WARNING : Sex, harsh swearing, detailed drug abuse, bodily horror, adult themes, upsetting scenes and disturbing material. Please use your common sense. Do not read this story if you are under 18. Do not read this if you think it will trigger you in any way.
I own nothing but an action figure of Jack Harkness, suspiciously distressed in the paintwork.
*No-one's reputation was harmed during the making of this fic.
PULSE OF MY HEART
The undisclosed story of Sherlock and Janine.
Chuisle mo chroí- ('kʊʃlə mə'kri) : n. Literally 'pulse of my heart'.
An Irish gaelic term of endearment, often shortened to A'kushla.
PRÉLUDE I
Friday 2nd November 2012
Charles Magnussen left the Imperial Club at eight and emerged into the crisp, cluttered night of Whitehall, where his driver stood holding the door of the Mercedes.
People flocked the street like drones, attracted by the jaundiced glow of the sodium lamps. Aromas of leather, burning beech-wood and single malt still clung to his suit, but it was the lingering taste of Clair de la Lune he savoured the most. He filed the sensation away for future reference. It was no longer the bitter tang of an expensive perfume; it was now the taste of victory, of total political domination.
He would have her eating out of his hand.
He laughed to himself as he slid into the back seat and rearranged his jacket; a short, sharp, humourless sound. Elizabeth, he mouthed, enjoying the way his mouth caressed the consonants, salivating at the thought of violating her. It had been a long time since she'd turned down his romantic advances; they had been at Oxford together, although in different years, but he'd never forgotten the haughty way she'd rejected him, the sting of the slap. He was unused to being denied, even then, but he knew he'd conquer her when the time was ripe, when it was to his advantage. He always knew that one day he would own her.
My, but she was beautiful back then, the kind of fine bone-structure and English rose hide that was reserved for the very finest upper-class livestock. Age and stress had done little to detract from her poise and grace. In fact, it had improved her. She was like a fine whiskey; complex, with a brittle strength that he knew he would enjoy shattering. The strong ones, or those who thought they were strong, were the most fun. What point was there in breaking someone who was quick to grovel? There was no sport in it.
"Where to, Mr Magnussen?" Michael's bright voice broke through his reverie.
"Wait a minute," he said in a low purr, "I want to see where she goes."
"Very well, sir."
They waited, watching through smoked glass, as Lady Elizabeth Smallwood quit the club and her car pulled away.
"Stay at least three cars behind." Magnussen leaned on the arm rest, dialling his mobile with his free hand.
Twenty-five minutes later, Lady Smallwood's car stopped outside an inconspicuous Georgian town-house in Marylebone. Magnussen instructed Michael to pass slowly enough for him to check the number on the door.
"Where are we, Michael?"
The driver checked his sat-nav. "Baker Street, I believe."
"Interesting."
"Indeed, sir."
Monday 5th November 2012
"Janine," a voice floated through the intercom, "would you be so kind as to bring in the coffee for our guest?"
She leaned over her desk the wrong way and depressed a button on the phone. "No problem."
As she righted herself Kayleigh came into the reception, a stack of white envelopes tucked under her arm. Janine caught her eye.
"Uh-uh," the younger woman shook her head, "he wants you."
"Oh, come on. It's your turn. I'm up to my neck."
"Last time he stroked my hair when I put the tray down on the table. He wouldn't dare do that to you."
"He's got someone with him, that private investigator, what's-his-physog."
"Then you won't mind going in there and checking him out, will you." Kayleigh stood her ground.
"He did look rather yummy on the way through. How much do private investigators earn?"
"See what I mean. You're incorrigible."
"Just this once. Otherwise you'll forget who's in charge around here."
Janine made the coffee to Magnussen's exact specifications—she never could trust anyone else to do it properly anyway—put some of those pastries from Paul on a plate and checked her hair and make-up before she went in.
Even after all this time Magnussen was still buzzing her for coffee like she was an eager to please intern. As his wealth and notoriety had increased it had only gotten harder. People didn't realise that behind every great CEO there was a PA busting their ass. They thought a personal assistant was just a glorified receptionist; they didn't know how demanding it was being a professional organiser, involved in every little aspect of someone else's life and having nothing left for yourself. It was like being the manager of a stroppy rock star. But she would have her day; all this would pay off eventually.
She pushed the door to Magnussen's airy, modern office with her behind, so as not to spill anything.
On closer inspection, the PI was rather dishy, with messy, dark blonde hair and a couple of day's-worth of stubble. It was important, the chin; you didn't want anything too masculine and chiselled, but you didn't want anything too squishy and receding either. As it happened, this one was just right; it was a kind face, rather than a classically handsome face which, she reasoned, probably helped him blend into a crowd. A well-fingered cord around his neck looked like it had once held a pendant of some sort, but he hadn't bothered to remove it after the pendant's demise.
She put the tray down on the glass coffee table and issued the PI with a devastating smile. She might have flashed him a little bit of cleavage too. He smiled back and tugged unconsciously at the knees of his jeans to make his sitting position more comfortable.
"Janine, have you met Mr North?" said Magnussen.
"Alexander," he extended a hand, beginning to rise. He must have been six foot-three.
"Please, don't get up," she said.
"But my, uh, friends call me Sandy."
"Are we?" she said too quickly, looking at Magnussen, "friends, I mean."
A subtle exchange passed between the three people; her own flirting, asserting her sexual power and availability; Magnussen's quiet management of the dynamic, the brewing storm; and Sandy's affable, approachable persona, all part of the facade he wanted to project. She wasn't naïve; she knew this was a game. It was always a game.
"Look at that. You've put three cups by mistake," Magnussen called her bluff, "sit down, you must join us for coffee."
"I'm kinda snowed under right now."
"I insist." His expression was hollow, serpentine.
"Well, I suppose the budget can wait." Her smile was as false as his own.
"Shall I pour?" Magnussen reached out to plunge the cafetiere.
Weird.
"Sure." Janine didn't know what else to say. She was forced to take the seat next to Magnussen because Sandy was spreading himself out, and it would've been impossible to take up residence on that sofa without either moving him or getting a bit too close. She liked the way he sat with his legs apart, and here she could watch him without being too obvious.
Magnussen poured coffee into the cup nearest to Janine, but instead of letting her have it, he pulled it toward himself along the length of the table and made a show of stirring it and adding sugar and cream. Then he sat back with the cup and saucer and looked amused.
Janine realised what he was doing. She pressed her lips tightly together. Sandy caught her eye almost imperceptibly, confused by Magnussen's behaviour.
It was the warning sign that things were only going to get more uncomfortable. She had seen enough of these pantomimes to know he was just playing his own pathetic game that no one else understood, but Magnussen apparently believed it set the visitor on the back foot and gave him an advantage. They would talk business for half an hour or so and then Magnussen would pull some complete non-sequitur out of the hat.
She poured out the coffee for Sandy and herself. "Has Charles showed you his collection of antique handcuffs, thumb cuffs and nippers?" Her eyes darted toward a glass display case on the other side of the room. A weak autumn sun streamed in through the high glass walls.
"Not yet," Sandy smiled, "God knows, I'm familiar with handcuffs, but what's a nipper and a thumb cuff?"
Janine didn't even look up from the coffee tray as she explained, stirring sugar cubes into her drink like it was the most natural and mundane thing in the world. "A nipper is a handcuff for one hand, kinda like a pincer, but it has a handle for keeping the cuffed person under control. I would've thought a thumb cuff is pretty self-explanatory. It locks your thumbs together. It has the advantage of being the most painful and inconvenient way of securing a prisoner."
Magnussen beamed proudly. "That's my girl."
"I hope you haven't got one of those things that cuts your thumbs off," Sandy chuckled.
Magnussen looked at him, utterly serious. "Oh, yes I do have one of those. Not here, but at my house."
"Right," said Sandy, rather dubiously, then added, "have you ever tested it on anyone?"
"I snapped it onto Janine once, when she was typing, but she wasn't amused."
Then 'it' happened. It had been brewing since the conversation began and Magnussen's actions were so licentious, so unbelievably vulgar, that it would be considered obscene to the outside world. But they weren't in the outside world; they were in Magnussen's kingdom. He reached out and placed his icky, moist hand on Janine's knee.
Her heart thudded in shame, but she managed to keep her reaction under control. She could see confusion and indignation flicker across Sandy's face. She shifted and uncrossed her legs to try and shake him off. But there it stayed; his sweaty paw creeping even further up her thigh.
This was unusually shitty, even for him. He would normally keep his creepy tendencies under control when real people were around, but there must be something different about Sandy. Maybe Magnussen sensed the attraction between them and wanted to assert his control over her, claiming her for himself.
"Don't be alarmed; I would never hurt her. She is rather special, my Janine," Magnussen explained in his slow monotone, "she's my right hand. Without her I could do nothing. In fact, I often wonder how I managed before I found her. What would I do without her sparkling wit and her…" he breathed her in and his eyes danced over her as one might appraise a paramour, "extraordinary efficiency?"
Janine pretended to be pleased. The skin of her thigh still burned with the unwelcome pressure of his touch and her stomach threatened to rebel and bring up her breakfast.
Sandy was clearly unsettled.
"Let us get down to business, then," said Magnussen, patting her thigh, then removing his hand like nothing had been out of the ordinary.
Janine smoothed out her hem, very carefully controlling her breathing so as not to give away the relief that replaced the sensation of his groping.
Sandy recovered, blinking away his shock and picked up a dossier from the coffee table.
"What," Janine faltered, picking up her cup and saucer, and it rattled conspicuously in her trembling hand, "exactly do you need me for?"
"You're going to be the uh, shill." Sandy obviously had no idea that this was all news to her.
"The what?"
"The shill," said Sandy, "the stooge, the plant - "
"Show her the photographs," said Magnussen.
Sandy opened the Manila folder and pulled out an A4 photograph of a woman with long blonde hair, about forty, minimal make-up, attractive in a boring, suburban kind of way. The picture had been taken outside a primary school gate at home time and the woman's hands were tucked into her Aran knitwear. Under the cardigan were blue medical scrubs. She was turned slightly toward the camera but clearly didn't know she was being snapped. Janine was grateful to have something else to focus on, other than what had just happened.
"Her name is Naomi Harrington," said Sandy.
"And what has this got to do with me?" Janine glared at her boss, still slightly shaken.
"She's stolen something from me. Something I value highly, something quite, quite priceless. You are going to get close to her and help me get it back." Magnussen's eyes bored through her, emotionless.
He'd gone too far this time. She would have to be careful not to show any vulnerability right now, show anything that could be exploited. Magnussen would expect her full cooperation, as if he owned her, and she would just have to do whatever he said. The threat of what he'd do if she didn't play along was always implicit.
"What did she steal?" she asked, but Magnussen just sat back in his seat and sipped the coffee from the dainty cup, ignoring her until she acquiesced to his demands. Eventually she said, "why don't you go to the police?"
"I'd rather not involve the authorities. It's rather… sensitive. I fear that if you knew what the item was, or even its value, it would bias you and it would become obvious to her what you're trying to do. Supposing you are unable to make this work, it would be better for you if you never knew what it was, but you will know what it is when you see it."
"How am I going to get this thing back if I don't even know what it is?"
"Mr North knows what it is, but his attempts at retrieval have been so far unsuccessful. She is devoted to her partner and has rejected Mr North's attempts to get into her life. Unfortunately she now knows his face and is suspicious. For the time being, you are just going to try to be friends with her. Now, that's not so difficult, is it?"
"You just want me to make friends? That's all?" Maybe she could do this just to get Magnussen off her back.
Sandy put the photographs back in the folder. "She's booked into a cookery class at Atsuko's in Shoreditch on the tenth of October. I'll get you on the roster for that evening and you can make your approach. We'll meet before hand so I can teach you a few tricks to help you infiltrate, make sure you know how to defend yourself, if things go tits up."
"I know how to defend myself."
"I'm sure you do."
Magnussen picked up a pointed knife and began to saw one of the pastries in half. "We have the most wonderful pastries in Denmark, Mr North. They are loaded with kvark, and when you cut into them, you can see it running all the way through like the rings on a tree. When I was a child I used to wonder how they got it all in there. Until I learned that it is folded in from the beginning and the baker always has complete control over how the product will turn out."
Janine automatically fished an antibacterial wipe out of the packet.
Cream cheese began to ooze out of the cut side of the pastry. Magnussen took the wipe. "Janine, can you think of something else that shows its true nature when you cut into it?"
"If that's all, I have a lot to be getting on with." She rose from her seat and tugged down her skirt. She just had to keep it together for a few more seconds."It was lovely to meet you, Mr North - "
"Sandy."
"Sandy. Oh, and Charles, don't forget you have a meeting with the deputy editor of LWT at one and we're flying out to Dubai at four fifteen."
"That reminds me. I would like you to buy a new dress when we arrive. At my expense, of course. The sheik is rather fond of purple. I hope you will keep that in mind."
"Yes, of course." She picked up the coffee tray. "I'll speak to you later, when I've finished the budget."
"And please be sure to keep me updated on how your new girl is getting on."
Janine dumped the tray down near the sink. The coffee paraphernalia jumped but did not break. She leaned on the counter.
"What's the matter?" Kayleigh shuffled closer, as one would approach a dangerous animal.
"Charles just completely and utterly humiliated me in front of that guy."
"You're shaking."
Janine looked at her bare arms. She was shaking, more with anger than anything else. "If he ever touches you again, you come and tell me, do you understand?"
"What are you going to do?"
"Cut his bollocks off."