Chapter Eleven: "Paradise is attained by touch." ~ Helen Keller

...and then I open my eyes, and it's painfully bright. I fling a hand over my face with a moan and roll away, pulling the pillow over my head to block it out. Where did the shower and shampoo go? I'm in a bed, a comfortable one. I peer out from under the pillow, blinking. I'm alone in a comfortable bed. Right.

As my eyes adjust to being open, I realize that it's not all that bright. Somebody has left the blinds open, though, and the green light filtering through the trees outside leaves no doubt that it's well past sunrise.

I take a deep breath that turns into a full-body yawn that goes on and on. I'm sore, my muscles are sore and feel a little weak, like they've been worked hard at the gym...I reach up and rub my upper arms and shoulders. Ouch. Legs, too, are sore, and some other places...

I flop my arms back down and take stock, casting my mind around like you do when you are trying to remember a dream, only I'm trying to remember what happened before the dream.

Music. Strobing lights. Dancing. I went to a club. The pigman is a pakhan, Steen is mixed up somehow with the Russian mafia! I make like I'm going to sit up quickly, but my muscles aren't listening. Oof! It's the mandy; most people have some muscle fatigue and weakness after they roll, freaks like me also get to enjoy memory impairment and sensory disturbances as well. They call it the afterglow, but I don't feel too glowing. My mouth is so parched, it feels like the bottom of a birdcage-all dry gravel and bird-poo.

I flop out of bed, hanging onto the bedpost for stability, and wait for the room to stop moving. I don't feel nauseated, thank whatever god that watches over fools with drugs, but I very certainly have a touch of vertigo. When I can stand, I stagger into the loo and turn on the tap. I'm so dry I don't even have to wee yet, so at least some of my problem is due to being dehydrated.

I cup cold water into my hands and drink until my stomach tells me to stop, then I brush my teeth. Looking in the mirror above the sink, I'm amazed to see that the face looking back at me is not some death-ravaged zombie; I look just fine. Not even tired, just a bit puffy around the eyes. I'm glad Mycroft washed off my makeup for me, I hate waking up in the morning with eyeliner and mascara smears all over the place.

Wait a minute. I turn and look at the huge claw-foot tub, with the curtain still drawn around it from when I showered last night...because Mycroft complained that I smelled like people...but washing became complicated, so he had to help. Good thing it's a big tub.

I shake my head and rub the back of my neck. Memory is such a tricky thing, so easily disturbed and warped. The first time I rolled on ecstasy, before I knew that it was a blackout drug for me, I had a persistent memory afterwards of shagging a deer, a big-antlered buck. I just knew that this had happened, I knew it. I was freaked out, but my friends all told me it was just a hallucination and laughed it off, until I told it to one of the boys who had been with me that night. He pointed out that I had spent most of the night having it off on a billiards table in a games room-with stuffed deer head trophies on every wall! So much for memory.

Looking at the tub, I know that Mycroft got in there with me, and washed us both; I remember viscerally how his soap-slick body felt against mine...but I really doubt that we had sex in there how I think I remember, because he couldn't have used a condom and that's just not something Mr. Paranoia would do. Is it?

I hate this. This is why I don't do mandy anymore, why I swore to myself that I wouldn't do it anymore. You can start to go a little mad, second-guessing yourself as you try to piece things together from clues and dream-like fragments. The key is to apply rational thinking, and dismiss the impossible.

Like, I doubt that I actually gave Mycroft's umbrella a blow-job; it just doesn't seem physically possible. I feel like I have a real memory of it...but it has to be either a hallucination, or a deer-shagging sort of scenario...even though it did make the umbrella so very happy...

My kidneys have started to work again, so I take care of that, then I realize that I'm hungry, ravenously hungry. What the hell time is it, anyway? There was something I was going to be doing today, I hope I didn't miss it. I throw on my dressing gown and go down to the kitchen in search of sustenance.

Waiting for the kettle to boil, I wander around the quiet flat munching on an untoasted, cold bagel. My eye falls on the Russian romance novel and my e-reader, stacked on the side-table where I left them last night. Bloody hell, Steen. The bratva, the Russian mafia. What the hell were you thinking? And I've somehow got to get that stupid book to the local pakhan...it's not like I can just google the keyword string "pigman russian mafia boss" and find him that way...although I might could actually try that, who knows...but first, I need to check the calendar on my phone. There is something still niggling at the back of my brain telling me that I have an appointment today.

The kettle boils, and I scurry to make my tea. Oh, I desperately need my tea this morning. Then, mug in hand, I search around for my phone. I had tucked it into the top of my boot before I left here last night, since I don't like to carry a bag when I'm out clubbing and my dress didn't have pockets. My boots had to have been taken off somewhere between the front door and the bathroom, so I go upstairs to look.

I have a few moments of panic when I can't find the phone anywhere. It's not rational, everything on it is totally replaceable except for a few photos that I would miss, but damn it, it's my phone, and I can't find it.

And then I hear it ringing, faintly, and have to wonder if I'm really losing my mind. Is that an auditory hallucination, brought on by my panic at losing my phone, or is that my actual phone's actual ringtone? It sounds like it's coming from downstairs.

I hurry down so I can listen for it before it stops ringing, and the sound gets louder. I'm quite relieved that it's not a hallucination after all. I follow the sound to my handbag, occupying it's usual counter-space, and pull my phone out to see that Unidentified is ringing me. I answer it, of course.

"Hey," I say, and take a quick gulp of tea.

"Angel. How are you feeling this morning?" Mycroft sounds concerned, but not at all solicitous. He might as well be asking how the cooker is getting on.

"Quite well, actually. A little rough at the start, but getting better."

"Are you taking fluids?"

I take another sip of tea. "Yes, and that's probably where the getting better comes from."

"Any vertigo or blurred vision? Headache?"

"No, no, and no, Dr. Holmes." Now he's being silly. "Am I fit for duty?"

"I believe so, at the moment anyway. You may expect to see me tomorrow at twelve o'clock. And, Angel?"

"Yes?"

"If you should start to feel ill, don't go to the local clinic. You are to call 999, I have emergency services keyed to take you to a more suitable place."

Oh, god, he's gone beyond silly. "That's waayyyy overkill, Mycroft. I'm fine, really. Serious side effects are very rare, and I would already be ill if I were to have any at all."

"Yes, of course," he says, as in, Yes, you are wrong, but I'm not going to waste breath arguing with you. "Well, tomorrow, then." After he hangs up, I finish the rest of my tea and put the kettle on again. This is definitely a two-cuppa morning. Although, I don't feel as rotten as I would've expected from that big of a hit; the physical issues are rapidly fading, and there's no emotional letdown at all. McCutcheon was telling the truth, that was some pure shit.

In fact, I feel super, except for stressing about the missing chunks of memory. I should just let that go...there's no way I'm going to know just exactly what happened here last night, and I should just trust how I feel about it. And how I feel is...warm. And relaxed. Okay, so if bad things had happened, I wouldn't feel all warm and fuzzy, would I? My subconscious would be making me feel all icky about it...

I take my tea over to the chair where I have my laptop set up, and check in online. Nothing exciting in my email inbox, just a lot of spam. I check in on the forum, and everybody seems to be doing fine; in fact, the level of terror is fading fast as my fellow escorts begin forgetting that a few weeks ago we all thought our lives were in danger. Now that there haven't been any more murders, everyone is back to fussing about the latest antibiotic-resistant STD, and whether or not the Agency's rate schedule needs to be updated.

I post a query asking if anybody has heard from Steen lately, and flag it so that it will pop to the top of all the message queues. That's all I can do at the moment. It's too soon to file a missing person's on him, the police won't even want to hear about it until tomorrow night, and probably won't action on it until early in the week. He's just a rent-boy, we're of the expendable class, don'cha know...

I sigh, and try googling for information about the bratva in London, especially its leaders. Looking at the photos of known Russian mob members, it occurs to me that every single one of them has a cigarette hanging out of his mouth.

And suddenly I'm dying for a smoke, such is the power of suggestion. I'll have to go outside to do it, so I run upstairs to throw on some clothes fast-except that I can't find anything! The bloody wardrobe has been completely re-organized! I always hang up my clothing by outfits, each with it's own section.

Now it's all arranged by colour, in rainbow order, and I can't find a bloody thing. It has to be Mycroft, and this is simply too much. I won't have him getting into my stuff and re-arranging things to suit himself. No way, no how. If I had a number for him, I would call him right now and tear him a new arsehole, but I can't even send him a bitchy text-I have no way to contact him at all. It's all one way, isn't it? His way...

Now I really want a smoke, so I haul out whatever, some shorts and a t-shirt, and throw them on. I'm not even going to do my hair or put on a bra. If people want to think I'm a grotty slag, I don't care, I really don't.

As I'm kneeling down rummaging around for some shoes, I have a sudden vision, though, of the room as I left it last night, before going out. It looked like the wardrobe had exploded, shoes and clothes all over the place... I know that I was in no shape to tidy things up when I came back, I barely made it into the shower before I was so blissed-out that I couldn't function. Housekeeper doesn't come until Monday, so it must have been Mycroft that tidied it up for me.

I rock back on my heels for a moment. Well, that's quite different. He did the best he could, I suppose. I can put things back how I like them later; for now I'll just be glad he took care of it. That was thoughtful of him.

Or was it? Because that would be quite unlike...I realize that Mycroft probably didn't tidy up because he was being thoughtful; the mess would've been uncomfortable for him to look at. Yep. That fits. I have to be careful of projecting my own motivations onto him; it's a little bit like relating to a Martian. It might walk like a duck and quack like a duck, but never forget that it's a Holmes.

The sunshine is warm on my bare arms and legs when I step outside. I don't even get to the end of the cobblestone street, puffing on my cigarette, before I become aware that I'm being followed again. Well, watched from a distance, at any rate. They aren't even bothering to be sly about it anymore, the two men just follow at a respectful distance behind me, not obvious and not crowding, but definitely there. I stop, look at them to see if I know either one-which I don't-and give them a smile before continuing on my way. It's going to be a hell of a challenge to shake this security detail, if I ever have to. I really hope I never have to. I still wonder why I have to be escorted everywhere; would Mycroft tell me if I asked him point-blank? Probably not.

I sit on a low stacked-stone garden wall at the end of the street to finish the cigarette. It's another beautiful day, I wonder what I might do with it? Oh, yeah, I should check my calendar...phone's in my pocket, and I call up the calendar...

Sara. I'm supposed to visit with Sara today! And I am supposed to be there...half an hour ago. Oh, bloody hell. I call her, and I don't know if I should be relieved or insulted when she says that she figured I would be late, so it's no problem, just get there when I can.

Sighing, I hang up and stub out my cig on the wall, carrying the butt back with me to the flat. Just once, I would like to not feel like the cack-handed little sister who can't do anything right. I'll just get dressed and over there as quick as I can.

###

Sara's in the middle of making tea when I finally get there, and puts me to work peeling potatoes. "So, how was your outing with Adam last night?" is the first thing out of her mouth past 'Hello'. I'd made it clear to her that it was only a date in his mind, not mine. "Did you have fun at the club?"

Her good cheer seems a little forced; maybe she's more annoyed than she let on that I'm so late. I give her the condensed and sanitized version of last night, leaving out the encounter with McCutcheon and the MDMA, and ending with, "But then Mycroft decided that he wanted me to work last night, so I had to cut things short-"

"Who's Mycroft?" Sara stops in mid-chop at the cutting board. "I thought you were on a contract right now."

"I am. With Mycroft Holmes, same guy, nothing changed."

"Oh." She starts chopping the veg again. "Since when have you been on a first-name basis with him?"

"Well, I guess since last night. I guess. That's really weird." I have one of those moments of cognitive dissonance, where what you think you know is suddenly turned upside-down. Why do I think of him as Mycroft now? I think I've been calling him that all day, but I can't be sure.

Sara is looking at me suspiciously. "What's really weird?"

I don't want to tell her why I don't remember. "His name. It's weird, isn't it?"

She shrugs. "Probably one of those surname-as-given-name things." She looks at me out of the corner of her eye as she tosses the veg with some olive oil. "So things are going well, then? Sounds pretty cozy."

I huff at her. "Not exactly cozy. We've worked out a reasonable business relationship," or...something, I add silently. I don't exactly know what.

Pablo strolls into the kitchen then, and I divert the conversation by fawning over him. Sara chucks the mixed veg, potatoes and a roasting chicken into the oven, and says, "There we are. Now, you and I need to talk."

"What about?" Pablo is not ignoring me for a change; he is actually all over me, purring.

"A couple of things," she replies. "I'll put the kettle back on."

Uh-oh. With Sara, "We need to talk," combined with "I'll put the kettle on" means bad news. Sometimes really bad. I sit very still and pet Pablo, who is now curled up in my lap and rumbling loudly, rubbing his whiskers against my hand.

It doesn't take long for the tea to get made, and Sara settles in across from me. I wait for it, whatever it is.

"So," she starts, then, "Oh, hey, do you want some biscuits? I've got some really nice ones that I picked up yesterday, I think you'll like them." She jumps up and rummages in the cupboard, comes back to the table opening a packet, and starts to sit down. "They remind me of the ones we used to get up North at Auntie's, the ones nobody around here seems to carry, they're not the exact brand, but I think you might like them all the same..." She jumps up again to go get a plate, like we don't usually just eat out of the packet anyway.

I can't take it anymore."For god's sake Sara, will you just sit down and spit it out, whatever it is? Please?"

She purses her lips as she sits again and neatly arranges the biscuits on the plate. "Okay, then, well, Richard is moving in next week." Sara pushes the plate toward me, and gives me a you-asked-for-it kind of look with most of her face, although her blue eyes are swimming with tears. Talk about mixed signals.

"Why are you upset, Sairs? That's good news, isn't it, that he's moving in? You said that things were getting serious; you still like him, don't you?" I've only met Richard a handful of times, but he seems okay; works part-time at the animal hospital, going to school to be a veterinary surgeon, I think. Stiff and proper, very solid sort. Boring, really, but I don't criticize Sara's tastes and she doesn't criticize mine.

Sara dashes the overflow from her eyes and shrugs. "I just feel like I'm choosing him over you, and that makes me feel awful, you know? I'm supposed to look after you..."

That gets another huff from me. "I'm twenty-three, I can look after myself. But, in what way are you choosing him over me? I don't get it." I take a biscuit from the plate to try it; they are actually pretty good.

Sara shakes her head. "Angelica, you're going to have to move out next week...there's not enough space...you'll have to find storage for your things, or take them to Knightsbridge..."

What the hell? "What do you mean, not enough space? This place is huge, Sara! And my room is tiny, it's the size of a broom cupboard, it can't matter if my stuff stays in there. Why do I have to move out right away? I mean, eventually, yeah, but next week?"

Sara takes a lot of time putting the milk and sugar into her tea, and purses her lips again. "Geli, you have to move. You just do. Richard needs your bedroom for an office, so he can study. His courses are killer this term, he has to have his own space to concentrate..."

I point to the corner of the living room where Sara put up a shoji screen last year to make an office cubby; the desk sits under a pile of dusty papers and various kinds of rubble, the swivel chair draped with clothes needing mending. "What about that? All you have to do is muck it out, and there's your Richard's office. I think the filing cabinet is even empty."

She doesn't look up from her mug, but just repeats stubbornly, "You have to move out, by Wednesday. I'm sorry, I really am, but that's how it is."

I hurl a single word into the silence between us. "Why?" It just hangs there, as my sister stares into her tea mug.

I know why, I know why, I just want her to say it, but she won't. Bloody coward, her, she's always been such a big chicken.

She won't look up, so I start in for her. "Richard doesn't want your whoring little sister living under the same roof with him, does he? He's afraid it's going to rub off..."

She snaps her head up, glaring. "No, it's not like that at all. He thinks you take advantage of me. He thinks you take advantage, and that I need to cut the umbilical, for both our sakes." Looking down, she takes up the spoon and stirs her tea some more, and the tinking sound it makes is the only noise in the room aside from the deep rumble of Pablo's purring.

I put my mind around what she's just said. Richard wouldn't be convinced that I take advantage of Sara unless she slanted things that way to him; after all, he's hardly ever seen us together, all he knows is what she tells him. So she feels I take advantage of her. She's ready to sever some ties.

I feel tears spring to my eyes, and I try to swallow the rising lump in my throat. Okay, I'm not going to sit here and cry like a baby because my big sister doesn't want me around. That's just incredibly lame. Sara looks into my face, finally, and sees that I'm ready to cry. She loses her nerve.

"No, never mind! Listen, he does have to move someplace next week, but it doesn't have to be here, I'll tell him he has to make other arrangements. It's probably too soon for us to be moving in together anyway..."

Argh! The only thing worse than rejection is pity. I hate pity, even though it can be useful at times. I refuse to leave things in this sorry state of affairs; we are just going to sit here and talk about the situation until we've both gotten somewhere with it.

Tea is out of the oven and we're nearly done eating before that's accomplished, but by the end of the meal I've gotten Sara to admit that she's the one who thinks we need less entanglement, and that Richard does indeed disapprove of me highly-I knew it!-and she's gotten me to admit that I have sometimes taken advantage of her feeling responsible for me. I agree to move out of the bedroom and pack up the few things still in there, but I can leave the cartons here at the flat until I'm done with my contract and settled someplace else.

"What about Pablo?" I ask. "Can he stay here until I get settled? Mycroft is allergic to cats, I think."

"Yes! Richard loves cats, he has one himself, a cute little Siamese. Pablo can stay here as long as you need him to. And you should keep your key, just in case, but maybe call before you drop in? Just, you know..." she shrugs, and I do know.

"Oh, and speaking of calling," Sara goes over to the rubble-filled desk in the corner, retrieves a miniature shopping bag, and hands it to me. "Your spare phone. It's already activated and everything. There was enough cash to pre-pay it until January, so you're good to go."

"Thanks." I hope I don't have to use it, but it feels nice to have it.

The shadows are lengthening into evening by the time I'm ready to leave Sara's flat, and we are both pretty shattered from all the emotional drama, but at least we aren't left with things hanging still unsaid. We both know life is too precarious for that.

Back at the Knightsbridge flat-home, I guess it is, now-back home I settle in bed with my laptop and a nightcap of Mycroft's expensive brandy, and stream some mindless television for a few hours before falling asleep.

Sunday morning is quick and busy, since I rise rather late and I have to be ready for work by noon. I go for a run in the sunny, noisy park, re-do the wardrobe so I can find my clothes again, change the bed-sheets, and tidy up the flat in general and myself in particular. I feel like wearing white today, so white it is: white lacy underthings, a lacy little white dress with a handy front zipper, a white ribbon in my hair.

All that is finished with time to spare, so I curl up on the bed with green-gold filtering through the blinds, and read some Pushkin. All that Russian translation the other day has gotten me back into reading him again; what a brilliant poet! Ya vas lyubil; lyubov eshchyo, bit mozhet...

I switch to reading silently when I hear the front door at-yes, of course-precisely twelve o'clock. The musical selection today is... a quartet of soft woodwinds, viola and cello, and not a single wailing violin. Nice.

I don't know how he gets up the stairs so silently, but I look up eventually to see him leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, looking at the room and me in it with a contented expression. I give him a little smile of greeting, set my e-reader aside, and go to stand at the foot of the bed.

No viewing today, he comes to me immediately and takes a wrist in each hand, crossing them behind my back as he presses me to him, leaning his nose against my hair, inhaling and sighing deeply. Holding both wrists in one hand-he really doesn't need to, but never mind-he runs the other hand over my body, caressing slowly, then trails his fingertips up my thigh and under the short hem of my dress to fondle my bare hip and bum, sliding his fingers under the thin lace straps of my knickers, nestling his face into the side of my neck. Then he grabs my bum and hauls my hips in against him almost roughly, suckling my earlobe in his mouth. Yow! Then, just as suddenly, he's released me, and goes over to the valet to leisurely and methodically hang his suit coat, waistcoat and tie.

Once down to rolled-up shirtsleeves, he takes up my wrists again behind me, and the other hand is this time unzipping the dress as he runs his mouth slowly up and down my neck and shoulder, lingering in the sensitive areas around my ear. That exploring hand finds my breasts, and teases each nipple through the silken lace until they are taut.

I'm getting hotter and hotter, and it dawns on me that today he is seems focused on arousing me, not himself. He is, very obviously, aroused as well but every touch on my body at this moment is tightly aimed at what will make me shiver and twitch. And who am I to complain?

His free hand reaches around to my bum again, drawing me in once more against him, and he leans his forehead against mine. We are eye-to-eye, nose-to-nose, and then, unexpectedly, his lips seek out and touch mine. The contact makes me jump slightly, and gasp. He smiles just a little, then brushes forward again and again, his lips just teasing mine with the barest touch.

My knees start to wobble slightly, and I sternly tell myself that I will NOT swoon. Shit like that only happens in bad romance novels, not real life...but the impact of being kissed by someone who never kissses...my nervous system almost overloads. If I were a computer, my circuits would be frying. As it is, I am shivering, almost uncontrollably trembling, and getting more reactive with every touch.

He draws his head back a little, without releasing me, and looks very pleased with himself. "I love music," he muses quietly, "but I have no talent for it. I've always wondered what it would be like, to make an instrument sing, make it respond to my touch in perfect pitch." His smug smile becomes a little wicked as he zeros in on my lips, and taunts me with more light kisses. One hand still tensely clasps my wrists, but the other is roaming all over my body, lingering in all the sensitive places, while his lips more and more firmly seek mine, finally parting just the smallest bit to allow a flicker of tongue to touch my lower lip.

He pauses, his cheek pressed against mine, his fingertips anchored in the cleft of my arse and pulling me in toward him, hard. He is trembling too, his breath short and ragged. Who is playing whom, then?

Releasing my wrists, he pushes my opened dress down off my shoulders to the floor, unhooks my bra in front and lets it follow. His eyes and fingertips linger for a moment on the now mostly green-and-yellow blotch that remains on my shoulder. "It's healing quickly. The resilience of youth," he looks a little wistful as he murmurs that.

"Helps to compensate for the foolishness of youth," I point out. I wonder if he was a foolish youth? Probably, in his own way, but I doubt that I'll ever hear about it.

He turns away to retrieve the harness from the black bag in its usual spot on the floor, and as he lays the cool leather and metal against my flushed skin, his eyes flick up to mine. Softly, but with emphasis, he says, "By the way, this is not a fashion accessory, Angel."

I can't help it, my lips curve up in a mischievous smile. I bet I shocked him last night by wearing it to the club. "Have you looked at the Paris runways this year?"

"We are neither in Paris nor on a runway." He tightens the buckles just so, and gives me a stern look from under lowered brows.

"I shocked you, didn't I?"

"It was...a bit much at the end of a long day," he admits, pulling out the wrist cuffs and carefully fastening them on me.

"You handled it well, then. At least, I think so..." I don't remember him being angry at all. I wrinkle my brow, and sigh at all the things I won't remember. I decide to go ahead and ask what I'm dying to know. "Mycroft?"

"Yes?" he's behind me, clipping my fettered wrists to small rings at the back of the harness. I crane my head around to look at him.

"Why am I suddenly calling you Mycroft?" He looks up with a half-smile, and steps around in front of me again, both hands now stroking my breasts.

"Because I told you to."

"Why?"

His thumbs slowly circle my sensitive nipples in that certain way that always makes me quiver. How does he know to do that? "It seemed warranted."

"W-w-arranted?" I almost can't talk.

"Earned."

My nervous system can only take so much at a time; I back away half a step, and he releases my breasts, gliding his hands around my chest and up to my shoulders. We both rest a moment.

"Earned, how?" I insist. "Can't I have at least a hint? Not knowing is really bothering me. Or are you testing me?"

"Probably." He looks reluctant to admit it. "I should know it's not necessary, but habits..." He sighs. "Trust. You've proven worthy of a certain degree of trust." He starts to fuss with my hair a bit then, arranging errant strands and tidying the bow. I suddenly get it.

"I guess I talked to you a lot the other night, then?"

Eyebrows raised, he nods without meeting my eyes. "Yes."

I feel a little embarrassed, but not as much as you'd think. Like I've said, I like being looked at.

He stops with the fussing to cup my face in his hands, and this time he kisses with his lips already parted. His tongue slides delicately across my lower lip, just barely there and then gone, pulling mine just as fleetingly after it, then we meet somewhere in the middle, fully tasting each other. I swear I feel his knees go weak a few times, and he steadies himself with one hand on the bedpost behind me.

Finally he pauses, resting his forehead against mine and breathing heavily. Swallowing, he says, "On your back, please, here," he indicates the foot of the bed, so I simply sit down and lie back, looking at him expectantly. He gazes at me, lying there with my hands bound under me, wearing the leather harness and my now-soaking white lace thong, and his expression is both intense and inscrutable. It's like he's trying to memorize me, every detail and nuance, whilst still maintaining that none of it matters in the least.

Reaching down, he slides a fingertip under the triangle of wet, white lace, and shakes his head as he feels around. "You always miss a few spots...here...and, here as well..."

"Well, I have to leave something for you to fuss with, don't I?" And out comes the shaving kit. To be honest, I actually do try to leave a few rough patches for him; it's dawned on me that if I give him something real to tidy up, he'll spend less time going over parts that are already seen to.

After I'm smoothed to his exacting standards, Mycroft has me wriggle up higher on the bed, up to the top, as he adds his trousers, shirt and shoes to the valet's burden. Standing in his silly white vest and pants, he pauses and gives me a canny look; "Shall we strike the same deal?" he asks.

I laugh, "God, yes, please!" In for a penny, in for a pound, as they say; hard to see how it could get worse.

He strips off and, of course, carefully folds his whites, then slides down beside me, pulling me in close and hard. He is pressing me against him, everywhere...then stops and make a face. "This," he taps a brass loop on the harness, "this is in the way. Here, sit up for a moment." Off comes the leather strapping, and I have a hope that the cuffs will come off as well, but we're not there yet-although, he merely clips my wrists together over my head instead of needing to anchor me. Progress, of a sort.

We're deliciously skin-to-skin then, and he plays me with delight, relishing each gasp and moan and sigh that he can elicit, until he himself is so far gone that he can't stand it anymore. He stops to apply a condom, and lies back down beside me, kissing me deeply as he pulls my parted thighs toward him, searching to enter.

Side-by-side is okay, but I desperately want him deep, as deep as possible, and the best way is for me to be on top. Following my urge, I gently push my elbow against the front of his shoulder, and roll him over with my hips as I smoothly sheath his length inside me. Suddenly, he's on his back, hands grasping my thighs on either side of his body as I kneel astride him, and his eyes are wide with surprise. I smile with triumph; didn't see that coming, didja?

I rock my hips slowly, letting the weight of my body push him as deep as possible inside me. There's a nerve plexus way up there, and when a woman is aroused to the heights I am right now, that spot becomes exquisitely sensitive to deep thrusting-the waves of pleasure are delicious. Under the right conditions I can have one little orgasm after another, rolling in waves for many minutes at a time, and if these aren't the right conditions, you can bet nothing ever will be.

His hands are urging me to move faster, and I also remember how he likes eye contact, so in the midst of my waves I lean over him, placing my bound wrists over his head and my elbows planted on either side. We are so matched for height that I am able to hold eye contact in this position easily as I ride him, rolling my hips forward and back, letting his hands on my thighs conduct the rhythm. Eyes locked with mine, mouth wide, he pants and writhes beneath me.

I can't say that we come together in one glorious burst or something, because a multiple orgasm for me simply goes and goes and goes, and keeps going for a while after everything else has stopped. Mycroft, however, does explode under me in one long, glorious burst, bucking wildly with a hoarse cry, and afterward lies there gasping and trembling, long after I have rolled off of him and curled up, alongside but not touching him.

He turns his head to gaze at me, and he is still vibrating slightly. "That...that...that was..." and he just closes his eyes and swallows. I'd love to cuddle close right now, but I don't know if he could take it, so I just close my eyes as well and enjoy how good it feels to be in my skin right now. Any moment now he'll jump up and go shower, then unbind one of my wrists...

I hear a soft snoring close by, and have to stifle a giggle. Somebody has fallen asleep, and it's not me! Well, it is a Sunday afternoon, I suppose a nap might be called traditional.

I open my eyes to study the man sleeping beside me. A shaft of sunlight sneaks through the mini-blinds and streaks across the both of us; his hair glows dark chestnut, the red more of a suggestion than a colour. What remains of his hair, that is. Poor man, nature isn't always kind. Daddy's hairline made the same hasty retreat in his thirties, and I remember how it bothered him. Of course, by the time the cancer took Daddy he was totally bald, but that's another tale, and much sadder.

I wonder if the moles on his cheek annoy him, little irregularities that they are, or if they're granted grudging acceptance. The deep furrow between his brows is almost relaxed, but I can still see the shadow of the groove; I don't think it ever quite goes away. What does he do for the government that is so important, so essential, yet there's no name for it, no official title, nothing but incredible stress?

His breathing starts to speed up, he's on the edges of a dream...then his eyes fly open with a sudden intake of breath, and he looks at me wildly for a second, almost with panic. "Steady on, Mycroft," I murmur. He blinks, then quickly sits up, rubbing his face and obviously a little disoriented.

"How long did I sleep?" he asks brusquely.

"Just a few minutes, not long at all."

He jumps up and goes to shower and dress with his usual ferocious efficiency, and I settle in to doze and wait for the few minutes that I know it takes him. Shortly, Mycroft is standing beside the bed and leaning over to release me, but this time it's not just the one wrist. He takes both cuffs off me, and nods at the bathroom.

"Please clean up and get dressed, Angel. We have some business to attend to this afternoon."

I sit up, probably looking confused, because he reiterates, "Shower and dress, immediately. You're coming with me."