Where Angels Tread

by stellamira1936

An erotic thriller that explores, from an original point of view, how incredibly complicated it is to be Mycroft Holmes, and how he could go from "Caring is not an advantage," to "Your loss would break my heart." Sexual situations (although that's not the main point), prostitution, light bondage. The timeline tucks into the six-month lacuna of "His Last Vow." Canon? What canon? ;)

14. Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fourteen: "Well, now that we have seen each other," said the Unicorn, "if you'll believe in me, I'll believe in you!" ~ Alice in Wonderland

Roper's Garden isn't all that, it's just a skinny strip of green, terraced above the banks of the river, but it goes down into an old bomb crater and makes a beautiful sunken garden. It has depth, not flat and formal like some public gardens. I find a bench under a tree, looking out over the river and get out another cigarette. I've been smoking too much in the past two days, I can tell from the tickle in the back of my throat that will turn into a cough if I don't knock it off.

I light up, and lean back on the bench. What the hell just happened, in that hospital room? Why did Sherlock act like that? It was like my very existence affronted him. Why did he think that Lestrade was trying to play a poor joke on him by bringing me around? That really pisses me off. I mean, despite what Sara says, I don't expect that every single person is going to fall over themselves telling me how gorgeous I am ... my looks aren't to everyone's taste...but I've never been called a joke before. Jerk. I can understand why someone would want to shoot him.

My hair especially seemed to provoke him. Mycroft, what the hell have you done to me with this haircut? And how did Sherlock know that I just had it cut? I reflexively reach up to touch my hair, and I realize that my fingers fall short by a couple of inches when I first reach up, because my hair isn't where I expect it to be. Damn. That's how he knew.

That was just a few days ago, that I got my hair cut, and had lunch with Steen, him and his crazy sausage-roll demonstration about boundaries and relationships. That was the last time I saw that big idiot alive. I have a flash of memory, his pale face in the cold-drawer of that awful room yesterday, the horrible smell, and I very deliberately shove that memory away, filing it with the other pale, cold faces that I've had to look at. I replace it with a memory of him vibrant and alive, an annoying pseudo-brother and know-it-all.

I reach into my handbag and pull out one of the fresh hankies I've stowed in there. I know grief, I know how it goes and comes and goes again, so it certainly isn't going to take me by surprise now. My makeup is 100% waterproof, too. I cried a bucket or two last night, and I'll cry a few more in the days to come, but I also know that it won't last forever. I carefully dab my eyes.

It doesn't have anything to do with solving Steen's murder, and I'm probably just trying to distract myself, but I can feel a growing obsession with finding out why Sherlock was so angry with me. I bet it has something to do with the woman in that old photo that was sent to my stylist at Harrods. I could go there and see if Jacque still has it on her phone, but that would be pretty pointless; she didn't know anything. I can't go back and just ask Sherlock, I doubt that he would tell me anything. Besides, there are Mycroft's cameras and guards to consider ...

What about John Watson? He might know something. He seems to know Sherlock well, and certainly was easier to talk to. And whilst I'm at it, I could maybe quiz him about what progress Sherlock has made in deciphering whatever is in that damned book ... better than just hanging out and waiting to hear from Lestrade ...

A shadow crosses over the sun warming my cheek, and young bloke in dirty blue-jeans and a metal-head t-shirt plops his arse down on the bench next to me, far too close, one arm curling behind me on the back of the bench. I can smell his body odor and bad breath. "Hey, beautiful, got a fag you could -"

"Sure, here," and I flick the lit cigarette from my fingers into his face. He jumps up, cursing, and I tell him he has two seconds to piss off. The plonker actually has to think about it for a moment, and I am outlining in my head where and how hard to hit him when he mumbles some more insults and stomps off.

Okay, there it is, the nasty downside to being a young lovely. Upsides: you get treated like a precious thing, you can get away with stuff that other girls can only dream of getting away with, and you get to date pretty much whomever you fancy. The downsides? Getting treated like a commodity, being hated by other girls on sight, and every grotty tosser that passes by thinks he might as well try to get a leg over. Ick.

I don't want to light up another cig, so I just lean back and stretch out my legs; I love the way they look in these low boots. I should get a pair in brown, too. So, how to connect with this John Watson? I don't want to bother Lestrade, he's got enough on his plate, but I shouldn't need to resort to that.

I pull out my new smart-phone and ten minutes of online search yields Dr. John Watson's blog about his detective adventures, his GMC medical registration profile, which clinic he's working at, a home address on Baker Street, and a wedding announcement from just this past May. Hopefully the missus won't mind if I stop by this evening for a word; I'll keep it short and simple.

I call my driver to come and pick me up, and we joke all the way to my flat about the sights that my phone got to see today, riding around up on the dash of his car as he took his fares around, and the bloke's dark face cracks with a smile again and again as he recounts the strange passengers he's had today, swearing that Mondays are madhouse days. I think I would have to agree with him.

I have just enough time for a nice run through the park, and a little something for tea, and then I reckon it's late enough for people to be settling in at home. I don't put the tartan sheath dress back on; it looks just a little too good on me, a little too short and tight. I have to try on a few outfits, but I finally settle on the navy paisley that Mycroft put me in yesterday, but paired with low-heel sandals. Watson is quite short, I think, and I don't want to tower over him too much. I don't want to be intimidating, and short men can be funny about relative heights, Napoleon syndrome and all that.

These shoes will also make it easier for me to get out of the flat without my followers noticing that I've left, I hope. I stow my old phone up in the bedroom, and pull up the blinds so I can open the window. There's a lovely, large oak tree just outside, which I sussed out last night as an impromptu fire-escape - and it works perfectly. The window is only on the second storey, so it's not at all difficult to lean out and catch a large branch to swing out on, and then down to another. I wouldn't want to try the manoeuvre in high heels, but barefoot or in flats it works just fine.

As I drop to the ground in the early evening shadows beside the massive trunk of the old tree, I look around closely for anyone who might have seen me. There isn't anyone at all; my two watchers are always stationed in a car parked at one end of Ennismore, and I'm hoping that they are relying on my old phone as a tracking device. I take off at a brisk walk through the garden, toward the bus stop.

The bus drops me quite close to the address on Baker Street, and I don't have any difficulty finding the place. There's a diner right beside Watson's door, belching out the smell of chips frying in stale oil - Blech, I couldn't live next door to that. I grab the brass knocker and give a few raps, then hear a woman's voice faintly calling from inside, telling me to wait just a minute, please.

The woman who opens the door is a little long in the tooth to be Mrs. Watson, so as I introduce myself, I hope I've got the right place. Her pleasant look vanishes after I ask for Dr. Watson, to be replaced by a gimlet-eyed stare, even though she is still smiling with her mouth, so I guess I have the right place. Is this his mother-in-law or something? She introduces herself as Mrs. Hudson, and there is a long pause; I wonder if she is going to ask me in or just stand there.

I finally tell her that I just have to talk to Dr. Watson for a few minutes, that's all, that it's personal and quite important. Her attitude shifts a little then, and she asks, "Oh! Is this about a case, then?"

"Yes, it is. A friend of mine was murdered ..."

"Well, why didn't you say so? Come on in, I'll let him know he has a visitor." She lets me in, and bustles up a flight of stairs. The place isn't exactly what I was expecting for a doctor's residence; it's a bit on the shabby side, really. At least it's clean.

I can hear her converse briefly with a man, then she motions me upstairs to the landing. John is standing in the doorway to a flat, and he looks surprised when he recognizes me as I come up the steps.

"Angelica! What are you doing here?" he's curious, and uncertain.

I give him a friendly-but-not-flirtatious smile. "I had a few questions for you, I hope you don't mind?"

"Not at all, although I honestly don't know how much help I can be. I'm the blogger, not the detective. But you're welcome to come on in anyway."

As we start through the doorway, Mrs. Hudson flutters around uncomfortably, then blurts out, "I'll just bring up some tea for us all, shall I? I happen to have had the kettle on to boil already, you know, so I can bring it right on up."

"Yes, sure, Mrs. Hudson. That would be great," John says absently.

As I pass him to enter the flat, I notice two things: first, he really is quite short, I can easily look over the top of his head; and second, this flat is not occupied by a woman. Women might visit here, but this is definitely a bachelor flop. Mismatched furniture, sagging curtains, piles of books and paper clutter on everything - it's as shabby as the entryway, but not as clean. There is no sign at all of a Mrs. Watson, except for the ring on John's hand. Curioser and curiouser.

John gestures me over to the sofa, and pulls up a chair so he can sit across the coffee table from me, watching me carefully. I feel a little nervous, and his scrutiny is making it worse. I had been planning to play this conversation brisk and businesslike, but I think it might go better if I come off as a shy and uncertain sweet-young-thing.

So I start by apologizing up and down for bothering him like this, how kind he is to agree to see me, etcetera etcetera.

"No, no, no, not at all. I'm glad to see if I can help."

"I really appreciate that." I stop and bite my lip, and do a little shy-girl shuffle. "Um, well, what it is -" But Mrs. Hudson comes bustling in with a tea-tray then, a teapot and china cups and a jug of milk and a plate of biscuits and the whole works. And she chatters the whole time she's setting up the tea things on the coffee table. John gives me a sort of what-can-you-do look, and I shrug in return.

Eventually, as the tea is ready and she's pouring it, Mrs. Hudson pauses, and looks at me expectantly. "So, what sort of work do you do, my dear?" she asks.

Oh, bugger it, the eternal question - do I answer honestly and listen to the awkward silence, or lie and have to keep on lying and lying? John already knows my profession, but I have the feeling he would completely back me up on whatever I say right now, to spare me any embarrassment. So, this is a nice opportunity to show him what I'm made of.

I answer her with demure sidelong look. "I'm a working girl, Mrs. Hudson."

She says, "Oh!" even though her face doesn't register any surprise at all; I think she already knew somehow. But there's not any awkward silence, not with this woman. She launches into a recitation of all the prostitutes she used to know when she danced in the nightclubs in Florida, whilst John and I sit and sip our tea, both very bemused. I'm thinking to myself that this lady probably turned a few tricks in her day, too - she has that pragmatic sort of attitude.

We've almost finished our tea before she's anywhere near to being wound down, and I finally break into her monologue edgewise, "Please, Mrs. Hudson, I'm enjoying hearing about all the adventures you had living overseas, but I really need to speak to John privately for just a few minutes. I'm sure you understand ..."

"Oh, of course, your case," she says. "I am so happy to see Dr. Watson keeping the business afloat, as it were, for Sherlock while he's, you know, indisposed." She gives John a sincerely affectionate smile, then rises, smoothing her skirt. "Well, then, I'll let you get on with it, shall I? Just finish your tea, I'll be up later for the tray. I'm just downstairs, watching the telly, right?" She fixes John with another of her gimlet-eyed stares paired with that friendly smile before she finally leaves us alone.

John and I just look at each other for a minute, and I have to giggle. "So, is she your housekeeper, or mother-in-law, or -?"

"No! She's not my housekeeper or anything, she's my landlady, and my friend ..." he seems a little sheepish.

"She's certainly determined to keep you in line, isn't she?"

"That she is. Not that I need it," he adds hastily, "Not at all. But, she likes to think I do."

I continue hesitantly. "Well, I don't want to take up any more of your time, really I don't. I just wanted to ask if you knew, well, if you knew -"

He interrupts, like people do when they're helping a shy person talk. "If I knew why Sherlock thought you were a joke that Greg was playing on him today?" I nod, mutely, again biting my lip to show uncertainty. "I could tell that really bothered you. Sherlock isn't deliberately cruel, you know. He's just ... he just doesn't see things the same way as other people do."

"I get that, but what I want to know is, why? Why was he so convinced that I was a set-up? I swear I don't know anything about it, and neither does Inspector Lestrade." I let my voice get a little whingey there, a bit little-girl hurt.

"I'm sorry, but I really don't know. Maybe you could stop by the hospital with me tomorrow and I could help you ask him?"

I shake my head vigorously. "No, I can't. Not an option." I say firmly.

I expect John to assume I'm being shy, and try to talk me into it, and finally offer to find out for me, but he doesn't. He just looks at me for a moment, and slowly puts his empty cup and saucer down on the tray. "Mind telling me why not?"

Okay, so he's not as simple as I thought. This bloke has one suspicious mind, and from the way he's looking at me, I have just tripped a wire; I was probably not tentative enough in my refusal. If I keep on lying, he's not going to trust me at all; if I give him a little, he'll trust all the more and I'll get more out of him later. I drop the shy-girl routine with a sigh. "Well, Mycroft Holmes is watching that hospital room quite closely, isn't he? And Inspector Lestrade told me that Sherlock wasn't supposed to be brought any more cases until he was released from hospital. Lestrade isn't even supposed to be able to go and see him."

I can see John fitting the new information into place. "So, Mycroft knows that you are involved in a case, and he would recognize you?" I nod, and grab a biscuit from the plate to go down with the last dregs of my tea. "But why did you and Greg come to the hospital today, and give - Oh! The security men were gone, weren't they? Were the cameras down as well?"

I nod again. "The Inspector arranged it, but I don't know if he can keep calling in that particular favor or not."

John leans back and puts his hands behind his head with a frown. "Well. Right, so how do you know Mycroft?"

Back onto the slippery slopes of deceit. "I work for him occasionally." John raises his eyebrows, and I roll my eyes at him with a huff. "Not that way," I lie. "I come across useful information sometimes ..."

"So, you spy for him?"

I shrug diffidently. "I've been of use to him a few times."

"So you work for him, but you're still willing to go against him in bringing his brother in on a case? Do you have any idea how overprotective Mycroft is where Sherlock is concerned? I don't think he's going to be very happy with you," John warns.

"I'm very well aware of how deeply concerned he is about Sherlock."

"Deeply concerned? Try maniacally overprotective! Do you know, he had me kidnapped when I first moved in here? He somehow got messages put on my ATM when I tried to use it, and had me kidnapped, and brought to some deserted factory so he could try to intimidate me into spying on his brother for him ... and you think he's just deeply concerned?"

I'm biting my lip to hold back a giggle. "A factory, then? I thought it was a warehouse. Were there floodlights, kind of blinding?"

"No, there weren't any floodlights ..." he says slowly.

"Did he twiddle with his umbrella?"

Now he's giving me a half-smile. "Nearly the whole time. And I had to wonder, why the hell did he bring it inside with him, anyway?"

"So he'd have it to twiddle with, of course! He actually has quite a lot of nervous energy, you know - he's much more high-strung than he would have you think."

"I suppose so." John leans forward, curious now, "So, you got the messages-on-the-ATM-and-trip-to-the-deserted-factory treatment as well?"

"No, I got messages on the bank marquees, and angry text messages, and then I ran ..."

He chokes a bit in disbelief. "You ran? Where? Did it do you any good?"

"Nope, not a bit. I ran all over London like a daft bunny, not realizing that my phone was being tracked, and then went to Scotland Yard thinking they would help ... all they did was hold me until Mycroft's men could catch up, and take me off to the warehouse to meet with him."

"How did Mycroft take it, you running off like that?"

"Oh, about how you'd expect. He was pretty miffed."

"Miffed. I can imagine. Why did he need to do the intimidation routine on you?"

"He ... he thought I was a spy for someone else, and I thought he was trying to kill me. We were both wrong, as it turned out. Lots of drama for nothing."

"Oh, they're both fond of drama, believe me ... but Mycroft's a bit unimaginative, isn't he? Following the same script. I wonder how many times he's done it the exact same way."

For some reason, that nettles me a bit. "I think he does what works. Reducing the variables is more efficient."

"You seem to know him pretty well, for just being one of his spies." He's scrutinizing me again.

"Know him well? Is that even possible?" I shake my head. "He's talked to me a few times, is all."

John huffs at me, pretending to be impressed. "For Mycroft, that counts as a close personal friend - why, you two are practically mates!"

"Yeah, right, bosom buddies!" I say sarcastically. "Mycroft doesn't really show anything to anybody, because there's nothing to show. It's all a performance, smoke and mirrors." I didn't think I was so bitter, until I hear it come out of my mouth that way.

John looks thoughtful. "Well, he seems to get by well enough. You know, it wouldn't be a bad thing if sometimes Sherlock would borrow Mycroft's smoke and mirrors, as you call it. Even if it's not completely sincere, he could stand to be just a little more aware of other people's feelings," John pinches some air between his fingers to illustrate, "as well as he's aware of his own -"

I jump in there. "See, Mycroft is aware of other people - I think he just doesn't care. Or, maybe he only cares as much as he has to. As for his own feelings and needs, I think he honestly believes he hardly has any at all."

John looks professionally interested. "You think he's repressing?"

"Hell, yes, and it makes some things come out in some very strange ways ... are you a psychiatrist, then?"

"No," and he looks a little chagrined. "I just, ah, have spent some time over the past few years reading up on things, you know ..."

"Oh, I can understand that. I spent quite a lot of time trying to figure Mycroft out at first ... I studied a lot of psychology at uni, so it's all still pretty fresh ..."

John smiles. "So, what are your conclusions, after close observation?"

"Basically, that Mycroft is a big arsehole."

John laughs so hard I think he's going to fall off his chair. "Oh, oh, oh, that's good! Yes, I would have to agree, that is my professional opinion as well! Oh! It's nice to hear someone say that out loud, it really is."

When he calms down, I go on. "Well, I mean, he's definitely got some OCD going on, and probably other stuff, but the whole point with mental illness is that it's an *illness*- the person is sick with something completely beyond their control, that gets in the way of living their life, right? Well, I don't think that much of Mycroft's behavior is completely beyond his control, and the parts that are don't have a huge impact. If there's anything at all about him that makes him a nutter, it's that he could care less if you think he's a nutter."

"...and that sounds quite a bit like the conclusion I reached about Sherlock!" John smiles ruefully and shakes his head. "You know, he likes to call himself a high-functioning sociopath, but Dissocial Personality Disorder just doesn't fit his behavior; he has a conscience, he can feel guilt, but those things are inconvenient so he just ignores them. We've had arguments about the sociopath thing. He gets really defensive if I challenge it, so I just let it alone."

"Can you blame him, John? I can't imagine him parading around saying, 'Yep, I'm a huge arsehole!' It's much classier to cop to an edgy mental illness ... more dramatic that way ..." I have to stop there, because John is on the verge of falling out of his chair again.

"Oh, and we must have our drama!" John subsides to a chuckle, and in the easy silence I sense a good time to throw in some more questions.

"So, did Sherlock say *anything* after we left this afternoon? Anything at all, either about me or about the case?"

"No, not really." John shifts in the chair and crosses his legs; I can tell that hard chair is probably hurting his bum, but he might take it the wrong way if I suggest that he move to the sofa. "Well, shortly after you and Greg left, he did blurt out, 'I can't believe he would go in for something like that. It's absolutely appalling.' I asked what was wrong, and he made a face and told me that he was fine, just severely disappointed. I pointed out that Greg undoubtedly meant well, but Sherlock didn't answer. In fact, he didn't speak again for the rest of the afternoon. That's actually not unusual, and a pretty good sign that he's working on your case. I'm sure there'll be good news shortly."

"I hope so," I murmur. Appalling? Ouch. He might have been talking about Lestrade - or he might have been talking about Mycroft. And me. Why else did he demand - twice! - to know who my "patron" was? And if he could correctly deduce my profession and where I'm living right now, god only knows it wouldn't be hard for him to figure out who I'm working for ...

Bloody hell, if that's the case, I've really put my foot into it this time. I had no idea what Sherlock was like, or I'd never have gone in there to talk to him. I have to admit it was pure curiosity, because Lestrade could've passed the book and my information along nearly as well without my being there. I inserted myself into the situation because I could, and I wanted to meet him ... and now Sherlock might aware of things that Mycroft would rather he weren't. And, if so, it's totally my fault ... On the other hand, why the hell should it matter to me? It's not like I matter to him ...

"You are thinking awfully hard about something," a voice says, quietly bemused. I look up and blush to see that John has been watching me at my furious cogitations.

I just close my eyes and shake my head. "Yeah, thinking awfully hard after the fact rather than before. I seem to be making a habit of it, and it's not a good thing."

"How old are you?" His voice is still quiet and bemused.

"Twenty-four. Well, almost. At the end of October."

"So you're twenty-three. I wouldn't have guessed. You seem much older." He shifts around in the chair some more, and sighs. "That's a good age to make mistakes, twenty-three. You still have plenty of bounce left to recover from them. It's harder to recover from a bad choice when you're older, you know. You should try to make all your mistakes now, if you can."

I look up to see such sadness in the doctor's face. He looks haunted. And angry. And ... I don't know, just everything all at once. No doubt it has to do with Mrs. Watson, wherever she is, but I have a feeling that asking him about it wouldn't be very welcome. I try to lighten the mood a little. "I don't think it works that way, although I seem to be carrying on like I can make all my mistakes right now and get it over with! I honestly can't believe how thick I am sometimes."

His expression shifts to compassion and concern, and I can tell that he's going to launch into distracting himself from his own troubles by focussing on what he thinks are mine. I smell a sermon coming on. "You're not trapped, you know, Angelica," he says earnestly. "You don't have to stay where you are, doing the work that you do. Whatever mistakes you have made, you can make other choices. You are better than you think."

God save us from the helping professions! "I know I'm not trapped. I don't feel trapped. I choose this, I choose what I do. I decided a while ago that my life wasn't just going to happen to me, I was going to choose what came, and I have. The minute I start hating my job, I'll find a different one."

He looks skeptical. "You can't be telling me that you like being a prostitute, or - working girl or escort or whatever euphemism you're using! Surely you can think of a better way to make a living ..."

"Well, I like sex and I like money; where's the problem?" I drop the tough-girl attitude as quickly as I put it on; it really doesn't suit me. "Honestly, most of the time I actually do enjoy it. The majority of my clients are just looking for some way to create a human connection, and sex is the only way they know to do it. They think it's for entertainment, but the truth runs much deeper than that. You know, I was in school to become a counselor, to help people live better lives. This is just like that, only it pays much better."

He's shaking his head. "It's nothing like! I don't even see how you can say it is."

"How is it different?"

"I've been in therapy, I know what a counselor does ..."

"And have you utilized professional intimacy services as well?" I'm being playfully supercilious to keep this from getting too heavy, and he can't help but smile at that one, but he's still a little uncomfortable.

"I, ah, I was in the military for a few years." He stops whiffling, and says, "Yes. Yes, I have."

"So, what was the difference, in your experience? Both people were performing a service to make your life better, both were exchanging their time and attention for your money. Both were trained in their profession, either formally or informally, and both saw themselves as professionals. Pray tell me, what's the difference?"

John is thoughtful for a moment, then gives me a look that says, You aren't going to like this.

"I'm sorry to say, the difference is how I treated them. The difference is my attitude, and the amount of respect accorded to each. The difference is that one was an educated, respectable mental health worker, and the other was ... not."

"Well, I'm not a common kerb-crawler. There's a difference."

"Are you sure about that? Really sure? Because I don't know if the rest of us can quite see that there is one."

Right. I am so done with talking to this man. I stand up abruptly, and brush the biscuit crumbs from my lap. "Thank you so much for letting me take up your time, but I really have to go or I'll miss my bus. Perhaps I'll see you around. Thanks again for listening to me."

John blinks in surprise, but stands up to shake my hand. "It was my pleasure, Angelica."

I don't wait for him to see me to the door, I just grab my handbag and go, slipping down the stairs quietly so the landlady doesn't hear me and try to corner me for another conversation.

Once I'm out and away, and riding the bus back to my flat, I take stock once more of what John told me. Well, it's not certain exactly what Sherlock meant by what he said, you could take it several ways. I am not certain what he's guessed, or rather, deduced about Mycroft and me. Maybe nothing.

Maybe he knew that I'm an escort and where I'm staying because Mycroft told him! That's not the sort of stuff that anyone would tell a boyfriend, but a brother? Why not? Although, to be honest, Mycroft doesn't seem like the type to even confide in his brother, but you never know.

Once back in the Knightsbridge neighborhood, it's a piece of cake to climb up the old oak tree and back through the open window. I close it only partway, because it's a warm night and the breeze outside feels good. I flop down on the bed and check for messages on my old phone; Sara has called, yippee. I think I'm still mad at her for letting her boyfriend move in, because I've had no inclination to phone her and talk about Steen's death, much less the visit to the morgue. Especially the visit to the morgue. Damn Mycroft and his surprises!

And speaking of the devil, I can see from the phone log that there were also two calls from a restricted number, exactly ten minutes apart, but no voice message left from either call. However, there is a text message in my queue - and it's from an identified number, sent immediately after the last call: 'Need to speak to you regarding your friend. MH'

So, it looks like he thought I was ignoring his calls, and he is indirectly asking me to phone him ...? The text was sent almost an hour ago, so I hit the number to dial a voice call right away. Maybe he's changed his mind about investigating Steen's death.

"Angel." It's definitely Mycroft.

"Hey."

No hello-how-are-you, no preamble. He jumps in with, "You might like to know that I've arranged for your friend's remains to be transported to Australia, for disposal by the family. If you wish to see him off, I can send a car for you tomorrow morning."

This catches me off-balance, and I have to think about it for a moment. "I, well, yeah, I would. Yes, thank you." I hadn't even considered the practicalities of a funeral, or any of that, but of course that would have to be seen to. "Thank you very much."

"Not at all. A driver will come round for you tomorrow at half past eleven." Then, click, that's it.

I look at the phone in my hand, taking it all in. He's given me his personal phone number. He's making the arrangements on behalf of Steen's mum, whom I know wouldn't have the money to fly his body home. He's making sure I get to say goodbye. Of course, it doesn't sound like he'll be joining me in the send-off, but still, it's pretty thoughtful behavior for a heartless bastard.

Well, he did say he was good at faking it.

I heave an enormous sigh and go downstairs to have a cup of tea. I hate being ambivalent. I like to pick a stance and stay with it, not whiffle all over the map. And I am whiffling around about Mycroft - it's like part of me hates him, and part of me is obsessively attached, and I can't manage to stay in one or the other camp. That's what Auntie used to call whiffling.

Tea in hand, I curl up on the sofa and have a look at my email and other online stuff; I'm especially interested in anything that might pop up on the escort's forum concerting Steen's last doings. I don't find any of that, but I do find a new query about "Mr. Tate!" It's from a new recruit, a bloke who goes by the name of Xander. He says he has a meeting scheduled with "Tate" on Wednesday night and is a little nervous, given the "polite but creepy" reputation that client has, so he is looking for more feedback and the latest scoop.

There is something like an explosion in my stomach, and I am simultaneously enraged, and appalled at myself for being so angry. God, there's nothing worse than feeling sick with jealousy when you know you have no right to it. Agh!

I have such an urge to throw my mug across the room, I make myself set it down - slowly! - on the coffee table, then I jump up to pace the room around. God! I ask for a week off and the pathetic sex-addict has to run and set up a meeting with the new boy, with a name like Xander, of all things! Can't even last six days without getting his end away ...

I throw myself down into an armchair, furious at Mycroft. And furious with myself for being furious with him. Bloody hell, what am I coming to? Steen was right, I don't know shit about boundaries. But there's no more whiffling about at the moment, is there? I hate Mycroft with a passion right now, equal parts hate and passion. I am such a mental mess ...

I'm suddenly desperate for a smoke, so I grab my cig case and lighter, along with my laptop, and park myself upstairs on the floor beside the open window, leaning over to exhale the smoke out and keeping the burning cigarette just inside the casement. I read Xander's query over again a few times, and then a very ignoble idea surfaces in my mind. It's not very nice, but it's also not exactly vicious, either.

I spend quite a lot of time carefully wording a response to Xander, one that sounds like I'm struggling to stay neutral, yet manages to make "Tate" out to be a client you wouldn't want to get anywhere near. If the boy doesn't outright decline this assignment, he will at least be so nervous that both of them are guaranteed to have a miserable evening. After I send it off, I feel a million percent better.

Xander must be online right now, because an answer comes from him quite quickly, thanking me for my honesty about what is obviously a very difficult client. I can't stop grinning, but it's probably not a nice grin. I almost feel sorry for Mycroft.