speak.
        "The table isn't set.  Did you get my note this morning?" he asked.
        "I did.  We're not eating there.  We're eating here," I said, motioning toward the polystyrene containers sitting by the hearth. 
        Greg let out a low laugh.  "You're kidding."  I saw his eyes study me from head to toe, landing on my socked feet with an upside down smile.  
        "I thought you'd enjoy it."  I was nervous.  Words seemed elusive.  
        "You didn't have to go to any trouble, Mycroft.  I'm just tired of skirting around you - skirting around everything." 
        "This was far from trouble."  I slid a pillow toward him with my foot.  "Sit."
        He reached out and touched the hem of my vest.  His eyes met mine as he insisted, "I'm a bit overdressed, then, aren't I?"  
        He was beautiful.  Again, I said nothing,
        He slid his hand across the cashmere hem and down to my fingers.  "Maybe you could help me with that?"
        His eyes locked with mine as he pulled my fingers toward the fastenings on his suit.  
        I slowly, hesitantly, unbuttoned all three, leaving him to remove the jacket from his shoulders.  He let it slide to the floor.  I stepped closer and began unfastening his shirt as well.  My hands trembled and by the time I'd reached the fourth button he pushed my fingers out of the way, pulling the shirt open the rest of the way, letting two buttons fly off on to the floor.  
        "Gre-" 
        Before I could scold him, before his name was even out of my mouth, he grabbed my face and kissed me.  By the time my head stopped racing, his trousers were on the floor and mine were unfastened.  He pushed me across the room, pressing me against the wall as his teeth teased my collarbone.  "I like this shirt," he said, pushing the collar out of the way with his chin as he ripped open a packet of lube.  He never failed to have one in his pockets and had them hidden all over the house.  He bent himself over the arm of the sofa, clearly inviting me to watch as he slicked himself.  
        We needed to talk.  We needed to resolve things.  I needed to think. 
        He looked over his shoulder and saw me frozen in place.  He stood upright, stepped toward me again, and used his oiled hand to pull my hard cock out of my unfastened trousers.  "Stop thinking.  All you do is think.  Stop thinking and fuck me."  His words sent a shiver down my spine as he bent himself back over - waiting for me.  
        I took three steps until his skin pressed against my corduroy covered thighs.  I leaned over him and kissed his right shoulder.  He smelled exquisite.  He always did.  "Breathe," I whispered.  We inhaled in unison as I entered him.  He felt good, but he was tense - tight.  I forced myself deeper until he groaned.  Suddenly, all I could think of were the past two months of conflict.  I was angry with myself.  In a way, I was also angry about every other person who had ever touched him.  I drove myself in and out, harder every time, somehow convincing myself that with every jolt of my hips he'd forget one of those other experiences.  His body relaxed, which seemed to fuel me more.  I grabbed both his shoulders, pushing his body toward mine, so I had even more leverage.  He screamed.  My vision went blurry, my body released what it was holding, but I didn't stop pumping into him until I was completely soft.  I stumbled back against the wall.  
        He slowly stood, stepping toward me.  "Feel better now?" he asked.  I watched as he reached for his already ripped shirt and used it to wipe his own cum from the floor.  He donned his trousers and waked toward the fire.  "Let's eat before this gets any colder."  
        "No."  I couldn't muster more than one word.
        "What?"  
        "No," I said again.  "I don't feel better.  Worse, if anything."  
        "Mycroft, come eat.  We can talk about everything."
        I slowly walked toward him, but felt like the room was spinning.  "I'm not hungry."  I blurted the words out and immediately exited the room, escaping up the stairs.