Sherlock
Note to self: simply because one certain officer of the law may, on one occasion, neglect the old stalwart 'junkie scum', one must never believe in anything other than the absolute stupidity and indeed cruelty of the profession as a whole. Rather than just bail me and respect my right as a human being to avoid like the fires of hell anyone I should so choose to avoid, they deliver me, swiftly and directly, into the hands of my brother.
Still, I suppose Mycroft can be rather amusing...
For instance – he takes up a position at a certain very calculated distance from me. Far enough to give the full impression of his height and 'strong' stance, not so far away as to offer a viable chance of escape. Tips his head back to literally look down his nose at me. Usual sneer. He does this every time, and every time gives it the same welly as before. Someday this will work. Someday I will see this and quail, fall to my knees as the scales fall from my eyes and the light floods in and I see he was right, he was right, all along, Mycroft was right, and spend the rest of my life dead in an office at Vauxhall Cross.
And he wonders where my little habit comes from...
The light flooded in years ago, brother dear. Now if somebody would kindly point me towards the switch, maybe we could start to make some kind of progress.
Here's an idea; I could be sick all over his Italian leather shoes. That could work. That would be turning something which is very probably going to happen anyway into a point that I would very much like to make.
"In fairness," I say as an opener, "I solved a crime while I was here."
"You think this is funny."
"The crime was, a little bit. It's a heist and-"
"Sherlock."
Second note to self: get better at talking in front of brother. Sickening how often this happens (no, not sickening, don't think the word 'sickening' or any other variation on sick, maintain dignity in presence of brother). Can say whatever I want to any other being in the world, but not to him.
"Mother," he says, "is very upset."
"No she's not." A familiar turn of his head, a twitch of a nostril; he's lying, choosing his words to hurt, "You haven't told her anything."
"We need to get this sorted. We can't go on like this."
"You mean you can't. I live a life that works for me-"
"-But not for-"
"And nobody asked you to be a part of it, Mycroft. By the way, what's this I hear about my surveillance having been scaled up?"
"Well, you've made yourself rather difficult to keep track of."
"A less determined man than yourself might have taken a hint from that."
If I can get him to walk, all poker-arsed, eyes-forward, then I can slip away behind him, but he seems completely set on doing all this in the hall. There's a car outside waiting for us, but that's not something that's going to happen, I'm afraid. If I can get him to turn around and walk this can end with minimal drama and damage for all parties.
Look him over. Pale, miasmic mark on the cuff of his jacket. Patch of white collar beginning to look worn where he's scrubbed out a stain in a hurry. Hair brushed back, but with three distinct lines in the usual perfection; done with fingers, not brush. Traces of scent. Hard to distinguish with all the cheap police aftershave and the all the prostitutes they seem to lead around this place like some much set-dressing from a seventies cop drama, but a touch of something light and expensive and rich with jasmine. Women's. Something beneath that. Thick, muddy scent.
Conclusion: "Still interviewing for new PAs, Mycroft?" Whether it's true or not, that's just not something he can even descend to comment on in the hallway. He turns. Wish he'd done that before; all the detail and guessing is rendered completely unnecessary by the long brown hair clinging to his back. "Brunette. About five-six, but the heels give her a boost. By the way, that's Corazon, if you're trying to buy her perfume. Smoky, though, confined space and with a touch of... leather cleaner? Oh, not the car, Mycroft. Not the car, some poor driver has to mop that up before he can take it back to the garage... She's still in the car, isn't she? Oh yes, let's go to the car, Mycroft, I should meet her. See if she's good enough for my big brother."
That's it. A quieter corridor and the decorum snaps. Well, as far as it ever does. He starts talking, fast and sharp, without ever looking at me, and at the next divergence of the halls I am gone as though I was never there. Down and left and round the corner, fire exit, three flights of stairs and the backstreet below.
Solved.
Now to solve the sickness, and to somehow delete from my mind the horrifying image of my brother's Lexus casting couch before it burns itself in forever. Now to solve, for however short a while, the horror that turns one long brown hair into that, and is correct.
Jim
She's an art thief and art makes her dizzy. She passed out at the Louvre.
"Please stop laughing at me now."
"No, no, on the contrary, I respect your devotion to your chosen profession in such... adverse circumst-"and I can't even finish that. I can just barely hold myself up against the sinks. There's no point in explaining to her that even if she wasn't quite so ridiculous in herself, I would still have to be laughing my bollocks off, because of how this night began. 'Oh, Sod and Murphy, you great twin totem bastards of my existence, you might hold me in this world only by proving to me there's yet something to hang about for.'
And bang, like a star falling to earth, the thief who almost ran screaming from the very steps of the Uffizi.
Fuck it. Put the cyanide pills off til the morning, at least.
Oh, God, my chest is starting to hurt. Like the bone down the middle is splitting in two. There's not even any sound anymore. It's more like hysteria than anything else. She'd notice that if she wasn't so offended. If I wasn't so fucking relieved to still be here and still have reason to be here, I'd notice her flapping the muslin back over the Gilè's, picking up that simple smuggling device at one end and stepping back. I'd notice her stepping up behind me.
If I wasn't so paralysed with hysteria, I'd have a better chance of fighting her off when one hand comes crashing down on the back of my head, forcing me down into the sink. The hand with the paintings in it doubles up to yank my coat off from the collar down. She knows what she's doing when her fingertips slide along my neck. I don't need to tell her. I can't anyway because the edge of the sink is right in my throat and I wasn't doing much breathing beforehand.
She knows, I can tell that she knows, what she's doing when her breath lingers behind my ear, and when she throws my coat on the floor.
The worse I feel the less I fight. Anyway, all round the edges of my eyes things are starting to go red. There's not much struggle left when she squares herself, feet either side of my mine, legs pressing in from outside, the heat of her vile, vicious fucking skin from through sheer tights. She lays her weight across my back, as much contact as physically possible.
Me, hair-close to unconscious, what can I do?
She lays her head on the back of my neck, holding me down to free her hand. Her hair falls over her shoulder and fills the sink by my face.
That hand crawls down my back and starts to gather my shirt up out of my waistband.
The last half breath, "Christ, I'm sorry. For fuck's sake, I'm sorry."
One more moment she presses the heat of her body into me, unprotected now. Then swiftly straightens, fastening the muslin wrap around my middle and fishes me up out of the sink. The second she lets go of me my knees give and leave me on the floor. While I gasp like something fresh caught, "That's what Guido Reni did to me last night, alright?" Holding my throat, not saying anything, I nod. "Haven't you got a drop to go to?" I nod. "Cheers for the fucking drinks." She's a pair of sharp-heeled shoes leaving me here, done, spent, breathless, wondering what the hell just happened and not sure if I even want to know.