Chapter Five: "The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances; if there is any reaction, both are transformed." ~ C.G. Jung

Get into the car? Like hell I will. I will not go gentle into that good night! The liquid fear in my stomach contracts into hard anger, and I ignore the car, swerving to the left and away from it, and keep on striding. The crazy bastard will have to get out and drag me if he wants me in that car, and there are too many other people about on the street to make that a good option. I methodically scan the buildings, the street, other pedestrians, looking for a likely escape. There's always a way out, Daddy used to say, you just have to have the brains to see it, and the guts to try.

Luck is with me, because there is a small herd of rough but fit young men coming down the sidewalk right towards me. They look like they might be builders or a road crew or something; they are all eying me as we draw near each other, and smiling appreciatively. I slow down and smile back even more appreciatively, picking out the tallest and broadest, most alpha-looking of them to zero in on.

Johnny!" I exclaim in my best happy-sex-kitten voice. "Is that you? It's been ages! God, you look great, honey!" I grab his arm and spin him toward me, pressing my leather-clad thigh against his in a very friendly way. He smiles, pleased but confused, and tells me I must be mistaken, his name is Matt.

"Oh, how could I forget something like that! Wow, that's embarrassing...but you know, I could never forget your face-or other things." I give him a teasing smile, and, linking arms with him and one of his mates, ask, "Are you boys headed to the pub? Can I come along, please? I'm absolutely desperate for some fun tonight!"

They are indeed headed for the pub, and they seem all too pleased to have me come along. Like I've said before, people very rarely object to a beautiful, friendly young woman joining the party.

Arm-in-arm with two brawny males, and surrounded by two more in close attendance, I feel protected, although I know it's just an illusion of safety. Once we get to the pub, I'll have to figure out my next move, but I feel certain that the maniac who is after me isn't going to try anything at the moment.

There are no more mysterious messages spelled out in glowing dots as we head for the pub. Matt has slipped his arm smoothly around my waist, taking possession. I chat him up in vague circles as he tries to figure out where he knows me from, how deep our acquaintance goes, and if he is likely to get the chance to renew it tonight. I'm careful to seem neither desperate nor disinterested.

The pub is the usual kind for our neighborhood-pleasant enough, clean enough, nothing special. It's busy, and there aren't any tables left with a good view of the soccer game on the television, so my boys take control of one end of the bar. One of them finds me a padded stool to park myself on, and Matt takes the only other vacant one, his arm still around me. I'm not fond of beer, so I ask for a cider, and sip it sparingly. I can't afford to dull my wits one bit, and on an empty stomach to boot. The boys are quickly and loudly immersed in the soccer game, and Matt wastes no time sliding his hand down from my waist to cup my hip in his beefy hand. I nestle into him just a little, pretending to watch the game, and try to figure out what to do.

I can't go home. I can't stay here more than a few hours. I could, obviously, go home with Matt, but whoever was messing with the marquees and my phone might be waiting outside to follow me wherever I might try to go. And there's the big question-who was doing that? They obviously wanted to scare me, and succeeded pretty damn well at it. Why would the killer go to those lengths to terrorize me?

What if he was trying to intimidate me into silence about something? Could I have some link with Calypso and the others? We might have had a client in common somewhere along the line, learned something that we shouldn't have... I need help figuring this out...

I glance down from the game to see two very broad men in dark suits bearing down on our little party. They look grim, and I have no doubt that they are here for me. Ignoring all objections, the men push their way through the crowd, and one grabs hold of me. "Miss Talbot, you need to come with us." His voice is flat and official, and I absolutely panic when I feel his hand close on my arm. Shrinking back against Matt, I emit the most girly-girl scream you can imagine.

Matt lunges to his feet, shouting, "Get off her!" and sucker-punches the suit-man in the face. The suit staggers back against his partner, falls, and all hell breaks lose as Matt's mates dive in to help him. I duck out of the way, and, like my friends and I always did when there was a pub fight, run into the ladies' room to hide.

Well, not exactly hide. I need to get out of here, and fast, because the outcome of the brawl is far from certain-those suits didn't look like pushovers.

There is a little window up high on one wall, propped open with a brick to provide some ventilation. I drag the wastebasket over so I can tip it upside-down and use it as a stool, and I'm able to force the window open far enough so I can squeeze out of it, and drop to the ground outside.

Now what? I'm standing in a darkening alley filled with trash and weeds, and not completely sure where I am-I don't have a terribly good sense of direction-nor where I should go.

I can't just stand here. I spot a rusty fire escape a few feet away, and a quick glance up tells me that it's intact, and goes all the way to the roof. I don't think they will expect me to go up, so I go up. The building is only four stories high, and it doesn't take me long to get to the roof and climb up over the ledge, looking down and behind me as I go. No sign of the suits, or anybody else.

I lie panting on the sharp gravel covering the rooftop and work to get control of myself again. Don't panic, don't panic, don't panic. Panic makes you stupid.

Right. People are after me, and they may be dangerous. It might be somebody who has already murdered three other women. I could be his next target. I need help.

I sit up, making sure that this doesn't make me visible from the ground, and pull out my phone. I don't know what people did before there were satellite navigation apps, but they are a godsend for people like me. The little pulsing blue arrow shows me where I am, and a pin shows me where I want to be going, and a blue line plots out the best route for me to take to get there. What a wonderful thing. I silently bless the nerds who have made this possible, and start moving in the direction it points me.

I follow from roof to roof until I run out of them, and then go down another fire escape to the street level to keep on following the blue line on my phone's map. I run into a huge snag, however, and that is the black saloon-it keeps circling around me, ahead on every corner. I have to keep dodging down alleys and one-ways to avoid it, but then it pops up again like a bad penny.

How the hell are they able to follow me? My path through the streets is like a drunk's wanderings, but the black car is pacing me, waiting at every turn. It's like they know exactly where I am, all the time.

I look at the wonderful phone in my hand, and the little pulsing blue arrow. Damn. If emergency services can lock onto a phone's signal, it means others could do it, too, I bet. It's got to be my phone, nothing else makes sense. I should chuck it into a bin, but I don't want to-it's too expensive to replace! Besides, I love my phone...

Right, plan B: My traitorous navigation app shows me where the nearest Underground station is, just a few blocks away. I take back alleys and cross-cuts at a flat run, to get there before they can guess where I'm headed, and I bolt down the steps like a rabbit down a hole. Ha! Follow me here, black car, I dare you. And, I've never had my phone get signal underground, so I don't think they'll be able to track me.

Riding the tube will actually take longer than getting there on foot, but it will get me almost to the doorstep of my destination, and it's nice to sit down for a while. A nervous wreck, I huddle on the seat and watch the lights flash by outside the window, and examine each new arrival on the brightly-lit train, poised to run like hell if they look at all menacing to me. It's the Underground on a Saturday night, so there are plenty of people who look menacing in general, but none take much notice of me.

There's no sign of the black car as I exit the station at St. James Park, and I glance at the clock as I go up the steps. It's been nearly three hours since I left the flat to run down to the shop! Feels like a lifetime ago.

In a few minutes I am walking into the reception lobby of the Metropolitan Police, and I finally feel almost safe.

# # #

Half an hour later, my hands are wrapped around a cup of weak tea in a styrofoam cup, and I am sprawled back in a faintly-sticky vinyl chair in a small, empty waiting room, waiting for a D.I. to come take a statement from me. I don't know who is going to be on duty at ten o'clock on a Saturday night, probably somebody with no family life; Daddy never worked weekends if he could help it, even before Mummy passed away. Thinking about him makes my eyes prick with tears-I still miss him horribly at times, like right now. Especially, right now. I drain the rest of my tea, and lean my head back with a sigh. I wish I could bum a cigarette, but I couldn't smoke it in here anyway.

"Miss Talbot?" I look up to see a female constable in uniform, and a plainclothes male come in. They are both middle-aged, with greying hair; the man is probably the D.I. His looks and mannerisms remind me powerfully of my father, and I straighten up in my chair and give them a relieved smile. "That's me," I say.

The constable takes a seat beside me, resting a clipboard on her knee, and the plainclothes drags a straight-backed chair over and turns it around, straddling it and leaning his arms on the back. I instantly like him even more for this, because that was one of Daddy's habits as well.

"I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade," he says, "and this is Constable Merrill. We'd like to hear what happened to you tonight, but first I need you to clarify something very important for me. Is it true that you knew all three women who were murdered this past weekend?"

"No," I shake my head. "I told them at the front desk, I knew only one personally, Calypso-I mean, Alice Potts. I didn't know the others, but we are all-I mean, um, I'm...we are all in the same business. Colleagues." I'm not usually so awkward about my job, but talking to D.I. Lestrade feels weirdly like talking to my father, and the words just will not come out smoothly.

The detective and the constable exchange glances. I fiddle with my foam cup and wait.

"Okay, so you might have...professional connections with these ladies that you wouldn't necessarily be aware of? Is that it?"

I nod, and take a deep breath. "Yes. That's what I'm afraid of. That's what is so frightening about those men coming for me, and the car, and the messages on the bank marquees..."

The D.I. frowns slightly, and I can tell he has doubts about my story. "Yeah, I want to hear all that as well, but first-" He is interrupted by a young constable who hurries into the room, and tells him that here is an urgent phone call. Excusing himself, Lestrade leaves for a few moments, and comes back looking both puzzled and annoyed; exasperated, even. He stands in the doorway looking at me with his arms folded across his chest, then shakes his head and motions for the policewoman to come with him. "I need you out here for a minute, Merrill. You," he points at me with a commanding look, "you, stay put."

Alone once more, I lean my head back and close my eyes. I'm incredibly tired. This has been an exhausting day, and I just want to go home and take a hot bath, and maybe read some poetry to Pablo before I go to sleep. I haven't done that in ages, he probably thinks I don't love him anymore. What is taking these cops so long?

When Lestrade and Merrill come back in, their movements are guarded, and I instantly know that something is seriously wrong. It is, because following close behind them are the two suits that tried to take me from the pub! One of them has a plaster on his cheek, and the other has a cut and swollen lip. Both look very, very cross.

I sit bolt upright, my stomach clenching in fear, and look helplessly at Lestrade as the angry suits each grab an arm and hoist me to my feet. As one of them expertly snaps handcuffs on my wrists, I shout out, "Why are you letting them do this? I haven't done anything wrong, why are you letting them do this? You're supposed to help me!" I'm embarrassed to realize that I have tears running down my face, and I look helplessly into Lestrade's dark eyes as I am frog-marched out of the room. His lips tighten, and he turns his face away.

I'm offering up no resistance, but the suits are still rough as they haul me down to the parking garage where the black saloon is waiting. I'm unceremoniously shoved into the back, with a suit seated on either side, and the car takes off into the nighttime traffic.

I can feel the tears drying on my cheeks, and I'm retardedly glad that I wore waterproof mascara and liner tonight. Isn't that ridiculous? But I hate having makeup streaks down my face, it looks awful.

I calm down enough to take in my surroundings, and I realize that the car is being driven by a woman. I can see the back of her dark hair, but not her face; she has the rear mirror tilted up. The other front seat is empty. We are on a motorway, headed away from the city. I doubt it would be useful to ask any of these people what is going on, so I don't bother.

The look on Lestrade's face as I was dragged off was telling; it wasn't his idea at all for the suits to take me away. And he seemed very annoyed when he came back from answering the phone call. So, the D.I. wanted to keep me at the station, but someone went over his head, someone with greater authority. Government?

I glance sideways at both of the large men sitting on either side of me. They certainly look government. And that could explain the bank signs.

Okay, so why would MI5 or any of the other security services be interested in me? Have I had a meeting recently with someone who is on their bad side? A foreign operative, or a traitor? My mad Canadian! Those CCTV cameras following us, all night long...

But, really, flashing messages on bank marquees is so theatrical. What kind of secret service does that to get your attention? Why didn't they just come knocking at my door and take me away?

It takes me a few minutes to reach the obvious: They, whoever "they" are, want to intimidate me. So, they want something from me, and they think the best way to get it is through fear.

The problem is, it's working. Despite my higher brain now grasping that all this has just been the tactics of intimidation, my monkey-brain is still just about to soil herself in terror. I close my eyes, and concentrate on calming the monkey down.

# # #

The car finally pulls up inside a deserted factory or warehouse or something, just the sort of place where people in films get beaten and tortured by the baddies. Wonderful. I feel like I could throw up, except that I haven't eaten all day and there's nothing in there. One of the suits gets out of the car, then reaches in and hauls me out by an arm; the guy still inside is getting an eyeful, because my short leather skirt rides up almost to my waist as I scramble to get out without my arm getting dislocated.

When I'm out, the suit has to stand me up by force, because my legs are so wobbly I can't find my feet. The place stinks of chemicals and wet concrete, and it's dim except for a small bank of floodlights about fifty feet away. The suit spins me in the direction of the lights, and shoves me forward. "Walk."

My legs get steadier as I go, and I stand up straighter. Whatever it is over there, I'm not going to face it crawling and crying. My hands are still cuffed in front of me, but I put my shoulders back, tug my skirt down, and try to conjure up at least a shadow of confidence and a shred of dignity.

The floodlights aren't really that bright, but my eyes are dark-adapted right now, and I'm squinting and blinking to make out what-or whom-I am walking toward. As I get closer, I can make out the figure of a man. He's just standing there, waiting.

I stop five or six feet away, and study him quizzically. It's very odd, when you see a person out of context; you recognize them, yet you don't. I once saw the mum of a close friend of mine out on a bender at a nightclub, and it was the strangest feeling, quite a lot like how it feels right now to be running into Mycroft Holmes in a smelly, dark, deserted warehouse. I'm catapulted into an alternative universe, where dapper civil servants in immaculate pinstripe suits spring from nowhere.

He gives me a tight little smile, and hangs his umbrella on his arm to reach into an inner pocket of his suit jacket, and takes out a little notebook.

He opens it and looks down at a page. "Angelica Elizabeth Talbot, age twenty-four. Parents, Elizabeth and Ernest Talbot, both deceased. Sister-"

I take another step forward and ask, "Why are you pretending to read from that notebook?" I'm not usually that cheeky, but this all feels so unreal, it's hard to take any of it seriously.

His mouth snaps shut, the book snaps shut, and he pockets the latter inside his coat with an irritated look.

"You're eyes weren't moving," I add defensively.

He narrows those eyes, and plants the black umbrella on the floor in front of him, both hands resting on the smooth handle. I'm not at all surprised to see that he did, indeed, have a spare.

"You have been the cause of quite a lot of trouble tonight." He pauses expectantly, but I'll be damned if I am going to apologize for running for my life. I just shrug. "It would have saved all of us considerable effort if you had simply gotten into the car willingly."

"Why in the world would I do that?" I ask incredulously, and Holmes frowns.

"You're a submissive. You are supposed to do as you are told."

At that, I almost laugh out loud. "Not when I'm off the clock!" Does he think that how I am at our meetings is who I really am? That's surprisingly naive.

He frowns more deeply, then his face smooths out. "Quite. Well, here you are, in any case. You wanted to talk to me?" he says, with a deadly sort of pleasantry.

I shake my head. "Not that I'm aware of." What the hell is he getting at?

"You do seem to have been trying to get my attention of late, albeit in terribly clumsy ways."/i

I feel a blush creeping into my cheeks. Clumsy? Well, I guess I'm not so sly after all. "Youthful exuberance?" I offer with a cheeky grin.

"Childish stupidity!" he barks back. I bite my lip and stay silent.

"So," he continues with that creepy smoothness, "who is paying you for information about me? Who is giving you instructions?"

"What? Nobody!" I am genuinely confused.

"Then, why have you been trying to spy on me? Tell me!" He is looking at me so intently that I feel more naked now than when I when I stood before him in the hotel room.

I can't meet his eyes any longer, and so I focus on his hands holding the umbrella handle. I realize that he is gripping it so tightly that his knuckles are white. He must be really and truly angry. I feel a flutter of fear. I don't know what he is, but I am suddenly certain that Holmes is no minor civil servant. He really is a shark, and I am a terrified guppy.

"Curiosity, I guess," I say quietly to the umbrella.

"Ah, the same which killed the cat?" he says nastily.

I shift my eyes back up again to his face, and he is sneering at me. Swim, guppy, swim. "Well, they say that satisfaction brought her back."

He makes a disgusted noise. "Trite." Holmes tilts his head up, so he is looking down his nose at me through narrowed eyes. "So, it is merely curiosity that drives you, then?" he says with heavy sarcasm.

I bite my lip and shake my head. Talking to the umbrella again, I say, "No, it's more like...sometimes I get kind of obsessed. Like, I have to know everything I can...the questions take hold of me, and it's hard to know when to stop. I go too far." I shift my gaze back up to his face again, and he is completely inscrutable, a perfect poker-face.

"You really have no idea what you have put your foot into, do you?" he murmurs, almost without moving his mouth, and I feel the back of my eyes sting with sudden hot tears.

I burst out, "No! No, I don't know what I put my foot into! I don't have a single bloody idea! All I know is that I've been running for my life for hours and I'm exhausted! I thought that the serial killer was after me-"

Holmes looks puzzled. "What serial killer?"

"The one that's picking off call-girls! The one that's killing my friends!"

"Those murders are not being committed by a serial killer," he scoffs.

"How do you know? Do you know who it is?"

Holmes gives me a scornful look. "Of course I don't know who it is. There aren't enough data in the police reports to deduce it yet, and the Met do not have...additional help at the moment. But it's very obviously not the work of a serial killer." He looks thoughtful. "So, you believed your life to be in danger?"

"Yes!"

"And that's why you fled?"

"Yes."

"That was very stupid," he says, matter-of-factly.

I shrug. "We have a difference of opinion, then; I think it would've been stupid NOT to try and get away." I look at his hands on the umbrella handle, and the white-knuckling is gone. I relax a tiny bit. "I won't be led around like a lamb to the slaughter, or jump into cars at the snap of a finger."

His lips twist into a faint smile. "You do realize that is a fairly incongruous stance, considering your occupation?" he observes aridly.

"It's not incongruous at all, it's a matter of sovereignty!" I answer hotly. "If I decide to submit myself to an experience, then I've chosen it, and the experience and where it takes me are mine alone! I still own myself, you see? If I let someone else choose for me, it's not mine any longer, and I lose my...self..." I heave a sigh. "I'm not being very coherent. Sorry. Never mind." I've had this conversation before, and nobody ever really gets it.

Except that Holmes looks as if he might; he is gazing past my shoulder with a thoughtful expression for a long moment, and then turns his eyes back to me. "Then, no doubt you need to believe that you fully understand the situation before making the choice? All the particulars..."

I nod. "Yes! And the subtexts, too. Everything, as best I can. Otherwise, it's just a random coin-flip, isn't it?" It dawns on me what he's hinting at. "Right. That's what's been driving my...curiosity about you. There's one thing in particular-" I hesitate, and he gives me an unconcerned, go-ahead kind of look.

I take a deep breath. "I need to know, why me?" I look him directly in the eyes. "To be blunt, you don't engage female escorts, and you don't engage the same escort twice in a row, ever. You've broken that pattern now, with me, but you're not a person who breaks pattern without a reason. You're running off your rails, and I need to know why, because it might affect me."

He looks down and away, fidgeting with the umbrella, and I notice that he is poking his tongue into his cheek. I saw him do that a lifetime ago, earlier today at the wedding. I was too far away then, but I'm close enough now to see that he is actually biting his tongue. Holding back words? Or does the pain help him to stay focussed? I wonder if he has scars from biting too hard. He takes a long time to answer.

Holmes finally sighs, and he looks a little haunted when he admits, still looking down, "I don't know. I simply don't know. Running off my rails. Actually, that is not a bad metaphor. There have been...events in the past month or so. A family member in hospital, critically wounded. Incredibly stressful. I suffer from insomnia, and I've been nearly unable to sleep at all lately-except, after I have been to see you. Then I sleep very well indeed." He glances up at me, sideways, and I realize that that is all I'm going to get out of him on the matter. It's going to have to be enough.

I nod. "Stress relief. Okay, I get it." I draw a deep breath, let it out slow. "So, all this," I hold up my handcuffed hands and jangle the metal chain dangling between them, "all this is because I was...well, stalking you? Nothing to do with that crazy Canadian, and the security cameras following us everywhere?"

"That? No. Nothing to do with it at all." He gives me a disgusted look. "Why on earth did you agree to that? You didn't even appear to be enjoying yourself most of the time."

"Try none of the time, but it paid w- Hey! Were you running those CCTV cameras?" You kinky bastard, I think. You were watching it all.

Holmes just raises his eyebrows and gives me a supercilious look, not deigning to comment. Stalker. Takes one to know one.

I jangle the cuffs again. "Can you do something about these? You know I'm not fond of metal..."

Blandly, he shakes his head. "I don't carry keys about with me. Davis or Brown will take care of it." Holmes nods toward the black car, silently waiting in the shadows. "By the way, I want my umbrella back."

"You might not want it..."

He gives me a sharp look and frowns. "Why? Did you damage it?"

"No...it's not broken..."

"Then I want it BACK." He almost sounds petulant.

"O-KAY!" I volley the petulance right back. "I'll bring it next time." Assuming there is a next time; it seems like there might be.

Holmes examines the smooth wooden handle of his umbrella closely, and nonchalantly asks it, "What do you think of Knightsbridge?"

Huh? "Um, it has trees. Trees are good."

He nods as if an agreement has been reached. "Very well, then," and he turns and walks away a few feet, then stops and says, over his shoulder, "I'll have the contract and the keys to the flat delivered to you Monday."

"What? What are you talking about?"

He swings around to face me again. "I believe three months should be enough time for an off-rail excursion, don't you?"

"Aren't you getting a little ahead of yourself? I haven't agreed to anything yet!"

He just gives me a little smile, puts his umbrella on his shoulder, and walks away, calling out as he goes, "The grey tabby cat will have to remain with your sister; I have allergies."

Arrogant git.