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? ;)

34. Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Four

"...How cheerfully he seems to grin/ How neatly spreads his claws/ And welcomes little fishies in/ With gently smiling jaws." ~ Alice in Wonderland

Sherlock breezes out of 221a, leaving the three of us to sit there for a few moments, recovering.

"He's kind of intense, isn't he." I comment to nobody in particular. John and Mrs. Hudson look at each other, sharing a laugh as she stands and gathers up the tea things for washing.

"You could say that." John drains the rest of his cup, then rises and offers me a hand up as well. "Come on, then, Angelica. Let's upstairs to patch you up, like the man said."

Before I can get my legs under me to stand, Mrs. Hudson has placed her hand on my shoulder. "Maybe you could bring your things down here, John? Best for her to not be jogging up and down those stairs with that leg of hers! She really ought to stay down here. With me." Even though she says this with a kind smile in her voice, I hear the iron underneath.

I think John does, too, because his eyes flick between me and Mrs. Hudson for a beat; "Oka-a-y." Then he wags a finger at me. "I may be a little while. You're going to stay put, right?"

I nod, and in the silence after he leaves to go upstairs, I feel like shouting, YOU CAN RELAX, I'M NOT GOING TO FUCK JOHN WATSON, OK?! But I don't think it would be much use. As Daddy used to say, 'There's no use in confusing people with the truth when they've already made up their minds.'

Well, but she's also genuinely kind; in short order Mrs. Hudson has me propped on the sofa in her sitting room, surrounded by soft cushions, with the remote for the telly in my hand. She and I chat cozily about nothing at all, and I think I can just about forgive her for having a nasty suspicious mind.

It takes John a really long time to return, and when he does it's without any explanation; he just sits down beside me with his black bag on the floor and preps a disturbingly large syringe with liquid from a tiny bottle. I start to roll up my sleeve in anticipation of the jab, but he purses his lips and re-caps the needle with a frown.

"Angelica, I've got to tell you, this really isn't on. You shouldn't be sitting here, you should be in hospital getting comprehensive treatment. I could lose my license over this –– and much, much worse than that, if the infection gets out of control, you could suffer a permanent injury, or even die. Just consider that for a moment, will you?"

I turn my sleeve back down and shrug. "Look, if you won't treat me, I'll just take my chances. I'm not going to hospital, and that's that. Anyway, I already feel loads better now ––"

He cuts me off impatiently, "You're going to risk throwing your life away because you think Mycroft is out to get you? Can't you see how paranoid that is?"

"It's not paranoia if they're actually out to get you!" I knew he wasn't going to believe me. "Okay, so Sherlock is probably right, it was likely somebody else shooting at me earlier in the park, but . . . look, I saw a video of Mycroft, I heard him casually offer to have me eliminated if necessary, like . . . like you'd toss out a ruined pair of shoes. I heard him, so don't try to tell me that I'm just being paranoid." I can feel my eyes start to tear up, but I sniffle it back and focus instead on how angry I am. "So, loyalty, right? Bollocks. I'm not sticking around for him to decide whether or not I deserve to live!"

I notice that neither of them jump in to reassure me that Mycroft would never, ever do that. Actually, they exchange troubled looks and say nothing at all for a moment.

Mrs. Hudson speaks up first, with a sigh. "Well, I don't know what you were expecting, dear. I mean, he's not a very nice man, is he? You had to have known. You probably thought you could change him, though, didn't you?"

"Oh, fuck that!" Damn, I didn't mean for that to come out as rude as it did. "I'm sorry, ma'am," I continue more quietly. "No, I never thought I was going to change him, not ever. In the business, in my business, you expect people to come and go; it's supposed to be temporary. We want to be treated with respect, but, you know, it's actually better if people don't get too attached. It's just –– I never thought I'd be considered expendable!"

John twiddles with the capped syringe and makes a wry face. "I could say all kinds of I-told-you-so's and that's-what-you-get's, but I don't think it would be much help, would it?" I narrow my eyes at him; you're bloody right there, mate! "Right. The thing is, even though Mycroft doesn't exactly hang out around here –– and that's good, because Mrs. Hudson is right, he's not at all nice, not really ––because of Sherlock I know him, even if not all that well, but . . . I can tell you that I have never heard of nor seen him do or say anything without a very, very good reason for it. Mycroft seems more . . . careful that way than most people are.

"So, if you you heard him say that he would be willing to eliminate you, then I would wonder why he was saying it at that moment, and who he was saying it to. And by the same token, if he did have to do it I can't imagine he'd do it lightly, or without very good reason."

Oh, for fuck's sake! "Well, isn't that just lovely. I'm sure that will be a huge comfort when I'm lying there with bullet in my brain, knowing that it was for a good reason!" My snark doesn't go unnoticed this time.

The look that John gives me is harder than you'd think his well-worn face was capable of, and his voice is harsh; "We all make choices, Angelica, and have to live with the consequences. You're no bloody exception. Get over yourself."

I haven't got any snappy answer for that, because I know he's right. I chose this. I look down at my hands in my lap, with the ragged, ugly nails, then back up at him. "So, are you going to give me that jab, or what?"

He sighs, "Roll up your sleeve."

He's very good with a needle; the sting from the antiseptic swab hasn't even worn off before he's putting a plaster over the spot, and reciting the possible side effects to watch out for. I wave away his concern and get to the question that has been on the tip of my tongue since Sherlock left. "So, what's this case that I'm to put Sherlock closer to solving? What did he mean by legwork? And why was he so happy that Mycroft for sure doesn't know where I am?"

John frowns, and takes his time putting the syringe and wrappers in the kitchen bin, and washing his hands. He's still frowning when he plops down in the armchair beside the sofa and rubs a hand over his tired-looking eyes.

"Legwork is just another way of saying fieldwork," he says, then stops.

"I figured as much," I say encouragingly. "What about the case? What is it?"

John stares off into the distance for a bit, making some interesting faces as he thinks. Finally, he looks back toward me with a sigh. "Well, I suppose . . . Right. So, the thing is, Sherlock believes that Mycroft has been . . . compromised by a very clever blackmailer. For quite some time, actually. When Sherlock first met you, he was certain that you were a willing accomplice. Now, though, he thinks you're just being . . . manipulated, by several people. We discovered that the cameras in the Knightsbridge flat were put there by ––"

"Evan McCutcheon." I blurt out, taxed by John's hesitations. "I went and talked to him that night after you two broke into my flat."

"Oh! Well, what did you find out?"

"More than I bargained for!" I admit. "McCutcheon is ex-CIA, completely mad, and has a personal vendetta against Mycroft. He made me steal the Torch code book so he could sell it to terrorists, and get Mycroft blamed for it!"

John's face goes from surprised to shocked. "That was you? You're McCutcheon's operative?"

"NO! I'm not his operative! I mean, yeah, I took the code book –– they would have killed me otherwise –– but I got away from them after, and found a way to return it safely."

I can tell that this information is making John mentally re-arrange a few ideas about me. Good.

"So, what does this blackmailer want from Mycroft? Money?" I ask.

John shakes his head. "I don't think it's that simple. He seems to want influence, and . . . well, amusement."

"Amusement?" Okay, that's weird.

"He seems to enjoy making important people… dance. And it's escalating, he's reaching higher and higher."

"Dance? What do you mean, dance?"

"Make them do things you wouldn't think anyone would bother with, nonsensical things. Like, making Mycroft attend a wedding last month ––"

"I saw that! I was there, at Stoke Park. He was miserable."

"You were invited to that? That's an interesting coincidence . . ." John says slowly.

"Hey, before you go off on a deduction, Sherlock junior, let me tell you I wasn't invited; I crashed the party because I was stalking Mycroft at the time."

John bursts out laughing. "Stalking Mycroft? Why on earth were you –– oh, never mind!"

Mrs. Hudson is laughing at me as well, and I'm quite sorry I opened my mouth about Stoke Park. Whatever. I lean my head back against the sofa, feeling a mild wave of nausea, probably from the antibiotic. I swallow it back, thinking over what John has said. It's kind of hard to imagine Mycroft being manipulated by someone else, but I guess even puppet masters can have masters. I wonder what this bloke has on Mycroft. It must be good. "So, where do I fit into this? And the Torch? And my friend, Steen?"

John shakes his head. "I don't know. Sherlock hasn't told me everything yet, he never does until the case is closed –– and even then he only ties it all up nice and tidy for me if he wants to show off how clever he is." No rancour at all in John's voice; that's just how it is, apparently. "I do know that the escort agency you work for is definitely owned by the blackmailer, and he is definitely using you girls as part of his network."

Girls? I nearly start in at him over that, but now is not the time; I have better things to worry over than John being patronising. "You know, Sherlock said that, and so did McCutcheon, but I still don't see how it could work! I mean, if that sort of thing was going on, word would have gotten out and nobody would use the Agency's services any more. People are bound to get just a bit suspicious if you blackmail them with sex tapes featuring your escorts, aren't they?"

John shakes his head. "I don't think it's actual recordings, Angelica," he says. "More like personal secrets, embarrassing little things, kinks, vulnerabilities –– "

"But I was never asked for any of that! And Steen worked for the Agency for ages, and he never mentioned it to me; he was the kind of friend who would have, too. He didn't hold back." Even as I am saying that, I know it isn't true. He held back plenty, I was just too naive to see it.

"It sounds like someone has found a way to collect gossip," comments Mrs. Hudson. "The old gossip mill, grinding away."

"Sherlock has heard an 'online treasure trove' mentioned," John adds.

"An online treasure trove?" Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit.

"What? What is it?" Ican tell he's concerned by my alarm.

"I'll show you. Mrs. Hudson, do you have a computer I could borrow? With an internet connection? Please?" I ask.

"Just a minute, I have a little netbook you can use."

She returns from the bedroom with a tiny, bright pink laptop, and proceeds to boot it up. I joke with her while we're waiting, "Don't worry, I won't look at your porn!"

Her lips purse in a sly smile. "Oh, there's just a little light reading on this one, dear. My porn is on the other computer with the bigger screen." John clears his throat, blinking rapidly.

It seems like forever, but she finally hands me the netbook, commenting that it's already online. I immediately go to the escorts' forum to log in.

Curious, John asks, "What's that?"

I motion him over. "You can look over my shoulder, I don't mind, not for this." John sits close by me on the sofa to lean over my left shoulder and, not to be excluded, Mrs. Hudson claims the spot over my right. "This is a secret forum for the Agency's escorts. It was founded about five years ago, I guess, and I'm the current admin. "

John points at the title of one of the most popular boards. "What's 'Johnspotting' mean?"

I crane my neck sideways to look at him, and we're almost nose-to-nose. He has a nice nose. "It's when you recognise a client out in public and learn their real name and title and position, or can guess it. See, the Agency is all about anonymity, or it's supposed to be. Nobody uses their real names, neither the clients nor the escorts, and we're not supposed to ask or be told personal details. Of course, everybody does, and when you service the rich and powerful like we do, who can resist bragging about it? This is our safe space to brag, and whinge and moan, too. Or, it's supposed to be a safe space." I look at the screen glumly. "I'm not so sure. What if that blackmailer had access to this forum? If he runs the Agency, he would know which escorts are meeting with specific clients . . . and he could pair up especially chatty escorts with particularly important clients.

"The sorts of details you were mentioning, John, the little kinks and quirks and secrets . . . there's all kinds of dirt on people in here. I never thought that it could be used against anyone, not really, because like Mrs. Hudson said, it's all just gossip. No proof."

John rubs his chin, and I'm close enough to hear the scrape of five o'clock whiskers against his fingers. "You wouldn't need proof if the gossip were accurate and embarrassing enough. Just the threat of having it exposed would suffice. Most people would be too frightened to call the bluff." He gives me a look that manages to be admonishing, encouraging, and stern all at the same time. "That forum needs to go away."

Damn. I was afraid he was going to say that. I don't want this responsibility! I wanted to know what's going on, but I didn't want to have to make decisions about it! Maybe that's why they say that ignorance is bliss . . . what was it that Sherlock said? "If ignorance is bliss, she lives in ecstasy." Yup.

The problem is, once you know, you can't go back. Whether the blackmailer is digging around in there himself or one of the escorts has sold out, I don't know, but I feel like I have to do something.

I go to the admin settings page, and find the "Delete this forum" button so I can glare at it. There's a lot of good information and advice and camaraderie here, but it's nothing that couldn't be found elsewhere as well, without the risk of innocent people getting hurt. I take a deep breath and hit "delete," and then confirm it twice more. And it's done.

I shut down the computer and look up into John's lopsided smile. "That was hard!" I tell him. "Really hard. And it's too little, too late, you know? That douchebag has probably already downloaded all the information I just deleted."

"Probably," he agrees, "But at least there won't be any more."

"Until someone starts another forum. I hope Sherlock can shut this creep down before then." Feeling very low, I hand the little computer back to Mrs. Hudson.

Out of the blue, another wave of nausea hits me, and a cramp in my lower gut. "I need to use your loo, Mrs. Hudson, like, right now!"

She points the way down the hall, and I'm off like a shot. It's just the usual, what you expect from a dose of strong antibiotic, and the cramps pass once everything else does. Since I'm in there anyway, I take the opportunity to unwrap the binding from my chest and give my poor little titties a break, as well as unpin the sock-roll from my knickers. Might as well be comfortable.

As I wash my hands, I check myself out in the ancient mirror hanging over the basin, and ruffle around my pink-orange hair with wet fingers. I look kind of tired, not really surprising after the past few days! It's a relief to not feel like I'm on my own anymore . . . but I don't feel like I can completely trust these people. I suppose that's because I know it's really Sherlock's show; he's the alpha in this little pack. That's not a bad thing, I guess, because somebody has to, right? But . . . I can't ever see him being comfortable around me. I'm always going to remind him of things he'd rather not think about.

Speak of the devil: Emerging from the loo, I find that Sherlock is back. He's planted in the doorway, still wearing his coat, and the sound of conversation halts suddenly as I come down the hall. I brush past him to take my place on the sofa, and as I pass he thrusts a bulky, zippered gym bag at me.

"Hey! Careful!" I catch the bag against my middle and, sitting down with a curious glance at Sherlock's perpetually smug face, open it to have a peek inside. It's full of . . . clothing. My clothing. From Barry's flat. He broke into Barry's flat! I'm speechless, staring at the tangle of my worldly goods crammed into the zippered bag. For fuck's sake, who does he think he is?

"I took the liberty of retrieving your belongings for you," Sherlock says nonchalantly, "From the state of your hair, you had access to artist's ochre and were desperate enough to try colouring with it. Your borrowed hoody is embroidered with the logo of the UK 400 Club, and therefore belongs to a dedicated twitcher who is very likely on holiday with his club –– they organise rare bird outings every August, don't they? Very convenient. If you were in Tower Hamlets Cemetery this morning, and early enough for it to be still nearly deserted, then clearly you have been squatting someplace a short distance away, so it was a simple matter to identify your unwitting host and locate his flat."

I'm torn between admiration and being totally furious. He went through my stuff, damn him! But, that's pretty impressive, to figure it all out. Damn him.

"Look, if you had asked, I would have told you, you know? And I could have just given you the key, you didn't have to break in!" But, then he couldn't have proven how very clever he is, could he? Uh-huh. I let it go. "Okay. Why did you bother fetching my clothes and stuff, anyway?" I can't imagine he'd put himself to any trouble just to be nice to me.

"Fancy clubbing tonight?" Sherlock asks me a little too brightly. "I have a bit of work that might be right up your alley."

John frowns. "I don't know, Sherlock. That leg ––"

"Oh, Angel's right as rain, aren't you?" Sherlock is giving me a smile that quite reminds me of that poem in "Alice in Wonderland" about the crocodile welcoming the little fishes . . . .

"I can be, if I need to be," I tell him. "But, just, stop smiling at me, okay? I'll take honest hatred over fake nicey-nice every time." He shrugs, and lets the false smile fade; interestingly, his eyes never change.

John picks up his valise from the floor and snaps it closed. "Where?"

"The Bacchanal," Sherlock tells John with a flick of the eyebrows. "I'd like her to have a chat with someone."

"At a strip club?" John looks from Sherlock to me and back again.

"The element of surprise," says Sherlock. "I need a piece of information from a punter who frequents that club. The proprietor of The Bacchanal owes a favour to me, a big one, and has agreed to substitute Angel here for one of his dancers for the evening."

"What? Look, I can't just ––" There are so many reasons why that is a bad idea!

"Why not?" Sherlock frowns. "This punter hires a private table and dancer and a bottle of champagne nearly every Saturday. He's made a reservation for tonight. It's perfect. You'll substitute for the girl who was scheduled, giving you an entire hour to gain his confidence and extract a very small, but vital, piece of information from him. You get the dance fee and tip, I get the information."

"That's not . . . I can't do that."

Now he looks fully annoyed. "Why not? I should think it's a simple enough task, even for you."

"And it's a dickish idea, even for you!" I snap back. "First off, it's a shitty thing for me to take another person's gig away from them. And, there's the tiny detail that I'm not a stripper! I'm an escort. Different skill-set."

"I have it on good authority that you dance quite well," Sherlock says blandly.

Whose authority, I wonder, and were they at Verge that night . . .? Hmm. "I can, like, dance on a dance floor, but stripping is an art, and it takes practice, and it takes ––" Oh, I hate admitting this! "It takes way better boobs than I've got, okay? Trust me, nobody is going to take me seriously as a stripper. The situation would have to be pretty dire for me to even try."

Sherlock starts pacing around the tiny sitting room, hands in pockets, his coat sweeping behind. "What if I were to tell you that this was an opportunity to help rid the world of the man who ruined your life?"

Wha –– ? Mycroft? No! He's got to be talking about someone else. "I would say that I don't really consider my life ruined, so I don't know who you mean," I reply carefully.

Sherlock suddenly swoops toward the sofa and leans close to me. "I mean Charles Magnussen!" he hisses. "One of the most vile creatures alive. This regular customer of The Bacchanal is the architect who designed Magnussen's home, Appledore. I need to know where the full blueprints for Appledore are, the real ones that include the underground vaults." He throws himself into the armchair by the telly with a scowl. "I need someone with your . . . skill-set."

I set my bag down on the floor between my feet. "I'll give it my best, if you'll tell me how this Magnussen is supposed to have ruined my life."

"You won't like it," he warns me.

"I'd listen to Sherlock, if I were you, dear," Mrs. Hudson chimes in. "If Sherlock says you'd rather not know, he means it."

"I want to know," I insist stubbornly.

Sherlock leans forward, elbows on his knees. "Then, I'm very sorry," he says, although he doesn't sound or look the least bit sorry. "I have some more bad news for you about the late Steen Dijkstra. He was no friend to you, not at all. He wasn't just another rent-boy working for the Agency: He was one of their chief head-hunters, recruiting young prostitutes who met specific criteria, by any means necessary. You were one of his recruits."

It's so silly, I have to laugh. "Um, sorry, no. You're wrong," I shake my head. "Steen helped me get a job when I was down and out, you know? I was at the end of my rope, and Steen threw me a line. He helped me get into escorting, but I sure as hell don't consider that ruining my life!"

"And why were you 'down and out'? You flunked out of uni, eventually got a reasonable job. . . then lost it rather unexpectedly, didn't you? It was a bit of a blow?"

"Yeah, that was rough." Actually, it was horrible; I had just started that sales job and turned out to be very good at it, and had begun to think maybe I could pull my life out of the pit . . . then, wham! I came in to work one day, and they told me I was sacked, just like that. "Pretty brutal," I admit.

"Aaand, your boyfriend threw you out the same day, just as suddenly, for no apparent reason. . . "

It doesn't really surprise me that he knows this stuff; I mean, the bloke is a detective, right? It's his job, and he's obviously good at it. "Okay, so you're implying that those two things are linked?"

"No, I'm not implying anything," Sherlock says. "I'm telling you that Dijkstra was directly responsible for you losing your job and your flat within the space of a day, and then, when you were completely desperate, he befriended you, patched you up, and convinced you seek another job . . . with the Agency. I don't know how much they paid him, but I imagine it was worth his while."

What!? "You are full of shit, you know that? Full. Of. SHIT!" I cannot believe this smug arsehole is sitting there spewing this. "Do you have nothing better to do than go around making up lies and hurting people? What the actual fuck is wrong with you?"

John holds up a hand, and tells me in a calming voice, "Angelica, if Sherlock says that's how it was, then ––"

"Then he can still be fucking WRONG!"

"Except that I'm not." Sherlock leans back in the creaking, shabby armchair. "Think! You lost your employment and relationship on the same day, without warning. What is the probability of that?"

"Shit happens," I spit. "You're only telling me this so I'll help you get the information about Applecore! You'd say anything to get my cooperation."

"Appledore. It's called, Appledore. And, if all I wanted was your cooperation, I'd simply offer you more money. That would be incentive enough to enlist your help at the moment, wouldn't it? But knowing that Magnussen was the one who manipulated you and destroyed your chance to build a normal life, that enlists you as an ally, not just an employee."

"You're a manipulative git! Why the hell would I want to ally with you?" There's a long silence, and I avoid looking at any of them; they're all a bunch of arseholes.

But. . . what if he's right? Sherlock is a huge cock, but he's no muppet, and he's been right about a lot of things so far. "So, you think that Steen only pretended to be my friend so he could groom me to work for the Agency and help them snare . . . Mycroft?"

Sherlock shifts around in the chair uncomfortably. "Yes."

I shake my head. "I still don't buy it, okay? I can tell the difference between real friendship and bullshit, and Steen really cared for me."

Mrs. Hudson quietly offers, "Maybe it started out one way, and ended another? Hearts are funny things."

"Well, if it's true, if they paid Steen to recruit me, it wasn't a very good investment; Mycroft certainly isn't snared. Nobody has anything on him because of me, he said so himself."

"And you believed him?" Sherlock sneers. "Your naiveté isn't charming, it's pathetic. Mycroft's recent actions are proof that he's compromised, and you are the only possible pressure point."

I shake my head again. "Nope. Sorry, but no. It's not me. It's you, Sherlock. If he has a pressure point, it's you."

He laughs hard at this –– not fake-laughing, either, real belly-laughing. "That's ludicrous. You have no idea, really you don't. My brother does absolutely everything out of duty, obligation, and a pathological sense of propriety; he has never shown the slightest sign of being affected by . . . familial sentiment."

"And you believed him?" I sneer. Ha! Gotcha, arsehole.

It's hard for me to read Sherlock's expressions; I don't know him, and he and I just don't click, but his face seems to cycle through looking annoyed, then thoughtful, then . . . frightened?

Then his expression smoothes out, and he asks me evenly, "Will you do it?"

"Yes."

"Excellent!" He leaps to his feet, and begins issuing marching orders. "We leave in three hours. I recommend that you wear your red La Perle lingerie, Angel, with the black stockings ––"

"Really? Red and black? Isn't that a –– well, a bordello kind of look? Anyway, the red set is obnoxious, I only packed it along because it's, you know, La Perle. I usually split the pieces up to wear with other things. . . "

"No," Sherlock says firmly. "Wear the La Perle set. The trend these days is toward pastels, so a bold statement is going to stand out and pique his jaded palate."

"But what if he's looking for comfort and reassurance, more like a mashed-potatoes kind of experience? The Fleur pink satin is a safer bet, I think; not as luxurious as the La Perle, but it's less likely to overwhelm him. And the suspenders have those adorable little embroidered butterflies . . . "

"You will just have to trust my judgment on this, Angel! The red ––"

"I'll tell you what," John's irritation whips over Sherlock's voice, "I'll tell you, why don't YOU wear the red La Perle, Sherlock, and Angelica can wear the pink butterflies, and then you'll both be happy, all right?"

"Really, John!" Sherlock scolds, then smiles just a little. "You know red isn't my colour."

John makes an exasperated noise and retreats upstairs, shaking his head. Smiling, Sherlock watches him go, then turns to me. "Definitely wear the red. With black stockings. And over it, the black polyester wrap-front skirt––"

"I don't have a black poly skirt." I poke through my clothes in the bag at my feet. "Do you mean the ruched silk?"

"It's not silk."

"Yes it is." I pull out the garment in question. "See? Label says '100% silk.' Which top do you think with it?"

"The black-and-white op art. And the skirt isn't silk, it's polyester. Deliberately mis-labelled. You should buy better quality."

"I put my money where it counts, into the lingerie," I retort. "The rest of it doesn't usually stay on long enough to matter."

Sherlock looks thoughtful. "I suppose not."

"Mrs. Hudson, can I occupy your bathroom for a good while? I'm a complete wreck, it's going to take hours to get ready." I check in the bag, and it looks like Sherlock cleared all my things out of the bath at Barry's; my soap, razor, and other whatnots are in there –– and my stash of condoms as well. Shouldn't need those tonight, but a few of them are going in my handbag anyway. You never know.

"Too bad we can't do anything about your hair," Sherlock adds helpfully. "It's hideous, but there's no time to get you to a salon and repair the damage."

"Hideous? I don't think it's that bad . . . " I protest. Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock look at each other.

"You know, I could pop down to the corner shop, pick up some peroxide and a box of hair colour, and be back in a jiffy," offers Mrs. Hudson. "And then help with, you know, applying it. It would be fun." She gives me a big smile, and Sherlock pats her approvingly on the shoulder.

"Excellent idea, Mrs. Hudson! The oxides won't all come out, so make it a brownish dye, to cover the pink. Something plain and dull. What colour do you use on yours? That would do nicely."

Mrs. Hudson and I look at each other. "How do you put up with that?" I ask her. "I mean, really."

"Some people are worth it, my dear. And some aren't." She smiles fondly at Sherlock, who is ignoring her in favour of sending a quick text.

"Right. We leave at half seven," he tells me, pocketing his mobile. "Be ready!"

"That's awfully early for a Saturday night, isn't it?" I ask, but it's to the thin air because Sherlock has already hurried off. I feel like making a rude noise after him, but I restrain myself and settle for a sigh. "There's nothing wrong with pink hair, you know. It can look really cool."

Mrs. Hudson bites her lip as she looks at my hair. "Not that shade, dear. The customer sounds like he might be conservative; an architect, right? So you don't want to be too outlandish. What colour dye would you like? They don't have a big selection, but I should be able to find something nice."

"Oh, whatever, I don't care." Actually, I do care quite a lot, but since she's buying the dye we have to do that complicated dance of "How about this one?" "Well, no, actually" until she understands that I want it to be some shade of red; she promises to bring me "something ginger-ish."

Mrs. Hudson's tub isn't spacious by a long shot; either it's even smaller than Sara's or else I've gotten spoilt by the luxury of living in Knightsbridge. Still, I can fold enough of myself into it to feel like I'm getting a nice hot soak. I don't have time to loll around, really, but shaving and pumicing will be easier if I let the water soften me up a bit. I toss in a handful of lavender bath salts to help it along, closing my eyes to drift in the fragrant steam.

Oh, Steen. Did you really fuck with my life so I would work for the Agency? If you did, does it matter? I'm not unhappy about how my life turned out at all; Mrs. Hudson is right, hearts are funny things.

I don't think Sherlock was lying; in fact, I know he wasn't. My gut tells me he was being truthful, as least to the best of his knowledge. He could still be wrong, mind, but he wasn't lying. But it didn't have the effect that he thought it would; I don't hate Steen. Hell, I don't even hate this Magnussen, although I think he's a slime-ball who needs to be stopped. I hope Sherlock can do it.

I hear Mrs. Hudson coming back from the shop, so I grab a flannel and start scrubbing. Three hours later, we have got me silky-smooth and polished again, with an acceptably human shade of hair colour –– and in the bargain I know quite a bit more about Martha Hudson's life than I really want to, but that's okay; most of it is actually quite interesting, especially the parts where she married a drug lord and lived in America, although those are also the parts that she's very cagey going into detail about.

Sherlock and John come down to collect me at exactly half past seven, and Sherlock makes me do a turn around the room before nodding his approval, although he pronounces my new strawberry blond hair colour "garish." Mrs. Hudson and I exchange a little smile, because that is exactly what she predicted he would say.

John checks in with me and has a look at my temperature and pulse, even assessing the injury on my leg through my stocking. As he gently prods the spot, I tell him it's feeling much better than it did earlier today, and he notes that the swelling is greatly reduced. I don't mention the continuing uproar in my stomach that made me pass up the light tea that Mrs. Hudson tried to feed me a while ago; I reckon I'll grab a late supper when we get back.

We hit our first snag when John opens the outside door; it's damp and bloody freezing out there! Well, okay, not freezing, but it isn't warm, and I'm barely dressed. Sherlock insists that Mrs. Hudson borrow me her dress coat, but, really, she's nearly a foot shorter than me. I look ridiculous.

Practically snarling with impatience, Sherlock bounds upstairs and returns with a tweedy, ragged thing that turns out to be one of his own old, worn-out coats. Apparently, he never throws them out when they get shabby; they get retired to a carton and packed away.

The coat smells fusty and has a few mysterious stains here and there, but at least it more or less fits and keeps me from getting a damp chill while we look for a cab.

The Bacchanal is only in Covent Garden, and honestly, I think we could walk the two miles in the time it takes us to find a cab and ride down there –– except that I'm wearing some serious spike-heeled Pleasers, which are not exactly hiking boots. After the three of us finally pile into a black cab, Sherlock briefs me on the gentleman I'll be entertaining: The architect's name is Michael Swinhar, from Gloucester. He's 55, married, and in the throes of what Sherlock calls "a typical mid-life meltdown."

Great, another one –– although you could hardly call Mycroft "typical" in any way, so I guess it isn't really. Sherlock explains that Mr. Swinhar has been a huge success in the world of high-concept architecture until recently, when his star became eclipsed by younger rivals.

"So, you're telling me that I need to stroke his ego?"

"You need to stroke anything you can, including his ego." Sherlock replies, and I hear something from John that's either a cough or a short laugh, not sure which. "The information I need seems a minor thing, and I need you to make sure that you act as if it is minor, Angel. Don't over-emphasise or badger him about it. But! We have to know where the detailed, complete building plans for Appledore are kept. Ideally, you would convince him to show them to you, but I would settle for knowing how and where they're stored; I can figure out access later."

We make it to the club well before half past eight, which is when my appointment with Mr. Swinhar is to start, and Sherlock takes us around to the club's back entrance. We're met by a very posh but somewhat nervous young man whom Sherlock introduces as Arthur, one of the owners. He shakes John's hand with a how-do, but only looks me over with smile. "Nice!" he says to Sherlock, "Very nice."

"Very pleased to meet you too, I'm sure!" I snap at this Arthur, although his smile doesn't falter. Stupidity often makes people immune to sarcasm.

Arthur leads us through the back rooms of the club, stopping along the way to introduce me to the security staff as the temp dancer who will be entertaining Mr. Swinhar in the Ambrosia Room this evening.

The security bloke who's supervising the floor tonight looks like every other bouncer I've ever seen, large and bald, except that he's got a nicer uniform than they usually have, and he seems even denser between the ears than most. He looks at me, and then at Arthur, and asks, slowly, "Will there be a problem with the camera tonight in the Ambrosia Room?" Arthur looks even more nervous than before and stammers that he doesn't know, looking between John and Sherlock.

This is mildly annoying to me, since I'm the one most affected, but whatever! Sherlock tells Arthur, "Oh, yes, I believe so. Very definitely, there will be a problem with the camera." Arthur nods at the bouncer, who nods at him, and the four men all nod knowingly at one another, completely ignoring . . . Never mind, I'll just stand here and be beautiful.

Arthur leads us onward toward the main floor, walking beside John and chattering at him about how temperamental some of the dancers are, and how much trouble they've been giving him of late. Gee, Arthur, could it be because of the way you treat them?

Sherlock drops back to lean close to me and murmurs, "The law requires CCTV cameras ––"

"–– in every so-called private dance room, so they can make sure nobody touches anybody, because if they do that makes the club a brothel and that's illegal. I know, I've been in strip clubs before, as a guest. I imagine that the anticipated camera problem means that it'll be turned off while I'm with Mr. Swinhar?"

"Yes." Sherlock gives me an intense, meaningful look. "You can take this as far as you want to. Just get the information."

"Just make sure that camera is off, and stays off!" I tell him.

We eventually reach a pair of grand double doors that open out on to the main floor, which is a lot like any other classy, cozy, brass-and-fern pub, except for the stage that takes up the wall opposite the bar. It has three gleaming brass poles spaced along it, although only one is occupied at the moment; we really are here very early in the evening. The DJ booth is empty as well, and canned pop music throbs from the huge speakers at either side of the stage where the sole dancer struts and spins.

We may be early, but the place isn't completely dead; I have to smile at how John's demeanour changes the instant we are under the scrutiny of several undulating, attractive females in various states of undress. He becomes both wary and distracted, while Sherlock's focus seems to narrow to a laser beam. "Swinhar isn't here yet," he says, scanning the sparse crowd.

"Mr. Swinhar always arrives on the dot and goes directly to his VIP room," Arthur comments to Sherlock. "Maybe, instead of waiting in the dressing room with the other girls, it would be better if your dancer waited for him there? The girls aren't too pleased about this last-minute substitution; as a matter of fact, some of them are absolutely hostile about it!"

I don't blame them for being hostile, but I'm just as glad to not be on the receiving end of it. Before following Arthur, I shrug off my borrowed coat and ask John if he wouldn't mind; he folds it over his arm and reassures me, "I know you'll be fine, Angel, but just in case, we'll be at a table close by. Good luck!"

"I think I can hold my own against a middle-aged architect," I smile, "But, thanks anyway." Sherlock seems to have wandered off, so I tuck my little black handbag under my arm and trail after Arthur toward a panelled oak door at the end of the bar.

He opens the door to usher me in, pointing at the engraved brass sign on it: "'Ambrosia Room'" it says, "If open, please do not disturb!"

"Just the opposite of the usual, right?" a smile twitches across his thin lips. "Law says private dances have to be in rooms that are open to the public space at all times, so you must leave this ajar after Mr. Swinhar gets here, all right? Go on in."

That's one way to deal with the silly laws, I suppose. Other places I've been in use curtains for the same effect, and I see that they use that here, too; heavy red velvet is swagged across the doorway for another layer of privacy. I hear Arthur close the door behind me.

The little private room is very definitely VIP. There's a long, plush sofa and armchair with a drawered end-table between, and a low mahogany coffee table bearing a bottle of champagne nestled in its bucket with two glasses. No tacky mirrored walls here, but there are artfully placed gilded mirrors to achieve the same effect, letting the occupants see everything from multiple perspectives.

There is also a blatant CCTV camera in a high corner, with a sign under it advising you that this is a CCTV camera, just in case you were from outer Mongolia or something and didn't know what one looked like.

There's an iPod sound system on a short bookcase in the corner, and I check out the playlist; just about anything you could imagine is there, from screechy baroque violins to screechy heavy-metal guitars. I feel like classical piano, nice and mellow, so I line up a few things that I like and let it play, figuring that Swinhar can change it if he cares to. I stash my handbag in the top drawer of the end-table; with a new client, you never leave your valuables in sight.

The discreet clock on top of the bookcase shows exactly 8:31 when I hear the door open, but not close, and the red velvet curtain is swept aside.

I hadn't bothered asking what Mr. Swinhar looked like, largely because it really didn't matter. After escorting for a while, you learn not to fuss about a client being handsome or ugly; hygiene becomes SO much more important than looks! I had some fairly low expectations, given that this bloke is pushing sixty and in a sedentary occupation––

––but I'm not prepared for what comes walking into the Ambrosia Room right now. Lord have mercy, the man is fit! Of medium height but an exceptional build, his broad shoulders ripple with toned muscle under a simple, white collared shirt as he carefully hangs his jacket on the coat tree. When Mr. Swinhar turns his classically handsome face to look at me, the laugh lines around his dark brown eyes crinkle in a delighted smile.

"Well, hallo. You're new. They told me at the door that I might have a different girl tonight; they didn't mention that I was getting an upgrade!"

"Angel. I'm Angel," I babble, even though he hasn't asked my name. "Hi."

He tells me to call him Mike, and sits beside me on the sofa at a respectable distance. Over the first glass of champagne, I flirt shamelessly, he flirts excessively, and the champagne roars right through my empty stomach and straight to my head, so much that I'm having trouble concentrating on words.

Sometime during the second glass of champagne, Mike decides that the piano music is a little boring, and he gets up to put on some sexy R&B. When he sits down, he is closer to me than before, close enough that I can smell his aftershave. It smells really, really good, and I lean in toward him, inhaling deeply.

"Oh, my god, you smell great! What are you wearing?"

Mike laughs. "Isn't that supposed to be my line?"

"Maybe. I don't care." I smile wickedly, "It's fantastic! What is it?"

"Floris Elite," he says, running a hand through his thick black hair, dashed with silver threads. "My wife gets a bottle of it for me every Christmas."

"That's nice of her," I say, and then try desperately to change the subject, but Mike is off and running, giving me the Married Man's Litany of Guilt.

They all seem to have to do it, these married men who cheat on their wives. They know they're being shits, and they know that I, a woman, will judge them for it. So, they have to explain how they are Actually Not Cheating At All.

Mesmerised by how delicious he smells, I ignore the words coming out of his mouth, leaning closer and closer until my nose is filled to the brim with the heady aroma of expensive men's cologne and soap and … Oh, shit. Mycroft. He bloody smells like bloody Mycroft.

Mike eyes me cautiously as I abruptly draw back. Shit, I'm letting myself get distracted, and it's making him wary. So what if he smells like Mycroft? It just means they wear the same same cologne. Do your little song and dance, Angelica, get the information, then get out. I lean over and put my champagne flute down on the table.

"I need to slow down with the bubbly here; I'm not used to it, and I think it's gone straight to my head!" I give Mike a sweet, slightly drunk smile, and he relaxes.

From the topic of wifey-poo I manage to wrestle the conversation around to worky-poo, and from there to past triumphs. Mike's eyes shine with pride when he recounts all the buildings he has designed, especially what he calls his "sculptural residences," naming Appledore as one of them.

We're so close, but then the bastard changes the subject, saying, "Hey, that's enough about me! How about a dance, eh?"

Oh, yeah, that's what we're here for, isn't it? I toddle over to the sound system and, since Mike seems in the mood for R&B, put on Joe Cocker's "Leave Your Hat On." I strut and sway for him, giving it all I've got, and Mike seems to be eating it up. His face is lit up with delight and desire, and I can see an impressive bulge rising under the zip of his jeans. As the song comes to the last suggestive chords, I end by straddling across his lap, my knees planted into the cushion on either side.

In alarm, Mike glances at the CCTV camera. "Aren't you getting carried away?"

"Well, they call it a lap dance, don't they?" I slowly gyrate my hips in the air bare inches above his thighs. "Besides, I'm barely touching you," I add, resting my hands on his upper chest and lightly kneading the smooth, taut muscle there. "Right now, at any rate."

His eyes flicker again at the camera. "Are you trying to get me into trouble or something?"

I shake my head, letting my arse drop a little lower with each gyration. My leg is a lot better now, but it's still sore as hell when I use the muscles, so I lightly settle my arse on his thighs, grinding subtly against that provocative bulge. "No, really I'm not. I just heard how hot you are, and paid the floor supervisor a little extra to make sure the camera wasn't working tonight." I turn my head a little to the side, coyly. "Please don't be angry. I'm just really lonely, I need someone…" As I say it, I know that's the truth. At the very least, I'm horny as hell right now, and I want this lovely man in any way I can have him. "We can do whatever you like, nobody will know."

"No." He says firmly.

"What?" I can't believe it. "Why?"

"I told you, I come here because there's no touching, so I'm not tempted to… you know, be unfaithful. I just look and talk, and that's enough." He smacks my bum, kind of hard, and says, "Off, you!"

I clamber off of him, my long legs flailing awkwardly, and one of my spike heels kicks over my champagne glass from the coffee table. It doesn't break on the thick carpet, but a dark stain spreads where it landed, and I feel tears spring into my eyes. Stupid. I'm utterly stupid, and useless to boot.

I sit on the far end of the sofa and hug my knees up, trying not to break out into a crying jag. Oh, this is a disaster, just a fucking disaster.

Mike blots up the spilled champagne with a napkin, then slides across the sofa to reach over and pat my hand. "Hey, now, it's okay! I'm not cross with you, Angel. I'm not. That was a really nice dance you did, I liked it. One of the sexiest I've ever seen! You've got some great moves." I smile wanly through my sniffles. "That's the girl. Let's talk some more, okay? What do you want to talk about?"

"I want to hear more about your sculptural residences!" I blurt out. "They sound so cool. Tell me about Appledore."

So, while I sit there snivelling, Mike Swinhar tells me all about Appledore, the nautilus-shell inspiration for the design, the drawing up of the plans, and it's the most natural thing in the world for me to ask if he ever takes the plans out to look at them sometimes and admire his work, and he tells me of course he does, although it's a bit of a hassle to do it, since the disks with the really special bespoke plans like Appledore are in the floor-safe in his Soho offices and he's not there all that much these days. He talks and talks, because he feels bad for making me cry, and I dry my eyes and think maybe I'm not such a disaster after all.

It proves a premature conclusion. The door is open, and the curtains don't make any noise, so when the two constables walk into the room Mike and I are both completely stunned. My veins go icy for a heartbeat and I feel my jaw drop in shock, as Mike gasps loudly, his face flushing a deep beetroot-red.

The older cop, who seems to be in charge, tells Mike, "You may go, sir. In fact, I suggest that you do." She turns to me: "You, young lady, are charged of soliciting for prostitution. Put your clothes on, please. You are under arrest."

"But I never!" My eyes flick up to the CCTV camera of their own volition, and the junior officer pats the hip pocket of his jacket with a grim smile.

"We got the recording. You're done."

Mike looks from me to the constables, his face still flaming, and goes for his jacket. "I'm sorry," he mutters as he slides into it and does up the buttons, but I'm not sure who he's saying it to.

"You've nothing to be sorry for, sir, YOU didn't break the law," the older cop says primly. "Go home, sir. And miss, if you don't put on your clothes, I will be forced to take you in wearing nothing but those little red knickers. Get moving."

I pull my skirt and top on slowly, my brain racing. Should I run, or let myself be arrested? A first offence of soliciting will only get me a caution, no jail time, so I should be in and out of the station quickly ; I wouldn't even be much concerned, except for bloody Mycroft. I can just leave my identification hidden with my handbag in the drawer, and give a false name, but the minute they run my fingerprints I am done for.

Too late to run now: They've lost patience, and my arms are roughly pinned behind my back, the handcuffs snapped on my wrists. God, I hate metal cuffs! So damned uncomfortable. As the constables escort me from the VIP room, I crane my neck to see if I can spot a friendly face in the curious crowd outside, but there is no sign. John? Sherlock? Where the hell are you?