The question sat in the back of his mind like a lead weight. He was constantly drawn back to the four simple words his brother had said to him that he had no answer to. Riding home in his private car, he watched the lighted windows of houses pass as the driver slowly navigated the vehicle through the sudden rain that had begun in mid-afternoon. For once he appreciated the slow drive. So many days he had longed for his armchair by the fire at home, classical music from the radio and a hot cup of tea. But he was filled with reluctance on this rainy night. The dark, empty rooms of his home were a threat to him. They embodied the unknowing his younger brother had inspired in him. There was no operative, no directive, no careful dissection that could bring him the answer to the terrible question: How would you know?

These thoughts filled his mind as he watched out the window and some combination of his strange reluctance to enter the empty house, his worry over the terrorist cell and the terrible weather meant that the apparition of a single figure in a long black coat struggling through the rain with a broken umbrella made him cry out.

"Look there!" he said to the driver, who he knew to be slightly hard of hearing.

"Ah, yah, I'd hate to be 'er out in this weather," the driver agreed.

"Let's—let's see if she—they need a ride." They were drawing close to her, nearly alongside and Mycroft could discern shapely calves moving quickly among the folds of her long coat.

"You sure, Mr. Holmes?" the driver said doubtfully.

"I'm feeling charitable today, call to her and offer her a ride, if you don't mind," Mycroft said, resuming his sharp, authoritative tone and sliding to the other side of the backseat to make room for the passenger should she accept.

"AYE! AYE MISS!"

The woman stopped before walking quickly to the driver's side window. She leaned down and Mycroft could just catch a glimpse of white neck and an angular jawline.

"You need a ride? I should hate to be walking the streets in this weather."

What she said was inaudible but she turned and opened the door to the back seat. Sliding in beside Mycroft, she pulled back her hood to reveal a head of blonde hair.

"Wonderful to make your acquaintance, Mr…?" the girl said coyly, holding out her hand. Mycroft's powers of deduction had been hard at work since the woman entered the car and he was filled with an involuntary kick of panic.

Good Lord, I've accidently picked up a prostitute, he thought as he tried to remain calm and shook the girls hand.

"Edgar Casey, lovely to meet you," he said pleasantly.

"Oh, the same name as the sleeping prophet? How interesting," she said, absentmindedly picking at a piece of lint on her fur coat. She looked up and he saw that her eyes were incredibly green. "I haven't heard that one before," she said to him with a wink.

Mycroft weighed the situation for a moment and then said quickly, "I just picked you up to help you out of the rain. Just let the driver know where you need to go and we'll drop you off."

The woman pursed her lips slightly as she studied him, "Is that really why you picked me up? Mr. Holmes?"

"I'm not going to ask you how you know my—"

"Your security pass is sticking out of your poc—" she leaned over and flicked the mentioned pass, "—ket." She smiled, settling into her corner of the car.

Mycroft looked shoved the security pass farther into his pocket and then stared straight ahead. When there was nothing to look at ahead of him, he looked at his briefcase and out of his window. Anything but at the woman beside him. She leaned forward and rested her elbow on her knee and her chin on her fist. Finally, he glanced over but keep his eyes down only to find himself staring at the long legs she had crossed. The crossing of her legs, her body language, he tried to reassess the situation and could only connect it to his brother's obsession with Irene Adler which had been such a disaster—

"You don't usually pick up strangers out of the charity of your heart, Mr. Holmes. I don't know that from some clue, I know that because I know men." Mycroft now lifted his eyes to look at the thin, overly made-up face and felt the control of the situation slipping away from him as she continued to talk.

"You understand, of course, that I am a business woman just as you are a business man. We are both in business and mine is selling my time. I will make no illusions to you about why I take an interest you. I'm sure you know all of the statistics of sex workers in this country. You may even know the median for what we charge. You know the penalties for being caught soliciting men in the street. You know all sorts of things about us and that makes you think that you know me," she pointed to herself as she said the last word. She sat again, still keeping her eyes trained on Mycroft. The car stopped outside Mycroft's home and the driver turned back to them.

"Mr—Mr. Holmes, would you like me to wait in here or…"

Mycroft pulled some change from his pocket and handed it to the man, "Get me a paper from the box on the corner, if you don't mind." The drive complained that he did mind but got out of the car nonetheless. The sound of rain on the roof of the car filled the silence in the car.

"You could have easily gotten out and told your driver to take me home."

"I am aware," he said curtly.

"Let me come in, we can talk about it more in private."

Mycroft glanced at the woman and then clasped his hands together in thought. After a moment he nodded and got out of the car. Jogging through the rain, he opened the door for the woman.

"Such a gentleman!" she cried as a clap of thunder threatened to drown out their words. Mycroft hurried to the door and his hands shook as he fitted the key into the lock. He threw open the door and ushered the girl inside.

"A lovely house, truly lovely!" she said, throwing back her hood in the foyer.

"Can I take your coat? I'll make you a cup of tea to warm up." Mycroft offered in a cheerful voice, peeling off his own soaked suit jacket. He was feeling more confident in his own home.

The woman looked unsure for the first time, "I don't know that you want to. I'm not dressed for this sort of a job."

"What do you mean? Surely that can't be comfortable," Mycroft said, playing on her insecurity.

"Well… here then," she shrugged off her coat to reveal a tiny black leather dress that looked as if it were painted on. Mycroft observed the tattoo on her shoulder and put her at age 33 because of it. All the little scars, bruises and traces on her body unfolded her recently and not-so recent life before him. It was a hard life that he shuddered to think about. The woman who had filled the car with her domineering personality now seemed to shrink. She shivered a bit as her host hung her coat.

"Are you cold?"

"I'll be fine," she said as goose bumps crept up both of her arms.

"Here," Mycroft pulled an old cardigan from his days at Cambridge from the closet and handed it to her. She nodded her thanks and slipped it on. Mycroft walked down a dark hallway, hearing her heels click on the wooden floor behind him. When he flipped the switch on the wall, bright white light flooded the room. The kitchen was immaculate. The granite countertops were polished to a reflective sheen. Mycroft opened a cabinet and took down a kettle.

"You've never told me your name," he said as he filled it with water.

"Lana."

"Lana… please sit down," Mycroft said, shutting off the water and putting the kettle on the stove. She settled into one of the bar stools across from the range.

"Am I being charged for this time?" Mycroft asked.

"Yes, you'll owe me exactly one cup of tea with sugar," she said with a smile.

"Very well," he said quietly, getting cups, saucers, spoons and the sugar bowl from their respective places and arranging them neatly on the countertop. Lana fiddled with the edge of the sweater she was wearing. When she spoke, she chose her words carefully.

"What I said in the car… it may be time for me to elaborate. I do a variety of jobs. Some men think that sex workers only perform sexual favors but we offer so much more. Sure, there are girls who only do tricks. There is a good business there, a lot of men like having a woman whose only function is as a sex object but that's not what I do. I can, but more often than not, my clients want someone to talk to, someone to listen, someone to comfort them or just be there. Emotional comfort is just as important as physical and I am more than experienced enough to provide both," the kettle whistled and Mycroft carefully prepared the tea while she continued to speak, "You're very different, Mr. Holmes. You're not quite like anyone I've been picked up by before, possibly because you didn't mean to pick me up. I suspect you're one of those few people in this world that is truly unique," she ended her short speech with a gentle 'thank you' as he placed a cup of tea in front of her and sat on a barstool himself.

"Do you live here alone?" she asked.

"Yes."

"I thought so. Always? Or at least for a long time?"

"Yes."

"It's definitely got that old bachelor look," she said, looking around the kitchen.

"What do you mean by that?"

"It's masculine, obviously decorated by a man. But you've got your certain places that everything goes. There's nothing new or temporary. Your life is very routine and very settled."

Mycroft sipped his tea but said nothing.

"Listen, I enjoy a cup of tea and the ride out of the rain, but I need to know if you're going to hire me for the night or not. I've got bills to pay and I can't afford to take the night off."

Mycroft continued to look at the countertop, his shoulders slumped slightly. He suddenly straightened his back and said to her curtly, "You should go when you finish your tea. There's no service you could provide for me."

"Alright," she said quietly and they sat for several minutes in silence. Their cups clinking against the saucers as they raised and lowered them were the only sounds to be heard. Lana finished her tea and stood, walking to around the counter to the sink.

"I can get that, just leave it," Mycroft said, standing and draining his own cup.

"No, no, it's the least I can do to wash it out," she said as she turned on the sink. Mycroft walked around with his own teacup in hand and stood by her. When she looked up, she found him staring down at her with a strange look in his eyes, "Do you want me to wash yours too, Mr. Holmes?"

Mycroft tossed his teacup into the sink, breaking it and kissed her hard. He wrapped his long arms around her waist as she threw her own around his neck, trying to pull herself up to his height. He lifted her onto the counter and she could feel the bulge in the front of his pants as his hands explored her body over the silky fabric of her skin tight dress.

She slipped out of his Cambridge sweater before pulling away and saying quickly, "Kissing on the mouth costs double."

In reply, he kissed her again and began to unzip the zipper that ran up the back of her dress. She folded down the bodice to reveal her bare breasts and his hands moved to caress them, lightly playing with her nipples. She let out a moan that it crossed Mycroft's mind might be a part of her performance as the aroused woman but in a second deduction, he found that he didn't bloody well care. Kissing down her neck, he slid his hands down to her ass as he took one of her nipples into his mouth and began to suck it. She ran her hands through his hair, disheveling it as she heard him utter a small moan. He had sunk to his knees now and kissed the inside of her thigh before he bit the top of her stockings and slowly pulled the left one off with his teeth. He ran his hand up and down her shapely leg and rubbed his cheek against her thigh before sliding his hands under her dress to her wide hips. She unzipped her dress the rest of the way and it joined her stilettos on the kitchen floor. Wearing only her right stocking and a pair of black lace panties that unclipped on either side, Mycroft embraced her with a passion that surprised even him. He lifted her off the counter and she wrapped her legs around him for support. Her hand found his pant's button and deftly undid it. He pressed her against the wall and his pants slipped down to reveal his throbbing manhood straining against the thin fabric of his underwear. She unfastened the sides of her underwear and the black lace fell to the floor. Mycroft looked at her and she saw confusion in his dark green eyes and a touch of… fear? Anxiety? She pulled out his cock and rubbed her wet self against it, making the indecision vanish as every muscle in his body suddenly tightened. He let out a surprised noise before slowly sliding inside of her. He held her to the wall with his hands on her ass, her legs wrapped firmly around his waist and her arms around his neck. He thrust again, harder and this time it was Lana who let out a surprised yelp of pleasure. Her eyes closed as he began to move faster, her back thumping against the wall. Sweat broke out onto Mycroft's forehead and his shirt was becoming damp. He suddenly pulled out of her and his face fell into a look between disappointment and sadness.

"What is it?" Lana asked, concerned.

He slowly lowered her to the ground and she unwrapped her legs, standing for herself on the kitchen floor.

"I… um—I…" Mycroft was turning red.

"Oh! That's fine, why do you look so sad about it?" Lana said, realizing what he meant and carefully moving away from the possibly sperm covered kitchen wall.

Mycroft put himself back into his underwear and sat down heavily one of his kitchen barstools, "It's always been… a bit disappointing for me, I guess."

"What do you mean?" Lana asked, slipping on his Cambridge sweater to cover herself, though it still revealed a low V from her collarbone to her navel.

"It's just… there's so much pleasure and then it's just over. I know that's what the whole act is meant to be aimed at, the climax, but it never really seemed like the height of the excitement, more like the signal that something truly great was ending. I don't like endings," he said, picking up a tea towel and mop his forehead with it, "How much do I owe you?"

"700£," Lana replied.

"I might have that much cash on me, I'll need to go up and check. You stay here," Mycroft got up unsteadily and gave a motion for her to remain before taking a few steps down the hallway.

"How much for the night?" he asked.

Lana licked her lips and looked down before replying, "2500£"

"Does that include breakfast?" Mycroft asked, walking back to the doorway of the kitchen and leaning against the wall with a small smile on his face.

"Only an early one," she replied, walking to meet him, her fingers playing at the edges of the sweater that concealed her body from him.

"You have a deal," he said. Mycroft took a last step forward and suddenly scooped her up.

Lana laughed, "Be careful to not throw your back out, old man."

"We'll see who throws whose back out tonight," he joked back, carrying her down the hallway and up the stairs.