Forgetting the Past
Chapter Four
I had just finished tidying the guest bed - rather, trying to make it look disheveled as it had been, but still somehow undisturbed. The sound of an engine in the front drive caught my attention. I glanced through the sheer curtain to see Greg stumbling out of a cab.
Slipping out of the guest room, I closed the door behind me and quietly stepped into our... my bedroom as I heard Greg fumbling with his keys at the front door. He was always quite good at holding his liquor. He must've had an awful lot to drink for it to affect his balance and depth perception. The door slammed as it flew open against the foyer wall. "Damn!" I heard him grumble.
"I don't even want to know," I told myself as I changed into my pyjamas. Wherever Greg had been, whatever he had been doing, I knew I didn't even want to imagine it. I slipped into bed, fetching my book from the bedside table, and found myself determined to ignore Greg's commotion, so as not to pick up on any details.
She repeated, "Love her, love her, love her! If she favours you, love her. If she wounds you, love her. If she tears your heart to pieces—and as it gets older and stronger, it will tear deeper—love her, love her, love her!"
"Oh shit!" I heard. It was impossible to read in peace and ignore him. I listened to the glass bottles on the sitting room bar rattling together as he repeated himself, "Oh shit!"
"Can't even take his own advice," I whispered to myself. This man, who had spent so much time over the years trying to convince my little brother that another fix of cocaine wasn't the solution to being high, was so drunk he couldn't open the front door but was determined to pour himself another beer.
It seemed he'd given up, though. His footsteps were heavy on the carpeted stairs. "He can do what he wants," I said aloud, turning my attention back to my book.
Never had I seen such passionate eagerness as was joined to her utterance of these words. I could feel the muscles of the thin arm round my neck swell with the vehemence that possessed her.
"Hi, there." Greg's words were slurred as he swung my bedroom door open.
I looked up from my book to see him trying desperately to gain his balance by leaning against the door frame. Dr. Watson's cologne. Blood alcohol level of at least 0.28.
"Is there something you need?" I asked flatly.
"Nope." He staggered toward me, tripping a bit over the edge of the area rug. "Wanna know where I was?"
"I do not," I said, examining him. He'd had beer, whiskey, and possibly absinthe - nothing to eat. He'd been at the club in Lambeth, but hadn't removed a bit of clothing all night. Dr. Wason had.
"Because you already know."
"Did John enjoy himself?"
"See. You do already know. Fuck, Mycroft. If you're so brilliant, why can't you realise that I don't care about anything but you?"
"If that's true, you wouldn't have gone there again," I mumbled the comment almost under my breath, which only made him come closer.
He fell onto the edge of the bed. "I didn't do a damn thing tonight. You know I didn't. John, though - I couldn't get him to leave. That's why I was gone so long - waiting at the bar for him all night."
"Yes. Well, I was about ready to go to sleep."
He ignored my cue for him to leave the room. "You know why I went there?"
Without turning my head from my book, I raised my eyes in his direction.
"To piss you off." He spoke each word with slow, vindictive emphasis.
"Yes, Greg. I do, of course, deserve punishment - all the wrong I've done to you," I said sarcastically.
My chide aggravated him. Before I could take a breath to say anything else, he was lunging toward me and wrapping his strong fists around my wrists, forcing my hands to my sides. He hovered his face, inches away from mine. An astonishing amount of absinthe. "It's time for you to get off your high horse, Mr. Holmes," he sneered in a tone even deeper than his usual voice.
"It's time for you to get out of my bedroom," I replied, maintaining my composure and authority. I wouldn't allow him to intimidate me simply because he was intoxicated and unpredictable.
"Not until I tell you everything." His grip on my arms grew tighter, and he pinned my legs between his. "I tried to remember everything while I was sitting at that bloody bar."
I had no desire to hear any details of his past. It wasn't my concern any longer. Our romantic entanglement was over, as far as I was concerned, no matter how badly it hurt.
"I went there for four years. There were more men than women - by a lot. There were chains and whips and clamps and a swi - "
"Gregory!" I raised my voice, interrupting him mid-word. "Leave. Leave this room and leave me alone. I'm through with this. I don't even care if you have a place to go anymore. I want you out of this house by dinner time tomorrow."
His broad torso leaned into mine, forcing me deeper against the pillows as he moved his knees to surround my hips, making sure that I had no path to slip away from him. "And a swing," he said, continuing his sentence as though I'd never spoken. "One night, I had three men at once. Two fucking me at the same time while I blew the other one off."
My eyes closed as I turned my head away from him in disgust. "I'll ask you calmly once more to please leave my room. If you'd rather not cooperate, I won't hesitate to call - "
He interrupted me this time. "Call who? Who, Mycroft?" He left a pause in the air before continuing, "The police?" His arms jolted, pushing my wrists further into the mattress and reminding me that he had complete physical control. "You go ahead. First, figure out how to get to a phone. Then, go ahead and ring the police. See what the Sergeant on duty at Scotland Yard has to say."
He was right. I couldn't ring his people for assistance, and there really was no way I could conceive to get out of his grip. The British Secret Service always had my home under surveillance, but Greg was a known resident. They had no cause for alarm. The press of one button on my mobile would send a panic code to Anthea, but Greg had complete control of my range of motion.
"All bark and no bite, aren't you?" He released my wrists and straightened his back. "You think you're so clever with your deductive skills and your 196 IQ - looking down your arrogant nose at even Sherlock Holmes. Do you honestly think that I can't see it?"
"See what?" I asked as he shifted his weight and stood from the bed.
"That you've been crying."
I stared at him as he shuffled out of the room, closing the door behind him.
***
I stepped out of the cold, stone shower and reached for a towel. Shivering, I examined my face in the nearby mirror. I looked dreadful. I'd gotten no sleep after Greg had left me alone. I had hoped that an icy shower would wake me a bit, but it hadn't done. My eyes were irritated, blood shot. My skin was more pale than usual.
The morning sun assaulted my senses as I walked into the bedroom to dress. As I donned my shirt and waistcoat, carefully placing my pocket watch, I could smell eggs cooking downstairs. "How can he possibly be functioning?" I asked myself, remembering how drunk Greg had been just hours prior. "He's probably made a mess," I grumbled, stepping into my most comfortable corduroy trousers.
Adding my cufflinks, jacket, and ring, I headed downstairs. I could hear china rattling in the dining room as I reached the parlour. Leaning into the archway, I could see Greg setting the table. He placed a pitcher of orange juice between two plates of sausage, toast, and soft-boiled eggs. He looked utterly sober and not at all affected by his night out. His hair was combed back nicely, and I could smell his aftershave and cologne mingling with the aroma of breakfast.
"What are you doing?" I asked in amazement. I hadn't intended to speak aloud.
"What does it look like? Making breakfast. Coffee will be ready in a minute, but if you'd prefer tea, I'll get the kettle on."
I couldn't think of anything to say. We'd spent days avoiding one another only to bicker whenever we did cross paths. His behavior made little sense at this stage. Perhaps he'd finally lost his faculties.
"I've decided that I'm not going to accept your decision."
"I'm sorry?" I said, crossing my arms atop my chest.
"You can pretend you don't love me, but I know better. And I'm not going to even acknowledge this ridiculous attempt to end things. We belong together, and that's the end of it."
I closed my eyes and let out a sigh. My chest was tight from exhaustion. "I never said I don't love you," I explained, walking across the room and sitting down in my usual chair at the head of the expansive mahogany table. "I just can't get past all this. I won't get past this." I corrected my words to reflect the decision involved.
"If you love me, you'll get past it." He sat down beside me, biting into a piece of toast as if everything was normal. "You don't want to. You have yourself convinced that you can't because your ego doesn't know how to come to terms with the fact that you're not the only man I've ever shagged."
I interjected. "That wasn't news - and if you think that's what's bothering me, you're sorely mistaken, Detective Inspector."
He finished a sip of juice and slammed his glass onto the table. "What then? You're going to throw all this away without even talking about it. Without even trying?" I watched him in silence as he fidgeted his fingers in frustration. "I wasn't going to do this. I was going to let this go," he said.
I cocked my head, inviting him to continue. His eyes were accusatory. He wouldn't. He couldn't. Not after all this. Could he really dare to accuse me aloud?
"Maybe I have no right to ask, but who was here last night?"
There it was. How stupefyingly bold was he going to become? "You're correct," I began. "You have no right to ask whatsoever."
"So, that's it, then? I made idiotic choices twenty years ago, and you're going to get back at me for it by sleeping with someone else?" He put his head in his hands.
I pushed my chair back from the table, crossing my arms again. With my head high and nose tilted upward, I scoffed. "Would I ever, in a million years, on any planet, in any universe, do anything like that?"
His voice became quiet and soft. "You're loyal to a fault."
"Indeed, I am."
"Then why were there two glasses of wine by the fireplace? The whole place smells of cheap cologne."
How interesting it was that he too described his own former paramour's scent in such a way. "I had an unexpected, uninvited visitor," I offered.
"There isn't anyone else?"
I could feel my chest collapse with weakness and exasperation. "Inspector Lestrade, there is not now, nor will there ever be anyone else. I'm finished. I'm finished with you, and I'm finished with the ridiculous notion of love."
"No, you're not," he mumbled, taking another bite.
I suddenly shot up with anger, throwing my serviette onto the seat in my place. "I'm leaving."
As I walked by him, Greg reached for my arm. "Mycroft." His voice was soft. He stood, locking his eyes with mine as he spoke. "I'm very sorry for how I treated you last night."
"As you should." I pulled my arm from his grasp and walked away toward the foyer to fetch my case and umbrella.
***
I'd had an awful day dealing with MI6. An emerging headache lingered behind my right eye, and my already faulty back was causing more pain than it did on most days. I'd fantasised all afternoon about a warm bath and its jets massaging my lumbar.
I leaned down slightly to rest my umbrella in its stand as I entered the dark, strangely still house. Waiting atop the marble telephone table in my foyer was an envelope. Atop the envelope rested two keys. Lifting the envelope in one hand, I let the keys fall onto the table. It was incredibly thick and not properly sealed, merely folded over. I reached inside to find £3000 and a letter.
I've met your deadline. Out by dinner time. If you find anything I've left behind, I'd be grateful if you'd contact my office. This should cover anything I've used over the past few days since you decided I was just a tenant. I won't stop hoping that you change your mind. I'm not complete without you, Mycroft.
I collected the keys in my free hand, then hurled them to the parquet marble underfoot. Marching away into the sitting room, I heard their echo fill the space. I tore the note and tossed it into the cold fireplace. My knees buckled, and I collapsed onto the floor as I realised I was standing in exactly the spot where Greg and I had shared our first night together.
I could feel his breath against my ear and hear his whisper all these years later. "You're perfect." I remembered arching my back and thrusting my pelvis against his pumps as he said those words for the first time. He'd made me feel special, wanted, important. I'd let myself trust him. I'd let go in his arms.
Now, it didn't matter. It had all been a lie - a farce to keep me on his hook, all the while never telling me the truth... and I, never wanting to face it.
Turning 'round, I snatched a photograph from the tea table. Mummy had insisted on taking photos of everyone at last year's Christmas dinner. Greg and I had printed and framed the snapshot she'd taken of us. I lobbed it into the fireplace on top his letter, watching as the delicate glass shattered and distributed itself amongst the logs.