Chapter 4

Next morning, at nine sharp, she was standing in their flat doorway. They had heard nothing. No ringing doorbell, no clicking sound of the lock nor creaking steps. She just stood there, her long hair neatly braided (which Sherlock instatly noticed and about which he felt vaguely unsatisfied), her black coat, now cleaned of blood, wrapped around her like a cloak, with her left arm in the sling, a black eye and pale, almost gray, face.

"Forgot the painkillers," she said and grinned, tiredly.

"Jesus..." John murmured and jumped to his feet. "I remembered when I had already gone to bed. I was worried to death!"

She smiled, briefly.

"No need. But I wouldn't object some now."

"Don't you dare!" John huffed and hurried away.

They looked at each other, the dark detective and the blond girl. Somehow they needed no words. Greeting was unnecessary, a ridiculous thought, even - like you'd say 'hello' to your mirror image.

"Brought back your scarf. Thanks for lending."

She took a blue bundle from inside her coat and threw it to Sherlock. He caught it on the fly. It was an exact copy of the one ruined, last night

"Where did you get this?" Sherlock asked calmly.

"From the shop?"

"It's not open until 9.30 a.m."

"Yeah, but it is there anyhow."

They gave each other a slow, quirky smile. Sherlock felt something warm spilling into his chest.

John came back, a hypo in his hand. He glanced at both and frowned at their smiles.

"I've missed something, haven't I?"

"Yes, Doctor Watson, you've missed me," Angel said and blew him a kiss.

John gave a laugh.

"Yes, you stubborn person, I really have. And now, stop running around like a headless chicken and lie down, or I'll nail you to the sofa with this bloody syringe!"

She laughed and let her coat slide to the floor. She headed for the sofa and sat down. John rolled her right sleeve up, cleaned the skin and injected the hypo, carefully, into the vein.

"There," John said, satisfied, and took few steps back. "Now, we'll change the bandage, right? And from now on you'll take one pill of Oxycontin every twelve hours, for as many days as needed."

"Very well, Doctor Watson," she said happily.

"Please, call me John."

Her smile vanished and she glanced at him contemplatively. She opened her mouth, as if to say something, but didn't. She closed her mouth and pursed her lips.

"It's dangerous to use given names," she said at last.

"What? Why?"

She didn't answer. She frowned and stared, bemused, at the floor. Sherlock and John glanced at each other. After a while, Angel lifted her eyes and smiled.

"Dangerous, John. Really, really dangerous."

Then there was a sudden move, incredible quick, and something hit John on his forehead and dropped down. John grunted and stared at the floor. There was a pair of socks laying there. He squated and picked them in his hand. He frowned and then suddenly understood.

"No..."

"Sorry if the colour isn't correct, er, John. I must say, your socks were in a bit of a mess yesterday and I couldn't figure it out. So I ended up with black. Quite obvious, in fact. I hope you don't mind."

"I..." John didn't know what to say. He stared at the socks and wasn't sure if he felt like laughing or crying. He didn't do either, but smiled. Wide, quirky smile it was, and he didn't wonder anymore if he had missed something.

To John's mild surprise Angel accepted an invitation to join them for breakfast. She took a cup of tea and an apple. Sherlock was eating his single piece of toast, slowly.

"Are you seriously calling that a breakfast, Angel?" John said desperately.

"To break the fasting period, isn't that the point?" she asked innocently and raised her eyebrow.

Sherlock grinned lopsidedly.

"Oh God... don't tell me there are now two of you to shepherd..." John sighed.

Angel and Sherlock glanced at each other, Angel over the top of her tea cup, from which she had just taken a sip, and Sherlock holding his toast, from which he had just taken a bite. They turned their heads toward John, like two pullstring toys, then slowly back at each other, a mild surprise in their eyes. They blinked, simultaneously. And that was it.

Angel made a funny noice, burst out sniggering and spat the tea all over the table. Sherlock stiffened for an eyeblink. Then, like he just couldn't help it, a low chuckle escaped from his lips. He had still some toast in his mouth and, of course, it went down the wrong way and he started to cough, violently, which made Angel to laugh with abandon.

John stared at them, with a somewhat hopeless expression on his face. Then he bursted out to laughing, too. And when Angel heard John's weird giggling she almost fell off her chair. She desperately balanced herself with her hands, completely forgetting the wounds. She gasped, as she laughed, at the pain which shot through her shoulder.

John rushed to her, trying to hold back his giggling but only half succeeding. Angel shook her head, her eyes full of tears. She held her injured hand, trying to control the pain and the laugh which still bubbled inside her. She wiped her eyes with her right hand and sniffled, a wide smile on her pale face.

"Dear God..." John gasped and took few deep breaths. "I'm going to put you two in different rooms if there's any more stupidity done here. Really, I mean it."

"It wasn't my fault!" Sherlock cried, defensively, his voice hoarse from coughing.

John looked at him and raised his eyebrows.

"If you say 'She started it', I'm going to take you to the nursery."

Sherlock snorted but an amused smile was rippling on his full lips.

ooOoo

They spent the entire morning talking about The Redheads. In the very beginning Sherlock stated, calmly, that he knew that she had killed three men, five days ago. Angel looked a bit surprised but didn't deny it.

"I had to," was all she said.

"Why?" Sherlock asked.

Angel didn't respond. Instead, she looked at Sherlock for a very long time, narrowing her blue eyes.

"You haven't told the police," she said thoughtfully, mostly to herself. "Because you want to know all those things about the Red Cap. You wouldn't know if I was gone. But once I have told you everything..." She suddenly turned her head to John.

"Is he as good as his words?" she asked.

"What do you mean?" John said, puzzled.

"Does he keep his promises?"

John coughed. He couldn't answer that question right away. He had to think about it for a while.

"I... It depens... really..." he stammered. "He is a blatant liar if he gains a benefit from it -"

"I didn't ask if he lies but if he keeps his promises," Angel said impatiently.

"Oh... yeah...," John huffed. "If he promises he isn't going to do anything stupid I wouldn't believe him, but if he promises he'll catch the murderer, he will. Now that I think about it, he doesn't make too much promises at all."

"Okay, but do you trust him?"

Now, the question put that way, John didn't hesitate.

"Always," he said firmly.

Angel thought about that for a while.

"You know what," she said finally, "I trust him too."

A gleam of surprise and joy twinkled in Sherlock's eyes but was gone before Angel turned her gaze back to him and started to speak.

And she really did know everything. It didn't take long from either of the men to realize that, somehow, she was part of all that. They both wondered if the connection was that of the most obvious, considering that she was a young, beautiful woman, but neither of them put the thought into words. They didn't want to push her. She would tell, evidently, just what they had to know. And what they didn't have to know, well, it was her business.

"So he is one of the ringleaders of the human trafficking, as you supposed, Sherlock," John said at last.

"Well, that much was obvious. The amount of the victims only amazes me. How in earth does he hide all those girls from the police and, well, from me?"

"Most of them stay in refugee reception centres," Angel said.

John made an incredulous noise.

"Some of them are private institutions, John," Sherlock reminded. "Guess they are paid with drugs?"

He looked at Angel who nodded.

"Yes, that's the easiest way. No moneychanging. No selling and buying. The good old barter."

There was something in her voice that made the air in the room heavy and suffocating. She gave a deep sight.

"Well, what's the point of hiding it. You know it already, don't you? I spent most of my youth in those reception centres. BDSM mostly, in my case, as I found it interesting to train martial arts and stuff like that in my so-called spare time."

She lowered her eyes to examine her right hand. She clenched her fist, opened it and clenched it again. She raised her gaze. Her eyes were almost black and her lips had turned pale. She breathed heavily. The anger made her voice thick and raspy.

"Suppose it's fascinating to beat up someone who could fight back if she wasn't handcuffed to the bed."

An awkward silence settled over the room. She didn't notice it, however, as she had lost herself in agonized thought. John's eyes were gleaming. Sherlock glanced at him and suddenly there was a weird ache in his chest and throat, something hot and pressing. He swallowed but the ache was still there, making it hard to breath. He almost paniced, as he finally recognized the signs.

Shedding of tears.

It was so long time ago that he had almost forgotten. And dash it, he really wished to keep it that way! His jaw made a familiar move forward when he compressed his lips and cleared his throat.

"When did you escape?"

Angel turned to Sherlock but didn't really see him. Her gaze was very distant. It took a while to get back. She blinked a few times and took a deep breath. Her voice was almost steady when she said:

"Nearly two weeks back. It wasn't the first time though, but he always manages to hunt me down, in the end."

"Not this time."

Sherlock's voice was deep and dark. He looked at her intensely. Angel studied his eyes for a moment and nodded slowly. Somehow, she knew he was telling the truth. The night in his eyes had grown dangerous. It had grown to a night when prey turn predator and the revenge takes place. And like before, in her mind his night would always be good. No matter what kind of it was.

Author's Note: BDSM is a variety of erotic practices involving i.a. dominance, submission, role-playing and restraint. Generally speaking, the fundamental principles for the exercise of BDSM require that it should be performed with the informed consent of all involved parties. But it can, of course, be used also otherwise...