Naked

"Going home early today, sir?" Anthea asked as she watched Mycroft gather his things and shut his laptop.

"Yes, I have an appointment to make," he replied, hoping that she wouldn't press the issue. It was a timed appointment, and he needed to make sure that he didn't waste a minute. With a nod, she set the files in her arms down on his desk.

"You can look at these when you come in tomorrow, then."

"Certainly. I'll be off; have a good evening." He walked toward the door, his umbrella in hand.

"Sir," Anthea called to his back. "You know…if you ever need someone to talk to, I'm here to listen." He turned to look at his assistant over his shoulder and briefly smiled, hoping it looked at least somewhat genuine.

"I'm fine, thank you." And with those final words, he took his leave. It had been three weeks since Sherlock's fall from the roof of St. Barts. Though the media was finally starting to back off with the post death headlines and theories as to what happened to the great detective, Mycroft was in a state of what most people would probably assume was limbo. His little brother was finally undercover and on the road to disabling Moriarty's network one piece at a time. As much as he tried to keep his perspective in check, Mycroft couldn't help the feelings of worry that quietly gnawed away at the back of his conscious. Different people had come to him and told him that he could always talk to them if he needed them– Anthea, Molly, even his own parents had offered their ears for his benefit.

But none of those ears would do. He needed a set that would be able to do what seemed to be impossible: forget everything that he would say. Leaving the building, he climbed into the car that was waiting for him by the curb and ordered the driver to take him into the heart of London…

The knock on the door was strong and sure. Fluffing up her chocolate brown curls one last time, she opened the door to see her next client standing on the 'welcome' mat, a look of utter calm and serenity on his face. The man held himself tall, the shadows of the semi-dark hall draping across the hollow spaces of his thin face to highlight his long nose and the curves of his cheeks and jawline. She lightly gripped the door frame as the most beautiful blue eyes she had ever seen on a man swept her up and down. She hadn't had a client inspire that much of a reaction within her in a long time.

"Mycroft?" She asked with a smile.

"Yes," Mycroft answered simply with a nod, his face blank.

"I'm Belle. Would you like to come in?" He walked into the flat and Belle shut the door with a soft snap. "Can I take your umbrella?" Make the client feel as comfortable as possible, Belle recalled in her mind as she set Mycroft's umbrella down by the coat rack. He looked around the simple flat and immediately, the deductions came:

Addicted to sweets, history of abuse, started three –no, four- fires in the bedroom due to candles-

"So, Mycroft," Belle's sultry voice pulled him from his thoughts and he looked to the couch where she was sitting, purposefully leaning to show him the absolute (boring) wonder of her cleavage. "Do you want to come and sit down next to me?" She gently pat the cushion of the couch. "You look as though you've been on your feet all day." He fought the urge to roll his eyes at the lack of observation. Goldfish.

"No, thank you," he replied coolly as he turned to look around the room some more. Belle sighed. Playing hard to get, are we?

"You seem uncomfortable," she offered, trying to get him to look at her, at least. In that moment, the entire room seemed more interesting to him than the fact that a willing woman was sitting on the couch. Though she was used to some hesitancy, this was...different. What kind of man was this?

"I have to say, this is new for me. I've never invested the company of…your kind," he finished, finally turning around to look at her. She didn't seem the slightest bit offended by his statement and leaned back in her seat to cross her long, lean legs.

"I get that a lot," she said. "It doesn't have to be uncomfortable; your first time, I mean. You never know, you might like it."

"Hmm, yes," he murmured, putting his attention back on the bookshelf to scan along the spines of the books. Barely read; just here for show. Probably to stimulate the intellects that come through-

"I usually take payment before anything happens." Mycroft picked up a bit of unsure annoyance in her voice.

"Oh, yes, of course." He walked to the couch and pulled an envelope out of his jacket pocket, which she took and promptly opened to make sure the payment was there in full.

"Thanks, I appreciate it," she said softly, setting the envelope on the table. "Now," she got to her feet and slowly made her way toward Mycroft, her hips swinging ever so slightly. His eyes had yet to leave her face to travel down the length of her body. Maybe he just needs some encouragement. "Shall we go into the bedroom?" She untied the knot of her robe and moved to take it off, but…

"I didn't come here to have sex with you." His sudden announcement made her stop and blink.

"What?"

"I didn't come here to have sex with you," he repeated slowly as if he was talking to a small child. She stared at him and tried to think of something to say; but what was there to say? A client was standing in her flat, had paid her the fee in full and refused the sex.

Well, that was new.

"Then…what are you doing here?" she asked after a few seconds of uncomfortable silence.

"I'm here to buy your time. Isn't that what you offer?"

"It's more than just my time, it's my body too. You paid the whole fee." Mycroft stared at her.

"But I'm allowed to do with you what I please, am I not? According to your advertisement, you do 'everything'."

" 'Everything' is referring to sex," Belle replied dumbly, shaking her head at the sheer stupidity of the conversation they were having.

"Well, then, you should be clearer in your intentions." A slight smile twitched at his lip at her dumbfounded expression. "At any rate, I need your services in what you would probably say is an untraditional way. As I understand it, your entire profession is built on the ability to see a client as nothing but a means to support yourself." Mycroft walked past her to take a seat in the armchair by the couch. "They are a trade, a product that puts a roof over your head and food on the table. Nothing more, nothing less. In other words, I'm useful to you for finances, and you're useful to me because you don't see me as an individual, but just another client.."

"Are you serious right now?" Belle asked in disbelief. "I don't know who the hell you think you are, but you know nothing about what I do for a living. I give men pleasure." To her utter shock, Mycroft scoffed. "Look, I don't have to take this from you. You may be a paying client, but I would be more than happy to give you your money back and see to your leaving."

"No, you wouldn't. You're in dire need of money. Your mother was just admitted to a care home, and you need to start paying back the debt of housing her." Belle felt her stomach clench, and she pursed her lips together.

"How did you know-"

"It doesn't matter," Mycroft interrupted coldly. "I paid for your services. I'm the client, so you do what I want you to do."

"And what," Belle asked, trying to keep the bite out of her voice. "Would that be?"

"I want to talk." A pause.

"Talk," she repeated.

"Yes." Mycroft listened as her feet slightly shuffled, her uncertainty painfully obvious. "Oh, and I should mention, you will keep your clothes on. I find talking to a body properly dressed is easier than talking to one that's naked."

"So do most people," she replied sarcastically. This bloke's mad, she thought to herself. But...at the same time, he was right. He was the client; he was ultimately in control of what happened between them. And she had a feeling that's exactly how he wanted it. Biting her lip, she sighed.

"All right," she muttered, walking to the couch to take a seat. "What do you want to talk about? Your impotence?" Mycroft chuckled lowly at her jab and put his hands in a prayer position in front of his mouth.

"No. I want to talk about my brother's suicide." The air in the room stilled and Belle softly cleared her throat at the intense turn of the conversation.

"Your brother committed suicide?"

"In theory," Mycroft answered. "Actually, it was a planned operation. He needed to go undercover to dismantle one of the world's most dangerous criminal networks."

"So he had to….fake his death? As in…he's actually alive right now?" My God, what in the hell did I get myself into here?

"Precisely," he replied. She swallowed.

"I'm guessing that you have something to do with that."

"I helped him plan the whole thing," Mycroft confirmed. "And I'm just coming to realize how deeply his supposed death is affecting those that he associated with. Take John Watson, for example-"

"Who's that?" Belle pursed her lips at his scowl.

"I talk, you listen," he reminded her coldly.

"Sorry," she muttered, looking down to pick at a stray thread on her robe. As quickly as he got angry, he went back to his thoughtful countenance.

"John Watson is my brother's closest friend. He was there when he jumped ." He paused. "I don't believe that I've ever seen a man so broken as John in the days following Sherlock's fall. I almost wonder…if that whole scenario had in fact, been real, and Sherlock had really died…who would be the more broken one of the two of us?" She felt his eyes on the top of her head and she looked up to see that he was waiting for her to reply.

"I…I assume you would be more heartbroken than this John person." She wasn't even sure if that was the right answer, but he seemed content enough with her response and went back to staring ahead.

"A right assumption, but…flawed," he continued after a few seconds. "You know, emotions have always been a mystery to me. Love, joy, pain, suffering, sadness- it's all just so elementary in design, yet in practice…it's complex. My brother is the only person in this world that I care deeply for…almost to the point that you could consider him a weakness of mine." Belle swallowed and shuffled in her seat, not exactly sure how to respond to the deep, yet vague revelation that her client was experiencing. I've certainly never been taught how to deal with these types of situation, she thought to herself warily.

"At any rate, he's up against one of the most dangerous enemies that he has ever dealt with." His voice brought her attention. "And I…I can't protect him. I can only sit back and hope that he isn't going to get himself killed in the end. His loss…it would break my heart." The silence that followed his speech was so tense that Belle could barely stand it. With a huff, she sat up straighter.

"Why are you telling me all of this? Wouldn't it be easier to tell a therapist or someone more…qualified than me?" Mycroft's eyes slid to her. "Surely you have family or friends to talk to?" The chuckle was so low in his throat, Belle basically had to stop breathing to hear him.

"Friends…I don't have friends." The word came out in a venomous spit. "And my family…" He shivered. "No, I don't need anyone to talk to...but sometimes, it's nice to know that someone is listening. And unlike a therapist, I've paid you to forget this conversation." They stared at each other, Belle trying to wrap her head around what was happening. In all of her experience, she had never had a client like Mycroft. Of course, she had clients that wanted to talk after the deed happened, and she had some that needed to be encouraged, so that they would be brave enough to go through with the appointment in the first place, but never…never was there a client that just wanted to talk.

But she could tell he needed to express himself to someone. And she was never one to turn down a client's request.

"Tell me more about your brother," she said softly, sitting back to get comfortable. For the remaining forty-five minutes, Mycroft talked about Sherlock and their lives as brothers. She laughed at stories from their childhood, felt herself tearing up as he relayed the tale of getting Sherlock help for his drug addiction and smiled at the tone of annoyance and affection in his voice in talking about his baby brother's antics in trying to get under his skin.

Despite what he believed about himself, Belle could see that, in the end, Mycroft would do anything for Sherlock.

"I believe my time is up." Mycroft's observation made Belle automatically look at the clock. Indeed, his hour was up. A part of her was actually a little disappointed; she couldn't remember a time before then where she had truly enjoyed the company of a client. They got up from their seats, walked to the door, and Belle quietly handed him his umbrella.

"Well, at least I didn't have to get naked this time around," she said with a shy smile that quickly disappeared at Mycroft's scowl.

"Yes, congratulations on that. I'm sure it felt strange to be clothed for an hour straight in the presence of a client." There was no mistaking the condescending tone of his voice. She slightly blushed in embarrassment and opened the door, looking down to the floor.

"Thank you for your time, Mr. Mycroft." He slowly walked past her.

"Remember," he said with a look over his shoulder. "You've been paid to forget this conversation." She looked up to meet his eyes and felt herself recoil at his stare. "So forget it." The authority in his voice made her stiffen and she nodded obediently, shutting the door as soon as she felt she could move. With a sigh, she went to the desk in the corner of the sitting room and set to work with writing a new advertisement to put into circulation. There was no way she was going to get back into a situation like that; she was a call girl, not a therapist, for crying out loud.

You've been paid to forget this conversation…

And so I will, she thought to herself. She never turned down a client's request. But forgetting Mycroft Holmes? That part was going to take some time…