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? ;)

9. Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine: "There is that in the glance of a flower which may at times control the greatest of creation's braggart lords." ~ John Muir

"Businesslike" lasted all of twenty-four hours. I'm standing under the little overhang in front of the flat, trying to keep reasonably dry as I scroll through the numbers on my phone, looking for the minicab I usually call. If it wasn't raining quite so much, or if I had thought to grab my umbrella—or his!-then I would just take off walking, but I'm not going back in there to get one. I don't care if I ever go back in.

Despite being grey and drizzly, today was great until just a few minutes ago; I got up and away early to avoid the Thursday housekeeper, spent the morning at the gym, and then met with my friends Amy and Christine for lunch and noon-time window-shopping. They were about as much fun as I expected them to be-

Listen to me damn them with faint praise! There are a few downsides to escort work, and a big one is relationships. Like, whom do you tell that you've taken to upscale whoring to pay the bills? Whom don't you tell? Amy and Tina are friends I made at uni, and they're smart and funny and very, very conventional; I know they wouldn't be okay with what I do for a living, so I lie. And since most of what I'm telling them is a lie and I can't ever relax around them, they're not so much fun anymore.

But if you tell friends what you do, as in total disclosure, then they get very, very uncomfortable around you, and mysteriously have other engagements whenever you call. Been there, done that. It must be what coming out is like. I think of Steen then, and break a grin; he has the funniest coming-out story ever, about the day his gran found out that he was gay and an escort, to boot. I hope that big idiot is okay, wherever he is right now.

A gust of wind blows some of the light rain against my bare arms and legs, and I shiver. I wish I'd thrown on warmer clothes, or grabbed a jacket or something, but I didn't know that it had turned quite so chilly outside. Finally, I find the number for the cab driver, and punch it in impatiently, shielding my phone from the stray splatters of rain.

Holmes had been businesslike enough when he called this afternoon, telling me to expect him at half past eight tonight. I was businesslike as I acknowledged it. It was all very efficient and businesslike when he came upstairs at the appointed time, sat down in the armchair, and stretched his long legs out, relaxing into his ritual of enjoyment. It was very businesslike right up until he slid the top of my dress down off my shoulders, and saw the colourful bruise there, the outline of teeth now clearly visible in darker purpling, although the span of it was starting to fade into green and yellow at the further edges.

His eyes had widened and his cheeks burned with bright red patches, like he had been slapped. Swallowing, he looked at me, then back down at the mark.

"Well," he said. He quickly regained his composure, although his cheeks stayed slightly flushed. "Well, that won't do at all." He leaned in close, examining the bruise. "That certainly is my bicuspid. I can't have anyone seeing this. You'll have to stay in until it heals completely, I should think in another six or seven days, possibly as much as a fortnight."

"What? No." Two weeks of house arrest? He's mad. "No way. Look, I've been covering it quite nicely for two days now with nobody the wiser. There's no need for me to hide away."

"Clothing can slip, makeup can rub off. You will simply have to stay indoors, here, until Wednesday at least. I will re-assess the situation and make a decision then." He turned away from me as if the matter was settled, and reached for the black gym bag. "Off with the rest of it, please."

"No." I folded my arms stubbornly. "No, not until we settle this. I am NOT putting myself under house arrest over an easily-concealed bruise. That's stupid, and I won't do it."

He turned around slowly, and his face was a tightly-controlled mask of neutrality. He gave me a careful slight frown then, as if of concern. "You are in breach of your contract," he said softly.

"So are you," I replied, matching his tone. "You may not restrict my activities."

"Except where they might impact on my reputation, Miss Talbot. I believe that this qualifies."

"I disagree. The mark can be covered up, like it has been, until it heals. I'm not going to be showing it around, and the chances of an accidental exposure are slim." I didn't mention about the stylist, Jaque, seeing it. "I've even bought some new clothes just to keep it covered securely. Requiring me to hide away is an overreaction."

He raised an eyebrow at that. "Overreaction? Think whatever you like. You will stay here, out of the public eye, until I am satisfied that the mark is sufficiently faded, or our agreement is terminated." That last was carefully enunciated, then he pressed his lips together in a tight line, narrowing his eyes at me with a little twitch.

I've never played poker, but I've heard of "calling the bluff." I called his bluff. I slid my slinky red dress back up over my shoulders, slipped into some shoes, and went downstairs. I stuffed my reader into my handbag, and only paused in the entryway long enough to call up the stairs, "If you would be so kind, Mr. Holmes, please have my things sent along to my sister's flat when convenient. Oh, and you might try a prescription for Luna; I've read that it's a very effective new sleeping aid. Good luck." The door made a satisfying "thump" when it closed behind me.

So now I'm freezing my arse off, standing here in the blowing rain, trying get my phone to work. I used it not half an hour ago to talk to Sara and it was fine, but now it's not dialing.

The status bar says there is no signal. How the hell can I have no signal? I'm in the bloody middle of bloody London; there is so much signal here that loonies walk around in tinfoil hats to shed the excess, how can my phone not be finding any?

Could he...? No way. Is that even possible? Well, why not? I can imagine him up there as I was leaving, phoning one of his assistants, "Be a good fellow and just jam up her signal, will you, there's a chap. No, don't kill her yet, let's just terrorize her a little."

Okay, so it probably didn't go like that, but it's not so far-fetched that he could have my mobile signal jammed if he wanted to. I've seen what he can make happen.

Why would he want to?

Could be a show of power and control. I called his bluff, he's showing me that he has power over me, so I shouldn't fight him. Could be.

Could be he's trying to frighten me, intimidate me. He's used intimidation before, I'll bet it's one of his favorite tactics.

Bloody bastard. Who does he think he is? I am starting to work myself into a righteous fury, when I suddenly remember a saying of one of my favorite psych professors: Behavior is communication. He used to say that over and over, Behavior is communication. What is the behavior? Holmes is making it difficult for me to leave. He's not preventing me or overtly threatening me, he's just making it difficult. I can walk away, I can run away, I just can't call a cab to come and drive me away in comfort.

What is being communicated? I can go away if I want to, but he'd rather I didn't. He's not the sort of man to come out here and say, Please don't go.

And, the bit about power is definitely in there as well. Very elegant way to make multiple points.

I put my phone away in my handbag so it will keep dry, as the gusts are blowing more chilly rain at me. I have to make a decision: I can't stay out here all night, and I really don't fancy walking to the Tube station in the wet and riding the train to Sara's dressed in a soaking, see-through, scanty red dress. I like attention, but not of that sort.

So, I'm going to go back inside, like he wants me to. What then? I won't go meekly like a little lambie. I'm not giving in on this stupid house arrest thing. On the other hand, I didn't exactly try to negotiate a compromise with him. Good grief, he must really feel ashamed of hurting me like that, to be so paranoid about being found out...Oh! Aaannd, there it is.

In a flash of insight the thread is clear to me. I see how to handle this; I know what it's for. I know what needs to happen. I turn around and charge back through the blue door before I have a chance to lose my nerve.

The flat is quiet; he's turned off the music. Holmes is sitting on the sofa, a drink before him on the coffee table, elbows on his knees and palms together under his chin, like I saw him when he took refuge at that wedding. He doesn't look up as I come in. I take up the fringed throw from one of the armchairs to wrap up in, and I sit down, kicking my soggy shoes off and hugging the throw around me.

I impulsively, intuitively say the first thing that comes into my head. "You know, I get so frustrated with you, I could just blow my brains out."

His eyes flicker over at me, once, and his lips barely move as he says clearly, "Wherever would you aim?"

Yes, that's it, right there. I lean forward toward him, urgently. "You know, I can tell you aren't a rude person, yet you're often rude to me. You aren't a cruel person, either, yet you can't help wanting to hurt me. Why is that, do you think?"

He just closes his eyes, and gives his head an imperceptible shake. He won't go there. All right, I'm going to do it for him. "You aren't used to needing anyone, for anything, are you?" He raises his eyelids and looks at me, nothing alive in his face but those intense blue eyes. "But now you find that you need someone, Me! and you resent the hell out of that, don't you? You resent needing me, and you resent me. You weren't just talking about Sherlock the other day, you were talking about yourself."

He blinks then, a long, slow, owl-like blink. I'm not sure what that means, so I press on, relentless. "Resentment molders into anger, and anger festers into hatred—and something like hatred can't be completely suppressed, it will out, in the strangest ways. Like sarcasm, and aggression. Biting words, biting teeth..."

His eyes slide away from me, and his head twitches ever so slightly away. I mustn't hammer too hard on that point.

"This thing on my shoulder represents all of that, the whole shitty mess, doesn't it? So the thought that anybody would see it becomes completely unendurable." His eyes flicker up to me again, and he raises an eyebrow, just a hair.

I get up, holding the throw still wrapped around me. "I'm not going to be imprisoned in this flat for a fortnight because of your unresolved issues. I simply won't. But I am willing to compromise a bit, if you are willing to. If not, then that's that. and we're done."

I go upstairs, then, because I'm chilled to the bone and all I want is a hot bath to warm me up; I toss in some lavender salts to make the water a pretty purple and smell nice. Ahhhh. You wouldn't think I could get so cold on a night in late July, honestly. What a lousy climate. One of these days I'm moving someplace where they actually have summer.

I soak every bit of myself in the steamy lavender water, right up to the top of my head, until I'm rosy and warm again, then wrap up in a thick towel and use another one to ruffle around and dry my hair. A nice benefit of shorter hair is how quickly it dries with just a good toweling.

When I come out of the bathroom, all tousled and be-toweled, I'm kind of surprised to see Holmes sitting in the armchair beside the bed, in just his trousers and rolled-up shirtsleeves. I really thought he had left, since the flat was so quiet. He gets up slowly from the chair, puts his hands in his pockets, and regards me solemnly.

"I believe I owe you an apology."

"Not at all," I reply pertly. "It's all just part of the friendly service."

He actually almost smiles at that, and tucks his tongue in his cheek as he looks down. He comes over to where I am, standing beside the wardrobe, and looks at my hair with a frown. He begins to lightly re-arrange the messy strands, carefully tucking it behind my ears.

"I've always known exactly what I was doing, you know," he says absently. "Always. People around me were...less capable than I would have liked...I've always taken care of myself. So it would be done properly." He is totally absorbed in arranging each and every strand of my hair where it belongs; his gaze is a million miles away.

"I have always known exactly what I was doing, and why I was doing it-until now. When I come here, to you...I don't know what I'm doing anymore. I just don't know. Can you imagine?" Here, he pauses his busy fingers, and looks into my face. "Imagine me, not knowing what I'm doing. Terrifying."

I hold his eyes with mine, and wait for the words to come to me. "Maybe it's time for that, to experience not knowing. Maybe right now you just need one corner of your life to be a little...messy."

He looks slightly aghast, and shakes his head, smoothing my hair into perfect shape. His eyes slide down to the top of my shoulder, followed by slender fingers; he gently brushes over the vivid purple mark there and down the curve of my bare shoulder and arm, then firmly grasps my wrist. "So beautiful, and I've marred you. I'm sorry."

Wow. He's sorry to have marred something beautiful-not sorry that he hurt me. Now, that's a telling statement if I've ever heard one. Sympathy, but no empathy.

I shrug. "It will heal quickly enough, there won't be a scar."

He nods, then un-tucks the towel I have wrapped around me, and it falls in a damp heap to the floor. He wraps his free hand around my other wrist, then pulls both of my arms behind me and upwards as he draws me towards him, pressing his cheek against mine; he doesn't have to lean down. There is just the faintest rasp of beard on my sensitive cheek, and I am enveloped in the smell of him: gentleman's cologne, plain soap, and traces of a muskiness that has to be the man himself.

My arms are pinioned behind me, pretzel-twisted as he holds me tightly and nuzzles into the side of my neck. My breath catches and I shudder when he gets around my ear, and the bastard starts to play with that, using his lips, teeth and tongue to just about send me silently screaming. He attends thoroughly to the other side, with the same results. I can feel his breath coming quicker and sharper, and the urgent press of his body against mine leaves no doubt that he is ready for me, right now.

He releases my arms to rummage in the black bag, pulling out the leather fetters, and his fingers tremble just a little as he buckles them around my wrists. He pulls my arms back behind me to clip my wrists together at my waist, and moves me over to the bed, guiding me to lay down on my back in the middle of it.

Turning to the clothing rack, he flips his braces off his shoulders quickly, hardly folding his trousers as he takes them off, and I've never seen a man unbutton and hang up a shirt so fast. I have a flicker of hope that the rest might be coming off, too, but alas, the damned vest and pants stay right where they are.

When he lies down beside me, his eyes laser-lock on mine as he fondles and caresses me, breaking only to find and apply a condom. He puts my legs over his shoulders then, and once again we are face-to-face, eye-to-eye as he moves in me. The contact is easier for me this time; although I still feel laid bare by it, I'm not so raw.

As the climax takes him, his whole body shudders and trembles with it, but he still doesn't blink. It seems to go on forever, then he finally closes his eyes and collapses on top of me, gasping. If I were a frail little thing I would have the air squashed out of me, but I'm no wisp of a girl.

After a few minutes, he rolls off, I expect to do his usual road-runner routine-but he doesn't. He lies beside me, still breathing heavily, looking in my face with solemn regard.

Unexpectedly, he says, "It's harder to tell with women, but you didn't orgasm, did you?"

Oh, lord, he's not going to turn into one of those, is he? "No, and no thank you."

"Why not?" he asks.

"I don't want to. That's all."

He reaches down. "I could make you..."

I writhe away from his probing fingers. "No, you can't." The look he gives me means a challenge has been issued, and he shifts around to better reach me. "No, really, I mean it. You can't. You can work at it all night, and I wouldn't have an orgasm. You could put an electro-stim down there, and I wouldn't come." He looks skeptical at that, and I shake my head for emphasis. "Nope. You can force the neural reflex, but you can't force a real orgasm. Sorry."

"I'm not interested in forcing you, I just don't understand why someone who obviously enjoys sex as much as you do," here he holds up his sticky, wet hand in wonder, "doesn't want to be pleasured in turn."

"Oh, you understand all right. It's about boundaries; we all draw our own lines. You don't french kiss, do you?"

He makes a face. "No. It's far too...intimate."

"Nor get fully undressed..."

"I don't care to be touched."

"See? Boundaries. I told you that you already understand. By the way, I'd like to point out that this conversation is hardly businesslike, and is even perilously close to socializing."

His lips curve in a ghost of a smile. "Yes. It is rather messy, isn't it?"

I silently turn my face to look up at the underside of the canopy. It has tiny green flowers on it. He rises up on one elbow so we are face-to-face again.

"This is an odd thing to be negotiating about, but what would it take for you to allow me to pleasure you?"

"Why? Why does it matter?"

He shrugs. "I'm curious. I want to know what you look like, what you sound like. I believe you are familiar with sudden urges of intense curiosity..." His faint smile now has a demonic cast to it.

Bastard. I let out a loud sigh. "How about if I just fake one for you? Would that be sufficient? I'm very good, most people can't even tell the difference."

"I am not most people," he says that with only a touch of arrogance.

"No, you're not." I sigh again, and I realize that he's not going to let go of this. Then I have an idea. Sweetly, I say, "Hey, I know, we can barter. Let's say, you take off your vest and pants, the full Monty, and I'll let you make me squeal for real." There, he's not going to go for that, not with all his issues.

He frowns, and looks a little suspicious. "Why would you care if I were naked or not?"

"I don't like the feel of cloth, I like skin," I say honestly, and silently add And you look a right berk. He hesitates like he's actually thinking about it, and I start to doubt my strategy.

Then I cannot believe my eyes. The bastard calls my bluff. He kneels up on the bed, skinning off his vest and pants quick as a flash, then lies back down beside me. "Now, then," he says languidly, reaching downward again. "You squeal, do you? That's very interesting."

Bloodybloodybloodyhell. His fingers slither around, randomly hitting sensitive spots that send a shiver through me; he obviously has very little idea of what he's doing. I could try to fake it, but I really do think he would know the difference. I sigh, and tell myself to stop being silly; I proposed a dare, and I misjudged it and lost. So, buck up and let's get it over with.

"Okay, okay, okay. Just this once, alright? So, this would be the easiest way..." I outline for him how to position his hand, palm-up, so his thumb is resting on my very-aroused clit, and two long fingers are poised to thrust deep against my engorged g-spot. It takes him a few minutes to get coordinated and get a rhythm going, but in a very short time I am writhing around for real. He bends his head down to flick his tongue across my erect nipples now and then, or run his teeth against my ear, both of which send me even higher.

I have my eyes closed, and there is nothing real except the intense pleasure of his strong fingers strumming me deeper and deeper into myself. I am dimly aware that the tension is making my body arch off the bed; I am suspended between my heels and the top of my head, with everything in-between thrusting up toward his remorseless, delicious hand. Then, like a bow-string when the shaft is loosed, I snap downward in release, with a full-throated cry that quivers on and on.

It seems like it's never going to stop, but eventually the waves recede and I can breathe again, my breath coming in short gasps. I can tell he's not sure if he should keep up what he's doing, because the rhythm is gone and it's starting to get annoying, so I clamp my legs together and shift away. He slides his wet hand along my heaving belly, and I open my eyes to see him gazing at me with something like total surprise, and a little awe.

"Interesting. Very interesting," is what he says, but he doesn't look so clinical as that. I can feel his body against mine, skin to skin finally, and I can also feel that he is aroused again, not rock-hard and straining, but definitely interested.

Twice in the same night is fairly unusual for a man at his age, but I guess watching me has too much of an effect to ignore. I am still flopping around like jelly, so relaxed that I can hardly stir myself, so he just rolls me over and shoves a pillow under the front of my hips, hoisting my bum into the air, and slides into me again from behind, moving hard and fast. After this one, though, he doesn't rest against me at all, but jumps away like usual as soon as he's caught his breath.

I hear him in the bathroom, taking a shower, and I roll over and work my legs and feet over the top of my bound wrists, so my arms are in front of me; my shoulders were beginning to get a little tired of being rotated behind. I could use my teeth to undo the buckles, but I want him to do it, so I curl up with my head on the pillow and wait.

It doesn't take him long, and he does his usual thing, getting dressed quickly and precisely. When he has his tie knotted and waistcoat buttoned, he reaches over the bed and unbuckles one of my wrists, then one fingertip gently taps the top of my shoulder where the bruise is.

"It really is very important to me that you keep that covered, Angel."

"I know it is. I don't want anyone to see it either, it's...tacky. I really can keep it out of sight, though. I wasn't joking about buying new shirts just for that."

"I should reimburse you the cost of those..."

"Would you stop already with the guilt? It's not a big deal, really it's not. But I'll go out as little as possible for the next few days, okay? The only thing I really want to go do is to see my sister this weekend, maybe Sunday."

"I'd appreciate if you could keep Sunday free. If all goes well, an extremely difficult situation should be resolved by then, and I shall be able to take the entire day off. I would enjoy not having to rush."

"I can do that, Saturday would work just as well to visit Sara. Ring me when you know the time for Sunday."

"Yes."

Then, he's gone, and I'm left alone with my thoughts. What the hell just happened? I swore to myself when I started this job that there were some parts of myself that I wouldn't give away to any client, no matter what, and here I am doing just that.

I examine my feelings about Holmes. Is Steen right, am I just trying to get my emotional hooks into the man? Am I falling in love? There isn't that insane craving for his company that I get when I'm in love, I know that for sure. It's...interesting when Holmes is here, but I actually feel relieved when he leaves. I still want to know more about him, but it's very different from other times I've been involved.

I'm attached to him, though. That's it, attached, in a very odd way. I wonder what he feels about me, but I doubt that he could articulate it, even if he would care to try.

I tidy up and wander downstairs for a late snack before going to bed. I toast a bagel and make some milky tea, curling up on the sofa to enjoy it, but then there is the faint chime from my handbag. My phone is telling me that there are new messages.

I check it, and see that Holmes must have had my mobile service restored, since I now have signal and two voicemail messages. The first is from my manager, just a routine check-in; the second is from Steen, and is very disturbing. He's just babbling, and I can hardly hear what he's saying over the sounds of traffic in the background.

"Angelica, Angel girl, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, but you have to get the torch to the pigman, I'm sorry to do this to you, but you have to, okay? That's the only way to stop this thing, take it to the pigman, eh? Right away!"

I play it twice, and still can't make head or tails of it. I ring him back, but the call goes straight to his mailbox, which is full. Since I can't leave a voice message, I send him a text instead, asking him to try calling again.

The torch? To the pigman? I would love to know what the hell is going on, but there's nothing I can do for him right now. I carefully save the message for further investigation, and go to bed.