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? ;)

12. Chapter Twelve

Chapter Twelve: "Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it, whispering 'Grow! Grow!'" ~ The Talmud

"Where are we going?" I ask, rolling off the bed and standing up. "What for?" I'm still a little woolly-headed from the tremendous romp we just had, and now I'm meant to shift gears just like that...?

Mycroft holds up a hand as I start in with the questions; he, at least, is completely composed. "No, I really don't-just, shower and dress, and meet me downstairs. I'll have the car waiting." He pulls his gold pocket watch out and flips it open to check the time with a frown and starts out of the room, then turns and adds, "Modestly, if you will, by the way. Dress modestly. And...discreetly, please." He motions toward my shoulder with the rapidly-fading bruise. He turns to go out the door again, then stops, and turns back, "Oh, and-"

I have to laugh."Oh, for pity's sake, why don't you just pick out my outfit for me? It will obviously save a lot of time!" I wave toward the mahogany wardrobe. "Knock yourself out, have fun, I'll put on whatever you lay out for me."

I duck into the bathroom, leaving him to figure it out. I take a quick rinse, and then blow-dry my hair. By the time I'm out, he has laid out his choices on the bed and gone downstairs.

This certainly isn't the first time I've let a man dress me; one of my ex's used to love to do it, I think that was the main reason we were together-I was his live-in dress-up dolly. I have always found it very telling what men will pick out when left to their own devices.

This one has chosen for me to wear a very feminine long-ish skirt in navy with a tiny paisley print, a crisp white sleeveless blouse, a red-and-blue scarf, and conservative pumps. It's girly and classic and not terribly sexy, although I know I can make a wool sack look sexy if I even half try.

What is most telling is that he has even chosen the undergarments, and which ones. He pulled out the sluttiest bra-and-knicker set I own, with matching sleazy suspenders and nude-tone stockings. Now, it takes a man to think that suspenders and stockings are a good idea on a warm August day, and a very particular kind of man to put you into your sexiest underwear when he takes you out for a Sunday drive...

At any rate, this does indeed save a lot of time; I don't have to worry if I am going to pass inspection, and there is no second-guessing and trying on multiple outfits. I'm dressed, hair and makeup done, in record time. Mycroft rises from the sitting-room chair when I come in, checking his watch again, and nods approvingly. "Yes. That will do nicely..." he takes a closer look and frowns, "...except that the scarf isn't-come here, please."

I obediently go to him to have the scarf done over. He arranges it around my neck instead of outside my collar, and then keeps fussing with the pleats and folds, twitching and fluffing them. His face is nearly expressionless, but his fingers feel tense to me, and that furrow is back in his brow.

"Why are you so nervous?" I ask. "What's going on?"

He gives me a shrewd glance, and shrugs slightly in an eloquent admission. He puts his hands into his pockets, probably to keep from further twiddling, and gives me a searching look. "Angel-" he begins, then stops like he changed his mind, bites his tongue for a fraction of a second, and starts over again.

"Angel, I would like to remind you that your behavior out there will reflect on me. I hope I can rely upon you to be discreet."

I can't help the wry grin that spreads over my face. "Don't worry. I'm leash-trained as well as housebroken. I do need to know, though, how you want me to play it. Am I your date? Your personal assistant? A total stranger? Your mother's best friend's niece?"

"Barely acquainted will do nicely."

I gather up my handbag and deadpan at him, "A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Holmes."

He gives me a pleasant nod as he takes up his umbrella and opens the door for me. "Miss Talbot."

It feels extremely odd walking out of the flat at Mycroft's side; somehow very wrong. It's not like I don't know how to conduct myself-I was being a smarty about leash-training, but I really did get quite the training from the Agency in proper deportment for all sorts of situations. I know that wherever it is that we're going, I can handle it just fine.

No, it's just being out in public with him that feels odd. It's probably the same for him, maybe even more so. I glance at him out of the corner of my eye as we make our way along the cobblestone street toward the black saloon parked at the corner, and he looks totally composed, dapper and confident. Okay, so that's how we roll. I match him, stride for stride.

The car starts up as we draw near and Mycroft opens the door for me. Sliding inside, I look to see who is driving, and it's that pretty brunette, Ms. Bitchy Black Dress. She doesn't acknowledge my presence, but looks over her shoulder at her boss and, at his nod, drives off.

We proceed in silence. Mycroft twiddles the whanghee handle of his umbrella, and seeing it twirling in his long fingers reminds me of the other night...I guess I never will know what exactly happened, will I? I really can't remember, and neither Mycroft nor the umbrella are saying a word. I suppress a giggle, and look out the window. It occurs to me that he must be quite tense, to be twiddling it like that, and his nervousness is affecting me. Where the hell are we going, and what is he worried about?

We get onto the motorway headed south. Mycroft's phone gives a chime, and he takes it out to look at the text, grimaces, and puts it back in his pocket. I sigh, and look out the window.

Quite soon we take the exit for Camberwell, and then we are pulling up at the entrance for King's College Hospital. Mycroft gets out. I'm not sure if I should get out or not, so I wait to see if he's going to come round and open my door; Ms. Bitchy Black Dress rolls her eyes at that, I can see in the rear mirror. Whatever.

He opens it, murmuring, "Miss Talbot." I climb out, and look from the hospital to him. He just gives me a bland smile, and motions that I should follow him. I do, as the car drives off, but I'm not exactly striding along. I don't get why we should be paying a visit at a hospital-oh! Sherlock. Of course.

But why would he want me to visit his boyfriend-or-whatever-he-is with him? He certainly didn't want me to even inquire after Sherlock's health, why would he bring me here in person? I don't get it.

As we come to the main entrance, I notice that Mycroft has brought his umbrella along. It's funny that he didn't leave it in the car, but then I remember how he had it with him when he had me brought to him in the warehouse. It wasn't raining that day, either-I bet it's his transitional object. I can't be judgmental about that, though, because I suspect that my phone is mine...especially when I'm nervous, I check a zillion times to make sure it's in my bag. For Sara, it's her keys; I guess we all have our crunchy bits.

The lobby is fairly quiet, even for a Sunday afternoon. I hate hospitals, they always smell of disinfectant and despair. I can feel part of my brain shut down when we walk through the doors and that smell hits me, it's a defense against remembering all the miserable hours spent as a helpless bystander in one hospital or another...

We sail past the lifts and go down a stairwell; how did Mycroft know I would prefer to avoid the lifts? I guess nothing should surprise me by now.

We exit the stairwell after a few flights, making a sharp turn out into the corridor that almost sends a hurrying figure crashing into Mycroft-and it's someone I recognize after a second. It's the plainclothes cop at the Met, the one who watched the suits drag me off. He was the D.I. following up on the escort murders; I wish I could remember his name, but it escapes me.

The two of them obviously know each other, although the cop looks surprised to see Mycroft here. Very surprised, and a little suspicious. He glances quickly between Mycroft and me, and I can tell his policeman's mind is putting together connections.

But he affects nonchalance. "Sorry about that!" he says, brushing a hand through his shock of silvering hair. "Didn't expect anyone to come popping out of the stairs. I've been waiting by the lifts for Miss Talbot and her escort-didn't know it would be you..."

Mycroft manifests one of his pleasant smiles as he straightens the coat sleeve that the cop brushed against. "Yes."

Wait a minute, the D.I. was waiting for ME? I suddenly have a very bad feeling about being here, and my stomach churns cold. I start to ask a question, but the cop has already stepped forward toward Mycroft again, and looks like he's squared himself up for a little confrontation. The two of them are oblivious to me for the moment.

"Since I've got you here, I have something to say. I want you to know I don't appreciate the interference." The cop is speaking quietly, not wanting to make a scene. "You need to let me do my job. Restricting my access to resources is-"

"He is not a 'resource,' Inspector. He is gravely ill and mustn't be tempted to overextend himself again. You'll just have to rely upon your own limited 'resources' until further notice." Mycroft's voice is soft, but edged with sarcasm.

"I just wanted to talk to him, that doesn't seem so unreasonable, does it?" The cop is obviously frustrated, and not taking any care at all to hide it. Mycroft seems unconcerned, although his umbrella is planted on the floor between himself and the other man.

"He can't hear about a puzzle without wanting to get involved in solving it, so yes, talking to him is entirely unreasonable. Your visiting privileges will be reinstated when Sherlock is well enough to be released from hospital again." This last is stated with quiet finality, and Mycroft rises up on his toes just a bit to tower just a little more over the shorter D.I...Lestrade, that's his name.

Lestrade glares, starts to say something, then throws his hands in an I-give-up gesture. "Right. Fine. So, what about her?" he waves a hand at me. "Are you going to let us question her now, or are you going to continue to keep her under wraps as well?"

I didn't know I was "under wraps!" What's been going on?

Mycroft shakes his head. "She doesn't know anything at all useful for your investigation. There was no point in your questioning her."

"Then, why wouldn't you allow it? What's the harm?"

Mycroft doesn't answer, but twiddles his umbrella handle a little.

"I could force the issue," Lestrade threatens.

Mycroft looks unimpressed. "I doubt it."

Lestrade looks away, his jaw working a little, but he's obviously a man who knows when to quit. "Right. Let's get this over with, then." He turns abruptly and walks quickly back the way he came.

"Get what over with?" I ask to the general air as we follow, but Mycroft is ignoring me, and Lestrade apparently doesn't hear.

We stop in front of a set of wide double doors, and when I look up, the chill in my stomach turns into painful knots. The small sign above the doors reads, "Morgue." Oh, dear god, no.

I can feel my eyes and mouth widen with shock, and I look over at Mycroft, dumbstruck. Lestrade pulls one of the doors open for me, but I just stand frozen; he looks at my face, and then at Mycroft in disbelief.

"Didn't you even tell her what she was here for?" a noise somewhere between disgust and irritation escapes from him. "You're worse than Sherlock!"

"That very possibly might be true," muses Mycroft quietly, and he leans on the umbrella planted in front of his feet, watching me with a slight frown of concern.

I can feel most of my brain suddenly shutting down as I run away inside myself. I don't want this...I don't want to be here, so the automatic reflexes take over. A door is being held open for me, so I walk through it. The silver-haired man holding the door takes my arm and speaks to me quietly as he guides me down a corridor; his words don't really register in my head, but the kind tone does. We enter another room, a cold one with several gurneys and wall of big steel drawers. Another man, a short, dark one in a white lab coat, is there.

They converse for a minute. Then the man in the lab coat pulls open one of the drawers, and there is a whiff of meat gone bad, and there is a human body under a sheet. A hand pulls the sheet down just enough so I can see the face. "Can you positively identify him for us?"

"Yes, I knew him." Words come out of my mouth, even though it doesn't sound like my voice. I am very far away.

"What is his name?"

"He was Steen Dijkstra."

The short man in the lab coat is holding a clipboard. "Could you spell that, please?"

I look at the clipboard. Spell? Yes, words have magic, that's why they call it spelling...but I don't have any right now. I just shake my head, and the motion makes a tear spill down my cheek.

The silver-haired man slides his arm around my shoulders. "Let's get her out of here. Ashok, can we use your office?"

It's a small office. The computer chair squeaks and creaks when I sit down in it. The short, dark man has a cup now instead of a clipboard, and he puts the warm cup into my hand, so I say, Thank You and drink some of it. It's more like tea than anything else, so I decide that it's tea and drink some more.

The silver-haired man sits down in a chair across from me, and leans forward with his elbows braced on his knees, looking at me. He doesn't look anything like my father, but he sharply reminds me of him...the name slowly surfaces in my brain. Lestrade... is looking at me closely, evaluating. He's probably gauging if I am coming out of shock or going in deeper. I shift my eyes up and see Mycroft standing just behind and to one side of Lestrade. He, too, is watching me, and his blue eyes are more remote than Lestrade's dark ones, even though I know them much better. Much.

I hold Mycroft's gaze, and ask him, "When?" My voice sounds like my own again, although a little whispery and hoarse. I swallow another sip of tea, and repeat to Mycroft, louder, "When?"

Lestrade misunderstands, and answers, "He was found last night..."

I shake my head, and repeat again to Mycroft, "When?" He knows exactly what I mean, and I see his tongue captured in his cheek as he lowers his eyes down to the umbrella handle slowly twirling in his slim fingers.

"I cast an eye over the police reports every morning, Miss Talbot. Including Sundays," then he looks steadily, unwaveringly at me.

He knew, then. He knew when he came to me today. He knew, because he knew Steen's face as well as I did, and the reports always include photos of unidentified db's. That selfish son of a bitch knew, but he wasn't going to spoil his Sunday fun by telling me. I feel hot rage uncoiling in my belly.

Lestrade is watching us closely, oozing both suspicion and curiosity, so I button up my anger and shelve it, for now. There is going to be a reckoning, but it can wait. I turn my eyes back to Lestrade, who wastes no time getting to business.

"Miss Talbot, I have a few questions that I need you to answer," he cranes his head to glance up at Mycroft, who stands like a pin-striped statue not a foot away. "Assuming, of course, that I'll be allowed to ask them..."

Mycroft nods graciously, his gaze still unwavering. Lestrade looks back to me. "Miss Talbot, what was the nature of your relationship with Mr. Dijkstra, and how long have you known him?"

"We were friends, I met him about...a year and a half ago, at a Christmas party." Where, in a fit of extreme depression, I was bent on some serious self-destruction. Steen scooped me up, took me home and cleaned me up...

"Were you...intimate friends, or just friends...?" He sees the angry look on my face that this elicits, and looks a little uncomfortable. "Sorry to pry, but we have to be clear, for the report."

"For the report, we were just friends. For the report, people can actually care deeply about each other without having to jump in bed together. Even if they are both sex workers."

"That, ah, was my next question. Was Mr. Dijkstra a...collegue...?" Lestrade is fumbling around a bit for a term, maybe not wanting to speak ill of the dead. He didn't know Steen, that it was just about impossible to offend him.

"He was a freelance escort." The first rule of working for the Agency is, you don't talk about the Agency-as far as law enforcement is concerned, we are all freelancers. I'm focused on Lestrade's eyes, but I can see Mycroft from the corner of mine and he is still as stone, his face completely composed.

"Miss Talbot, when was the last time you heard from Steen?" Lestrade shifts in the chair a bit; I think Mycroft looming right over him is making him nervous.

"Thursday night. He phoned me."

"Yes, you were the last call he made. There was no identification on the body, but we found his phone nearby. Ordinarily, that would make you a prime suspect, but we've been assured that that is impossible..." Lestrade glances up at Mycroft again for a second, then once more at me. "What did Mr. Dijkstra say to you?"

Mycroft gives a microscopic shake of his head, and follows it with a stern look. Nothing is the message I'm getting. Okay, I don't know why I shouldn't tell Lestrade anything, but I'm not going to go against Mycroft until I understand what is going on here. "He didn't say much. He was...upset, but he wouldn't tell me why, or where he was. When I saw him earlier in the week, he mentioned leaving to visit family soon, in Adelaide or Amsterdam, he wasn't sure which, so I didn't even know if he was still in country or not."

"Are you sure you can't remember any details of what he said to you on the phone?" Lestrade presses, and Mycroft's eyes narrow at me the tiniest bit more.

I make a show of searching my memory, then shake my head. "Sorry, no. It was a very short conversation. He seemed in a hurry, and like I said, upset. But he wouldn't tell me anything. He just wanted to say 'Hi'..." I close my eyes as my chin starts to quiver uncontrollably, and I feel hot tears spilling over. Steen had been calling to say good-bye, and he knew it. And I missed it, because of bloody Mycroft. I ignore Lestrade's offer of a box of tissues, instead propping my handbag open on the desk beside me so I can dig in it for my handkerchief. I hate disposable anything.

Once found, I press the soft linen to my eyes with one hand, the other balled up in a fist on my lap, and try mightily to get a grip on myself. I hatehatehate being all emotional like this in front of other people, I hate it. Crying for effect is one thing, it's a useful tool to get what you need in a situation, but crying for real is plain awful. It's pathetic.

The fist in my lap is taken up in someone's large, warm hands; I look up, still sniveling. Lestrade pats my hand both awkwardly and kindly, with a sympathetic look that seems genuine. I give him a tremulous smile. I really hope he's as competent as he is decent, because I really want the people who killed Steen to get what's coming to them.

Mycroft shifts slightly on his feet, and I glance up at him. He's wearing an expression of extreme distaste as he stares at Lestrade's hands clasping mine-he looks like he should like to spit something out. I'm not surprised, he did strike me as someone who wouldn't care to share his toys. Hard cheese, as my Auntie used to say. If you won't offer comfort, then somebody else will, Mr. Holmes.

I turn back to Lestrade, and say "Thank you," moving my hand slightly to indicate that he should let go of it, which he promptly does. "Thank you," I repeat again, and carefully wipe under my eyes, hoping to remove any traces of mascara or eyeliner that washed down in the floods. I would've worn waterproof if Mycroft had told me where the hell we were going, but never mind.

I lift my chin, no longer quivering, to show Lestrade that I've got a handle on myself again. "I'm fine now. Let's get on with it."

"Okay," he nods. "Okay, can you tell me if Mr. Dijkstra was in any kind of trouble? Was there anyone who would want to harm him for any reason?"

I don't need to see Mycroft's warning look on this one to know how to answer. I sure as hell hope I'm lying for a good reason. "No, not that I know of."

"Did he have any enemies, or people that he mentioned that he disagreed with? Any incidents that might have made people unhappy with him?"

I shake my head no. Lestrade purses his lips a little. "How much do you know about his...customers, Miss Talbot? Were there any who might have wanted him out of the way?"

Oh, besides the chap in the pinstripe suit standing not a foot away from you, Inspector? Up to this second, it hadn't occurred to me that Mycroft would be a perfect suspect in this. He was clearly jealous of the time Steen and I spent together that afternoon, he had been an occasional client of Steen's for a number of years, and Steen might have known some incriminating things...except that I think that if Mycroft had actually been responsible for this, the body would never have been found. I can't imagine him being so sloppy, ever, case closed.

"No. I don't know much of anything about Steen's clientele." The D.I. leans back in his chair, probably trying to think of more questions to ask while he's got me.

"Do you know if he kept a little black book, a list of clientele? We're analyzing the data on his phone right now, but there doesn't seem to be a client database on it." Analyzing the data on Steen's phone? I wonder if he used to access the forum from his phone. I need to delete his account as soon as I can, just in case.

I shake my head. "I'm sorry to be so useless, Inspector. We just didn't talk shop much at all, it's too easy to get competitive with each other when you do." And that may be the first true thing I've said to Detective Inspector Lestrade since I sat down.

Now it's my turn, just for a little. I ask him, "Please, can you tell me how...I need to know what happened to him."

Lestrade sighs. "What I can tell you is, his body was found late last night in an abandoned building in Brixton. He was shot in the back three times, and died pretty much instantly, very likely late Thursday or early Friday morning. There was a little bit at the scene for us to go on; I'll get the ballistics report tomorrow morning, and that may tell us something more. I was hoping you could add some more information," he shrugs. "I'm sorry I had to put you through this, but it was necessary, and we may need to call you in again-"

"I think not," Mycroft cuts in sharply. "She clearly knows nothing that can be of use in your investigation, there will be no need for further questioning."

Lestrade doesn't look up at Mycroft; he just closes his eyes like he is counting to ten, then gives me a long-suffering look. He reaches into the breast pocket of his suit coat, pulls out a card case, and flips a business card out of it to hold in front of my eyes before tucking it into my open handbag. "Keep this around, just in case, okay? Can't hurt." He gives me a smile that's only a little bit disingenuous. "Just in case you remember something important. You can call me anytime."

I nod, putting my hanky away in an outside pocket of my bag where I can find it easily. Mycroft goes to the door and opens it for me; I rise and shake hands with the D.I., the two of them exchange curt nods, and I am off, following in Mycroft's wake, winding our way back to the stairs and probably out.

My head is still reeling, just reeling. I am still in a little bit of shock, and I can tell I'm not quite all back together yet, but I'm together enough to be equal parts furious and curious. "So," I ask Mycroft, "are we headed someplace where we can talk? Because you can bet that I've got a whole lot of questions..."

As we exit the stairwell, Mycroft checks his pocket watch. "No, not at the moment. You'll be dropped off at the flat. I have some important business to attend to."

Right, isn't that classic? There's important business, and then there's you. Opposite ends of the spectrum, obviously. I stop, dead in my tracks, in the middle of the hallway. "No. I need to talk to you, now." I glare at him, mulishly.

A few steps ahead, Mycroft half-turns toward me, impatient. "Angel, COME!" he snaps.

Is he actually calling me like a dog? Unbe-fucking-lievable. Oh, if he wants to treat me like a dog, I'll be glad to show him what a bitch I can be. I turn on my heel and walk the other way, noticing a cluster of signs on the wall; one of them says "Chapel" with an arrow pointing the way. Perfect.

Mycroft catches up with me quickly, and puts a hand on my arm; I shrug him off violently and keep walking. "Angelica!" he growls softly through his teeth, but then we are in front of the sturdy paneled door marked, "Chapel," and I turn the brass handle and go in.

It's what you expect for a hospital chapel; a few wooden pews, a big, plain wooden cross on the wall. There is one person in the room already, an older woman sitting on the nearest pew who turns to look at us as we storm in. I lean down into her face and snarl the first thing that pops into my head: "I'm an angel of the lord, woman! Clear out before I rain down fire!"

With a terrified squeak, she snatches up her handbag and scurries out. I lock the door behind her, and turn on Mycroft. He gives me a very cold, very angry look. "I don't have time for this," he warns.

"Trust me, you don't have time to not do it." I am warning him right back. "I need..." I can feel tears rising again, and I fight them back furiously. "I need to know what's going on. Why didn't you tell me about...about Steen? And why did you want me to lie to Lestrade?"

Mycroft closes his eyes and sighs impatiently. "I didn't tell you earlier because I deduced that you would be quite upset-which proved correct, didn't it? So why make you waste a perfectly good afternoon being upset before you had to be?" I open my mouth to answer, and close it again. My god, he really is a Martian.

But there's a gaping hole in the argument. "Okay, but why didn't you at least tell me right before we left? Surprising me that way was not very nice. In fact, it was really shitty."

Mycroft looks everywhere but at me, and there is a long pause. Finally, he reluctantly admits, "Truthfully, I didn't want to deal with your reaction. I've never been very good with that sort of thing."

"I can see it, if by 'that sort of thing' you mean an actual person having actual feelings."

"What you call actual feelings, I would call wallowing in sentiment." He's getting disdainful now.

"Grief isn't wallowing in sentiment. It's an inevitable reaction to loss." I look at him, searching. "You knew him too, Mycroft. Doesn't it bother you, how he died?" I regret the words as they leave my mouth, because I already know the answer.

"No, not at all. Does my lack of grief bother you?" His voice turns sharp and mocking, turning my own words against me. "How about if I just faked it for you? Would that be sufficient? I'm very good, most people can't even tell the difference."

"I'm not most people." Two can play that game.

"Perhaps not." I can't quite fathom the look he gives me, except that it seems a little pained.

I look away and change the subject. "Why did you have me lie to Lestrade? I really do have information that could help the investigation, maybe catch the killers..."

"I know that. And it is irrelevant."

"How can it be irrelevant?"

"Because I am standing down the investigation. There will be no further inquiry."

"What?! You can't do that!" The look he give me says, Oh, yes I can, and I answer, "Okay, yes, you can do that, but it's not right! The police have to do their job and find the people responsible for this! They have to!"

Mycroft shakes his head, like he's explaining something very simple to a very small child. "No, they don't. The overwhelming majority of murders remain unsolved, Angel, and it's best that this is one of them."

"Why?"

"Because it comes too close to people whose effectiveness could be compromised in the course of the investigation."

"You mean, yourself!"

"Amongst others, yes."

"So, let me get this straight. You are going to declare the investigation closed, and let Steen's murderers go free, because you don't want to have any awkward questions asked. Is that it?"

He weighs it a little. "More or less, yes."

"And you don't see anything wrong with this?"

He frowns. "No, of course not. It's necessary."

"Necessary?" I feel like I'm going to jump out of my skin with everything I'm feeling right now, so I start pacing to try and straighten my thoughts out. Mycroft pulls out his phone and thumbs a quick text, then puts it away and waits stoically, watching me.

I give it my best shot at explaining. "It's not decent...it's not acceptable to let this go unpunished. It's an insult to his memory to just let it go like this. It's saying that he wasn't important."

Mycroft just looks puzzled. "Well, he wasn't."

It feels like a kick in the stomach when he says that. I want to cry out, How can you say that Steen wasn't important? You were with him, many times, like you've been with me...he cared about you, he noticed you, how could you not notice him? How could you not care?

But I don't say any of that, because it wouldn't make any difference. Not a bit. I just stand there and silently weep, because I realize that it's true, and that just like Steen, I'm not important, either.

Tears streaming down my face, it's too much for me to keep in anymore. "We're just disposable people, aren't we?" I shout. "Like some fucking tissue that you wipe up with and toss away when you're done, we're completely disposable! Not worth a second thought, or even a first thought, are we?"

Choking sobs tear out of my throat for a breath or two, and then I deliberately swallow the storm down. Once you really get going it's all too easy for grief to consume you, so you have to stay on top of it or risk drowning. I fish my handkerchief out and sit down on a pew to wipe my eyes and blow my nose.

Mycroft looks a little stunned. "Angel-" he starts, then pauses and continues. "Angel, surely you can accept that some people have more importance than others?"

I nod. "Yes, but less important doesn't mean worthless. It doesn't mean disposable. Or at least, it shouldn't."

Mycroft's brow furrows. "And how is bringing his killers to justice going to benefit your friend? He's dead."

I let out something between a laugh and a sob at this; my god, he is so clever and stupid at the same time! How do I answer a question like that? That's not the sort of question anybody over the age of five would ask. I close my eyes and let the part of me that knows these things make an answer.

"It's not for him, it's for me. I identify with Steen because he was my friend. So what is done to him, is done to me, in a way. If he's thrown away, then so am I." I open my eyes to look up into Mycroft's. "Look, I don't expect that you will completely understand how I feel, okay? You're...the way you are. I'm not anyone to be judging you, or anyone else. But please, let me help with bringing Steen's murderers in. It will help me in dealing with the grief."

To do him credit, Mycroft looks like he gives the idea serious consideration for several minutes, but then he shakes his head. "No. I'm sorry, but no. Every possible scenario that I run comes up with far too much unacceptable risk. The potential benefits don't outweigh the potential costs to anyone-including you." He says the last part with very deliberate emphasis, and I know he wants me to hear that I do, indeed, matter. Whether or not I believe it is another thing entirely.

We look at each other for a moment, and I decide that further discussion is quite pointless. I stand up and put away my hanky, signaling that I am ready to go, and Mycroft shifts around so he is by the door.

"I am going to stand down the investigation, Angel. You are not to pursue this matter further, either on your own or through the police. Is this quite clear to you?"

I just bow my head submissively and nod.

"Good. Then we should be on our way..." he reaches for the door handle, but I put my palm against the door.

"One more thing. I need some time...bereavement leave, you know? I'm entitled to some time off, aren't I?"

He looks a little chagrined at not having thought of that himself. "Yes, of course. How long would you like?"

"Would a week be too much?"

He doesn't look too happy about it, but says, "Not at all. Next Sunday, then."

I nod. "Next Sunday." Six days. I reckon that's long enough to solve a murder, if I have some help.