What if?

What if I never saw him again?

Or worse, messed up and killed him.

Pointless to worry, I kept telling myself. It would only hinder efficiency. Yet I worried. I defied my entire emotional history and second-guessed every action I had taken.

Weighing the what-ifs, I wanted to give up the mission. It would be torturous to live the rest of my life from the sidelines, knowing that love existed and never again grasping even the hem of its inviolable fabric.

But living the rest of my life knowing that I had plunged a knife through its wearer - that would be a different matter entirely. Certainly, I wouldn't last long.

It was not my fate that mattered, though. It was his.

Fear was the possibility of a grave dug for John Watson far before his proper time. Young, learning, utterly perfect. Buried six feet beneath the ground.

I could only think of one word for such a scenario, whether I was to stand at his funeral or be buried in a grave of my own.

False.

(Your fault.)

Piss off.

(When for the first time you lose control of your own thoughts, is it insanity?)

No, just lunacy.

(Without your mind you are nothing. You will mess up. You will kill him.)

I have control-

(You're losing it. You're losing it to worry. You're losing it to your silly adoration. You're losing it to John Wats-)

"SHUT...UP, FOR GOD'S SAKE-!"

"Freak! Get off the fucking drugs."

From the depths of hellish thought I snapped back to reality. Back to the confines of my room at the club. I was shirtless and covered in sweat, braced up against the wall beside my bed, barely standing. The clock on the table told me that Anderson's shift had just ended. It was clear that I had been shouting in my sleep and he'd heard me on his way out, not without offering a snide comment through the door as he was so fond of doing.

(Fear is the possibility of a grave dug for John Watson far before his proper time. Young, learning, utterly perfect. Buried six feet beneath the ground.)

I felt like vomiting.

My thoughts within the dream state had always been vivid, and often morbid, but never so immersive. Never so painful, so terrifying. Because I hadn't yet learned to feel.

That was when I knew that feeling was a disadvantage, and that caring was an even bigger one.

My phone rung and it was Thomas Hambleton's butler. I didn't bother answering. I simply wiped myself clean, threw a coat and shoes on, and met the limousine outside. At the time, prostitution seemed a welcome activity; the fake feelings distracted me from the real ones. It was easy.

Easy, but boring.

To break the arrangement between Miss Ginny and Emil would be a formidable challenge for the months to come. I would not give up. I would win.

When I arrived at the Hambleton Estate, the butler told me to meet Thomas on the upstairs balcony instead of in the usual room. I knew my way there because he had shown me the view once before, momentarily. The balcony was free to the public eye, if anyone took the effort to bring binoculars and look up toward the proper location. I doubted anyone would.

When Thomas heard the glass door slide open behind him, he turned away from the night sky to greet me. He was dressed in a navy suit with a soft pink undershirt instead of the usual white, unbuttoned at the top, no tie. Clearly not his work attire. He had changed just for me, and that sent a very clear message.

This was not the usual shag session. This was a date.

There was a recliner to the left side of the balcony, and a speaker on the side table playing soft piano music at just audible volume.

"Good evening, handsome. Care for a moonlit dance?" he said, and for a moment I thought he sounded remarkably like myself, except for one difference. My sympathies were artificial. The adoring lilt in his voice and eyes told me that his were not.

I swallowed down a suddenly relevant sense of guilt and smiled back at him. "I'd love to." Then I took his outstretched hand, and we danced on the balcony where anyone with binoculars could see us. "I'm afraid I'm not prepared for this. I would have taken more care getting dressed if I knew you had courting intentions."

He laughed. "You're stunning as you are. And you are, always."

If only I could tell him that I wasn't. When the ridiculous amounts of money he paid me had ceased to be a strong enough reminder that I was acting, I could not fathom. Either way, his feelings had come to light when I stepped out onto the balcony and saw the moon and stars in his eyes. It was troubling. If I lost him as a client, Miss Ginny would be furious and surely find a way to blame John.

For now, my best option was to continue acting.

"You flatter me," I said.

"I thought this would be a nice alteration from your usual visits. Do you agree?"

"It's a pleasant surprise." After a pause, I added, "As you know, Mr. Hambleton, I'm here for your pleasure. You're being much too good to me."

"You'd prefer I abuse you?" he asked.

"The teasing that strikes your fancy cannot be considered abuse."

"Certainly it can. For example, I would feel terrible stealing another kiss without knowing that it's a welcome intrusion."

"Haven't you kissed me enough times to know for certain?"

"Never enough times, darling."

"Then you'd be glad for another. I'm quite willing."

With artificially desperate hands pulling him closer by the nape of the neck, I kissed him, and it felt like a sin. Not that I believed in a god or an afterlife. I simply believed in good and bad, where I had previously looked upon the workings of the world with apathy.

John had taught me the concept of good by being the best thing I'd ever laid eyes or mind upon.

I took Tom's hand and forced my gaze back up to him. For a moment I almost imagined that he wasn't him, but that would never work. My behavior was highly customized to suit whoever I was serving. What he wanted and what John wanted were two very different things. Different versions of myself.

Thomas smiled at me and let go as he turned to lay back on the recliner. At first at sat beside him, still questioning the publicity of this location, but it wasn't long before he had me laying comfortably on top of him and kissing him, seemingly without a care in the world.

That night we didn't make love. It was my second first date in a matter of weeks; a strange stroke of chance. Instead, we conversed, and when he tried to get me to talk about myself, I answered with increasing ambiguity. By the end of the night I could tell he was frustrated, but only because I paid attention. A man like him would never showcase such an emotion unless he truly lost control.

As he placed the money in my hand, he told me he hoped to see me again soon. As if it were my choice.

I asked him if, from now on, he could call me two or three days in advance when he wanted to see me. He agreed.

The limousine took me back to the club and I noticed that Miss Ginny was out, even though these were his usual hours. Most likely, he was with Emil. Which reminded me that I needed to create a convenient setup for my own visits to Emil's base.

I knew of a subway route to around the right location. If I could find a place at the station to stash an extra set of clothes, that would take care of the tracking problem. Better yet, if I could find a trustworthy accomplice at the station. A nobody. And I knew just the man.

Just beyond the escalators in the station nearest the club, there was a little magazine and convenience store with one employee who was also the owner. His name was Kimberly Steward. He knew me from a single encounter in the sordid days before I'd begun my career at the club, in which I'd stumbled by, inebriated on dirt-cheap whiskey, while the police were trying to accuse him of assaulting a customer. In my stupor, I had been kind enough to point out the obvious evidence in poor Kim's favor, thus saving his business and probably his life.

We'd had a good laugh about it afterward, about the day a drunken derelict showed up Scotland Yard's newest inspector with evidence so strong he couldn't deny it. Kim and I had sat down in the back of the shop, drunk some more, talked for a bit, and never saw each other again.

When the man saw me approach, he recognized me almost immediately. "Goodness, you've really picked yourself up! Sherlock, right?"

"Hello, Kim."

"Last I saw you I thought you would last a week at most, pardon my honesty. Now look at you: clean face, combed hair, dressed like a gentleman!"

"And I was afraid your shop might be closed down by now, but here we are speaking to each other."

"Shit, I just can't believe it. It's great you came around, mate. What can I do for ya?"

"I need you to trade clothes with me."

"Trade clothes? What for?"

"A little business adventure, can't waste time on the details. I'll come here every now and then, probably once or twice a week, to make use of this arrangement, and be back in several hours to trade again. I know your store hours so don't worry about that. Sound reasonable?"

"Erm-"

"Great, thank you, Kim! Shall we change in the back?"

"Well, okay."

"Just one more thing. If anyone asks, even the police - you know they're not good friends of ours – you haven't heard of any man named Sherlock since the day I saved your shop so long ago. Nor anyone with my description. You just happened to pick up some new threads at the thrift store. Understood?"

"Okay, okay."

So Kim Steward and I went to the back and traded clothes. He was a bit dazed, but he would get used to the arrangement in a hurry. Before I left, I informed him that there was a bit of cash in my coat pocket, and that seemed a good enough reassurance to keep him trading with me for the rest of his life.

I took the train and showed up at the back door of the base wearing a faded denim jacket, sandals, and ripped jeans. I would pick up a better set of clothes for Kim to store for me on the way back, not that it mattered much. My line of work didn't require clothing.

Clara Johnson called in her approval and one of the door guards escorted me up. Once we were alone in her office, I dropped the agreed-upon money on her desk. She handed over a laminated passcard with nothing but a name, a title, a barcode, and a small black symbol etched on the corner of the backside which I assumed was representative of their organization. My title was 'Entertainer'.

"I talked to Erick about payment. He asked if one-hundred fifty pounds per hour would be a reasonable rate for you," she said, in the most bored tone of voice I had heard all week.

I smirked because it was only a fraction of what Thomas Hambleton paid me, when I was sure the boss's son would have at least as much money. However, I wasn't here to make money. "That's reasonable."

"Good. Just drop in whenever you arrive and leave so I can clock you in and pay you."

That concluded our business, so I left Clara's office and walked down the hall to Erick's room, removing the denim jacket along the way. With my chest bare, he wouldn't pay as much attention to the rest of my attire.

Luckily, he wasn't even there. After knocking and waiting half a minute with no answer, I tried the door. It was unlocked. This room was clearly reserved for social and somnial purposes. Anything private or important would be in a different room of his. For all I knew, he had an entire hallway to himself.

I undressed and laid beneath the covers of his bed, stomach-down and lightly napping, hugging the pillow in my arms. Clara hadn't mentioned anything about Erick not being here, so I assumed she had clocked me in anyway. As long as I was here, I was getting paid. As long as I had money coming in, Miss Ginny would have no reason to suspect anything.

Nevertheless, I had to be careful while I was here. It would be disastrous if someone mentioned me in more explicit terms than 'Claude Birmington', and even more so if my boss and I accidentally ran into each other in the hall. I didn't think that likely, though. I'd been mapping the corridors out in my head, and the route to Emil's supposed quarters didn't coincide with my own.

Sooner or later I would have to meet the man and make an arrangement. I would have to be prepared with a deal that he couldn't deny, even though it meant breaking his arrangement with his favorite drag queen. If he had a good relationship with his son, I could make a threat on Erick's life, but there was a possibility he would call my bluff.

I needed more details before I could come up with any other options. I needed time.

But every second I spent, John was drifting further away from me.

Erick came through the door, and I opened my eyes. Natural tears in his clothing, weapons stashed in his pockets, a couple dots of blood on his face. He had just finished a job and returned here to freshen up. The door slammed behind him. He was angry.

I sat up. "Hard night? I could help you relax."

"Please do," he remarked, barely glancing at me before he stormed into the bathroom, shedding his clothes along the way.

He wasn't surprised to find a whore in his bed, but hardly cared to acknowledge which whore it was. Not that it was anything new to me. To all of my customers, I was, at first, a nobody. A body for them to use. My technique was to gradually teach them otherwise, which gave the false appearance of affection that kept them coming back for more. Simple human psychology.

We shagged roughly in the shower. Afterward, he seemed to be in a much better mood. Calm enough to talk.

I ran my fingers along his chest, watching him as he closed his eyes to the harsh lights above, not to sleep, but to drift off to a more comfortable state of mind. "What happened?" I asked softly.

"What didn't happen?" he responded impulsively, and then he sighed. "Nevermind. That was me being overdramatic. I guess I can tell you since you already know about Neil."

"He went on the mission with you?"

"No. He hasn't been sent on a mission in weeks, thanks to his injuries. He just provides the tools we need. And when I stopped by afterward to return those tools, Rose was in there sucking him off."

For a moment I couldn't understand why it had affected him so much; Neil and Rose were married, after all. He was having one of those common human overreactions. Then I realized.

"He was moaning, Claude. Moaning. Like he actually enjoyed it for once. And now every time I think of them I get this image of them actually, fucking...enjoying themselves, and god, it sickens me."

"He didn't enjoy it with you?"

Erick laughed. "Of course you already know about that."

"I didn't know. I noticed. Take me to any room full of people and I can tell you exactly who's had sex with who just by the tension between them."

"Right. Anyway. We did shag once, right after he got out of his hospital bed. It was the night before we got sent back to base. He was drunk. Only reason why he did it."

"Not the only reason," I muttered, but he pretended not to hear me.

"He enjoyed the first half of it. Then he started to sober up. I got him to screw me again and that time he acted almost as if it was painful for him."

"How do you know he wasn't drunk when you walked in on him earlier?"

"I just know, alright? I know when Neil's sober. He's a different man. One who doesn't enjoy anything."

He paused.

"But this time, he was enjoying it."

I wasn't sure what to say, so I tilted his chin toward me and kissed him. There had to be a reason I bothered acting interested in these happenings. I could use them to my advantage somehow.

The chain of events was starting to come together in my mind. Get close to Erick, get close to Neil. Use my knowledge to get slip deeper into the workings of the organization. Then make a deal with Emil himself. One that would quite possibly involve his son.