Chapter Thirteen: "When an inner situation is not made conscious, it appears outside as fate." ~ C.G. Jung

I love this old bridge. It's so very Victorian that it's almost a little kitsch, but I still love it. Actually, I just like bridges in general - a bridge is a place between, neither here nor there, going someplace but not arrived. Beginnings and endings are both out of the question when you're on a bridge, you're hanging in the air, over water, and anything is possible.

I'm leaning against the smooth, cold stone of the balustrade, and peering over it into the swirling stream of the Thames below, dropping bits of leafy twig into the water, watching the current carry the green specks away. There was a stone bridge, a little one, near Auntie's cottage; when we lived there with her I spent many hours doing this very thing, going again and again to fetch more twigs to drop more bits, until Sara said I should be careful not to end up chucking the whole forest in there.

Sighing, I drop the last bit in, and watch the murky waters swirl it away. There's a steady stream of motor traffic behind me, and the air would be thick with exhaust fumes if there weren't a freshening breeze. A horn honks occasionally, because Battersea is a commuter's nightmare most days, being such a narrow bridge. It's a beautiful Monday morning, bright and sunny, and cooking up to be a hot one. Steen used to make fun of me, complaining about the occasional hot day here in London. "You should try a January day down around Alice Springs, girl. Now, that's bloody hot!"

How is it that we can go weeks without thinking about a particular person much at all, but when they are dead, that's all you can think about? Guilt probably plays a part, although missing his final call is the only thing I can be reasonably accused of. I wish that had been different.

I take out my cigarette case and light one up, despite that it takes a few tries in the breeze up here. Smoking is handy for when you are waiting, it gives you something to do with yourself. I take out my phone and check the time; ten more minutes. I fiddle for a moment with the clock display, setting it how I like instead of the default. I also notice that on this new phone the volume and menu buttons are totally different from my old one, so I'm going to have to pay attention. I like my other one better, but this one isn't traced to me yet, so it can't be used against me. I hope.

My head is such a muddle right now. I wish I felt more certain that I was doing the right thing. I feel bad going against Mycroft's wishes - not just scared, but bad. Like, I don't want to disappoint him. I have to remind myself that it's not like he actually cares; I don't know if he's capable of it, to be honest. He was so callous about Steen's death, and he must have ordered me - ordered me! - at least three times on the way home to stay out of it, that there would be no investigation. And he as much admitted that it was because he didn't want any inconvenience to himself.

He's utterly selfish...but he was also quite kind toward me during the ride back to the flat yesterday. He actually praised me, right there in the car; he told me that I had done very well in dealing with the Inspector. I'm a little ashamed of how good it made me feel when he said it. I don't think Mycroft offers praise very often to anyone, and so there I was like a little doggie wagging my tail at him. But damn, it did feel good; still does. And the look, what I could see of it, on Ms. Bitchy-Dress's face was priceless.

But acting kind isn't the same thing as caring. I have to remember that, because he keeps fooling me. One of my weaknesses is needing to feel special - and Mycroft Holmes sure as hell knows how to play that game.

I take a long drag on my cig and blow the smoke out my nostrils, feeling the burn in my sinuses. It makes my eyes tear up, but I can feel the fog clearing from my brain. I didn't sleep very well last night. I lay there for hours, trying to figure out what to do...

In the end, I guess my mad curiosity won out. That, and new information from one of the Agency girls on the forum; the first thing I did when I got home yesterday was to go online and delete Steen's account, notify everyone of his death, and ask if anyone had information about his activities over the past week or so.

One girl, Joye, did. She posted a private response to my query, and after I read it I got out my new phone and called Inspector Lestrade to arrange a meeting. No matter what Mycroft does if he finds out, I'm at least giving what I know to Lestrade, in hopes that he can follow up on it unofficially or something. It's too important to ignore, and I can't trust that Mycroft won't simply toss the information out as being potentially inconvenient.

Next time I look up from the water, I see a man walking toward me along the smooth stone pavements of the pedestrian walkway; suit coat blowing open in the breeze, grey-and-white striped shirt open at the neck, no tie. When he gets up close, Lestrade gives me a friendly smile, looking out over the view of the river and the city crowded against its banks.

"Nice spot. A little unusual as a meeting place, but nice."

I shrug. "I like bridges." And this one doesn't have CCTV cameras on it, only on the street approaches. It wasn't too difficult to lose my usual unobtrusive followers; I just hired my favorite minicab driver, the one who got me away from the black car tailing us when I stalked Mycroft's house. He understood exactly what I wanted and left my followers in the dust long enough for me to get out and hop onto a bus. I left my old phone, the one they can track, safely stowed in his cab with him; he'll drive it around for me so it will, hopefully, not look suspicious. I'll call him to pick me up when I'm done here, and none the wiser.

The D.I. leans his arms on the balustrade, mirroring me, but refuses my offer of a cigarette. I can tell he's bursting with questions; isn't that just like a policeman? Once their suspicions are aroused, they can't stand not knowing. I finish my cig and let the butt drop down to swirl in the murk below.

"I have to warn you that I was ordered this morning to stand down the investigation into your friend's death," he says. Interesting opening, to let me know that right away. He's working hard to establish trust. "So, whatever you have for me is going to have to be unofficial, and we can only pull the suspects in for other crimes, not that murder. If we can make something else stick, then the murder case can potentially be re-opened."

I nod. "I understand your position. I wouldn't be risking...what I am if I didn't think it was extremely important."

He turns a bit more toward me, showing his intense curiosity. "What exactly are you risking? What do you stand to lose if Mycroft Holmes finds out you're here?"

I look at my hands resting on the smooth granite of the balustrade. I need to tend to my nails, the polish is getting a little worn at the edges, the cuticles a bit ragged. Need to take care of that before next Sunday, although by then, it might not matter. What am I risking? My job for sure. The trust of someone who doesn't trust? Probably. Mycroft will think less of me for doing this, but I will think less of myself if I don't.

"Not much, in the scheme of things." I shrug.

Lestrade keeps pressing, though. "What's your connection with him?"

I'm certainly not going to answer that one truthfully, but Lestrade needs an explanation for why I have been under Mycroft's protection, and why I'm here now as an anonymous informant. I'm struck by a thought that tickles my fancy.

"I work under him at times." Truer words I have rarely spoken, and I say it completely straight-faced.

"Gathering intelligence?"

I nod. "Good girls may go to heaven, but bad girls go everywhere, Inspector." And I give him a wayward grin.

"I suppose so," he murmurs, and looks back out over the river. "What is it, exactly, that he does, then? What's his official title?"

I start to say, I have no idea, although that doesn't support my claim very well-but then it occurs to me that I do know beyond a shadow of doubt what Mycroft actually does.

"He makes things tidy. He fixes what's wrong. Truth be told, I think an official title would just get in the way."

Lestrade looks at me full now, with half a smile. "Is that a fact?"

"To the best of my knowledge, yes." Another truth.

"So, what happened a few weeks ago, when you were dragged out of my office? You were terrified. What was that about?"

I blush a little at that, embarrassed at what a fuss I had made over nothing. "It was just a misunderstanding, that's all. Wires got crossed. It was all sorted out later."

He looks a bit relieved, although not completely convinced. "Good. I felt a little guilty, you know, that they just took you like that." Yes, I know you felt guilty, Lestrade. I was pushing that button for all I was worth that night...but he continues with a frown. "I really hate having my jurisdiction walked all over. And then I tried to call you in for questioning in the call-girl cases, but you officially disappeared. As in, it would take a high-level security clearance to even get access to a record of your parking tickets, much less an address or phone number. I wondered if something really serious had happened to you."

Now, that is useful to know. Mycroft has made me officially disappear..."What, you thought that I'd been killed?" Lestrade shrugs and nods. "No, Inspector, that would only be a last resort. It's apparently surprisingly complicated, I imagine because of all the paperwork." I give him a bright smile, and watch his brain sorting that little piece of information.

"So, what have you got for me?" he asks after a pause. I fish in my handbag and pull out the tattered novel, its lurid cover glowing orange in the bright sunlight. Lestrade takes it from me and thumbs through it, shaking his head.

"What the hell is this? It's not even in English."

"It's very possibly the reason Steen was killed. He told me that he had an item that had come to him by accident, one that some different groups wanted very much, although it was best for none to have it, and he hoped they didn't know that he did. Then some pathetic thugs pillaged his flat looking for it, but Steen wouldn't let me call the police to report the break-in...he was afraid of something."

I take a deep breath and sigh. "He sent it to me for safe keeping, knowing I wouldn't throw it away, and said he was going to leave the country for a while."

"Yeah, we found that he had paid for a ticket to Amsterdam the day before he died, but never picked up the ticket or checked into the airport. Is there more?"

I nod. "Yes, there is. When Steen called me Thursday night, he left a message telling me that I had to get this," I wave at the book in Lestrade's hand, "to the pigman, that that was the only way to stop 'this thing,' whatever that is. He was adamant about that." I look at the D.I. for his reaction, and he just spreads his hands in puzzlement, the breeze riffling the pages of the book in his open palm. So far, he's not much help.

"And, there was this inside the book." I pull the scrap of paper out of my handbag with Evan McCutcheon's name on it, and hand it to Lestrade.

He looks at the paper and gives a little groan. "Now, there's a name I know, and a place. Evan McCutcheon is quite the businessman."

"Yep." I look over the water at a commuter catamaran speeding across the choppy waves. "I went and saw him Friday night, and managed to get him to tell me who the pigman is, or, at least, what he is."

"And that is?"

"A 'pakhan,' a leader in the Russian mafia. Got anybody who might fit that description?"

Holding the book in one hand, and the paper scrap in the other, Lestrade looks over the water for a moment. "Mad Sacha? It could be Mad Sacha...I've heard rumors that he used to feed his enemies to the feral boars, back home...but I didn't know he was a boss."

"Maybe he worked his way up. There's one thing more." I hand him the sticky note with the two names that I took down from Joye's message yesterday, and he glances at it quickly and shrugs.

"I don't recognize either of these names, although they both look to be Middle Eastern. Where did you get them from?"

"Another escort. She said that those two men showed up at a party last week in an ugly temper, looking for Steen, and she covered for him so he could slip out the back. She said he was terrified of them!"

Lestrade purses his lips a little, frowning. "How reliable is this person?"

"Reliable enough-I know her, although not super well. But, what if it's true? Can we afford to ignore it? That's what tipped the scales for me about contacting you; Steen wasn't one to jump at shadows. And what if they're terrorists?"

"Now, Miss Talbot, we aren't supposed to profile people based on ethnic background..."

I give him a look. "Right. And...?"

Reluctantly, Lestrade says, "...and, we'll follow up on them, just in case. And I'll want the contact info for the informant later." He gives me a hard look and adds with an edge to his voice, "Is there anything else that you happened to neglect to tell me yesterday?"

"Hey, I'm here talking to you, now!"

He has the grace to apologize, at least. Turning his back to the balustrade and leaning against it, the Inspector thoughtfully tucks the scraps of paper back inside the book, and leafs through it once more.

"There's nothing written inside it besides that name in the front, is there?"

I shake my head. "No. And no invisible ink, or dot ciphers, or anything like that."

He looks at me. "Are you sure that this is actually significant?"

"Yes, dead certain. The title means, 'The Torch,' and that's what the thugs who pillaged Steen's flat said they were looking for, the Torch. At first, I thought they meant the kind with batteries..."

"Lots of dog-eared pages," he observes. "And not much else." He sighs. "No way I'm going to be figuring this out, but I know somebody who can. He's very good with puzzles, although he's also very ill right now."

"Sherlock?" I ask.

"You've met him?"

"No, I've just heard about him once or twice, that's all. Mr. Holmes is very protective, isn't he?"

"You have a gift for understatement, Miss Talbot," the D.I. laughs. "Protective, yes. Oh, yes indeed."

"How are you going to get the puzzle to him for solving if you're banned from visiting?"

Lestrade looks at me suspiciously for a moment, but then says, "Right, I forgot that you must've heard that yesterday. Well, there are ways, I have friends who owe me favors." He gives me the book back so he can take out his mobile, but stops and looks around at the cars streaming past just a few feet away on the other side of the wrought-iron traffic barrier. He shakes his head.

"There's too much noise here to make a decent phone call. I left my car over this way, let's go." He turns to go back the way he came onto the bridge, motioning for me to follow, but I stay planted where I am.

"No. I don't want to be seen strolling around with you, Inspector." A look ripples across his handsome face that makes me realize how that could have sounded to a male ego; I quickly add, "Nothing personal, you understand. It's just that the approaches to this bridge are on camera..."

Lestrade looks disturbed. "He monitors you that closely?"

"He could if he cared to. Face-recognition software makes it pretty simple these days, if you have the resources, doesn't it? So why take the chance?" Actually, I know for a fact that he monitors me that closely, but I don't want the Inspector to suspect that I have any personal significance to Mycroft. "I'd prefer to wait here, okay? Then you can drive by and pick me up."

He frowns. "There's no stopping on the bridge, Miss Talbot."

I roll my eyes at him. "Fine. Then text me where I should meet you." I turn back to the water, tucking the book into an outer pocket of my handbag. Lestrade hesitates a moment, then strides off quickly.

I'm quite disappointed that Lestrade didn't know more, but I don't know what I expected from the man. I get out another cigarette and fight with the breeze to light it; on the fifth try, as my patience is wearing thin and for some reason I am cursing everything in trousers, I realize that what I expect is for him to fix everything, to make it all better for me. Well, that's not terribly fair, is it? Not his job.

It doesn't take too long for Lestrade to set up a quick visit, I guess, because I haven't even finished the cigarette before there's a text from him, telling me to be ready for the car coming round; in just a few minutes a silver BMW pulls up at the kerb beside me with the D.I. inside, motioning madly for me to get in. Only a few cars have piled up behind him, and the honking and cursing is much less than I would've thought. He gives me a wide grin as I scramble over the traffic barrier and climb in, and I can't help but smile back. Got to reward good behavior...

Apparently, his contact at the hospital will be able to help us get in immediately without being interfered with; the security cameras will be otherwise employed, and the personnel who watch that room will be likewise. We'll have just a bit less than half an hour to talk to Sherlock. Lestrade is gleeful.

"Ha! Told you I have friends who owe me favors. You can't keep that kind of thing under your heel. People helping each other out, that's how things get done." He pounds the wheel for emphasis on the last few syllables, and it's such a familiar gesture that it makes me laugh out loud.

"What's so funny?" Lestrade asks.

"Smacking the wheel like that when you're excited. My father used to do that." I look at him out of the corner of my eye. "You kind of remind me of him. He was a constable with the Met."

"Oh, yeah? Where?"

"Croyden." I see Lestrade wince just a little; Croyden is not an easy borough for law enforcement. "He hurt his back taking down a robbery suspect, so they kicked him upstairs to administrative work. He hated it."

"Talbot, in Croyden," he says to himself, and shakes his head. "Nope, never met him." It would be a wonder if he had; the Met has over 30,000 officers. Lestrade glances at me briefly. "He's...not around any more?"

"Died of cancer, just over two years ago." I look out the window, and wonder which hospital we're headed to. I guess I'd ask if I cared.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly. "Were you close to him?"

I sigh. I was the one to bring the topic up, it's not fair to shut down now. "I tried to be. We were close when I was young. My mum died when I was seven, though, and he just was never the same after. He...went cold." I keep my face turned toward the window, watching the buildings roll by us, and swallow back the stupid prickle of tears behind my eyes. I lost him so long ago that it's ancient history, you wouldn't think it could still hurt to talk about it.

We go along further in silence, so I ask Lestrade about his family; divorced, he says, no kids. He natters on about his work then, as men often do, telling me the story of his career from constable to D.I., mentioning several high-profile cases along the way. He's clearly trying to impress me, and I actually am a little impressed. He's made some significant busts, and I know just enough about police work to be aware what a coup they are.

I've just asked him for more details about how they really managed to catch the Lambeth Creeper-I remember Daddy talking about that one, it was really strange-but then Lestrade is wheeling us into a parking garage beside a huge hospital, and it's time to go meet Sherlock.

The D.I. seems a little tense as we get out of the car. I eye him carefully, and ask, "Is everything okay?"

He runs a hand through his short-cropped silver hair, his nervous gesture, and reassures me, "Sure, yeah, it should be fine." I look at him skeptically. "Okay, well, you haven't met Sherlock before. He's a little...eccentric, right? You never know just what he's going to say, but if there's anyone who can figure that book of yours out, it's him, so it's worth putting up with."

"What's worth putting up with?" I'm smoothing my skirt as we stand by the car, making sure that everything is where it should be. I'm wearing the plaid sheath dress that I wore to the club Friday, with a wide black leather belt instead of the harness, and black ankle boots.

"You'll see," Lestrade shrugs in a helpless way, and motions me toward the garage stairs. I hesitate, though.

"I have a favor to ask of you, Inspector." He turns toward me, questioning. "We haven't discussed it specifically, but you won't mention my association with Mr. Holmes to Sherlock, will you? The less said there, the better..."

Lestrade frowns. "Of course I won't mention it. Not really relevant to the case, is it?"

"No, not at all."

He smiles reassuringly again, and checks his watch. "Well, then, we need to get in there. We have just twenty-two minutes left."

Lestrade has been to this hospital before; he knows exactly where he is going. I throw him off a little by asking to use the stairs instead of the lifts, but he doesn't argue with me about it, even though it's six floors up.

We're both a little winded by the time we reach the seventh floor, but I'm surprised how well the D.I. keeps up. I follow him down a brightly-lit corridor, and we stop in front of the door for room 707; he knocks briskly, and there is an impatient, "What?" from inside.

We enter a private single room, standard modern hospital, with the usual bed and a few chairs, a big window with a nice view over some greenery. A youngish man is propped up on the bed, hooked up to an IV and a vitals monitor, wearing a standard-issue white gown with mint-green diamonds on it. He's got his head slightly turned, ignoring us and gazing out of the large window by his bed. Lots of curly dark brown hair, very pale complexion. Lestrade told me on the way up that the bloke had taken a bullet that narrowly missed his heart nearly two months ago, and now was battling a serious internal infection. I didn't mention that this was probably because he wouldn't stay put in hospital long enough to fully recover.

The man in the bed is, of course, Sherlock. He looks a lot younger than Mycroft, a lot younger than I expected. I guess that fits, from what I know of their relationship; Mycroft is definitely the caretaker, maybe the father-figure. Sherlock is very handsome, I can certainly see the attraction. Lestrade stops with me at the foot of the bed and clears his throat. The man in the bed turns his head with a sigh, and looks at us, repeating, "What?"

Lestrade does introductions; "Miss Talbot, Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, Angelica Talbot." I look dumbfounded at Lestrade, and at Sherlock. Holmes? What?

I stare at Sherlock as my brain snaps around trying to redefine things. They're...brothers. They don't look much alike at all, although neither do Sara and I. She's brown-haired, short and curvy...

I bite my lip to keep from giggling outloud. Okay, this is pretty funny, that I thought his brother was...but never mind, it also makes sense this way, maybe more so. I just thought that Mycroft was a kind of obsessive boyfriend, now I think he's an obsessive brother.

It dawns on me that Sherlock is still staring at me as well. His brows are furrowed together, his mouth drawn up in a look of distaste-now he looks quite a bit more like his brother, I know that look-and his gaze is unwavering.

Lestrade clears his throat yet again. "Sherlock...?" No response, still staring. I look at the bag of fluids on the IV tower; it doesn't look like he's on a sedative drip or anything, but maybe they've given him something by mouth to keep him quiet.

"Maybe we should just go?" I whisper, but then the figure on the bed takes a sudden deep breath, and turns his frown to Lestrade.

"Is this some sort of a joke?" he says disdainfully. "Because it's not at all funny."

"What's not funny?" says a voice from the doorway. A man enters the room holding a coffee cup, he's short and middle-aged, his face and clothes just a little bit rumpled.

"Lestrade's little joke here," and Sherlock indicates me with a slow wave of his hand. Hey! I glare at him, then look to the newcomer, who has come to stand beside the bed. He is introduced as Dr. John Watson, although he immediately tells me to please call him John. Well, no wonder Mycroft was so relieved that Sherlock had John with him last time he went missing; you'd want a doctor along, wouldn't you?

John returns my friendly smile; he's wearing a wedding ring on his left finger, so the smile isn't that sort of friendly. Still, I can tell he's quite appreciative. Married but not dead.

He takes a sip of his coffee, still smiling and appreciating. "Angelica doesn't look like a joke to me, Sherlock."

Sherlock looks annoyed. "She has to be. The universe is rarely so lazy." He scowls at Lestrade. "I appreciate the effort, but really-" and he turns his face back toward the window.

I am completely confused, and I see that Lestrade looks mystified. Only John seems to think this is normal. He calmly strikes up a convo with Lestrade about mutual acquaintances. I gather that they've known each other for a few years at least, long enough for some people to have moved on to different jobs. Eventually the D.I. asks after someone called Mary, and there is an awkward pause for a moment, which is when Sherlock deigns to turn back toward us again.

He fixes me with an intense, pale-eyed stare, and demands, "Why are you here?"

"I'm helping the police investigate the murder of my friend," I say hesitantly, glancing at Lestrade. "I have some evidence here that they think you can figure out-"

The man on the bed waves an impatient hand. "Evidence can wait. I need to know why *you* are here." He reaches long fingers to the controls at the side of the hospital bed, raising it up until he is sitting as far upright as possible, and peers at me closely again. "Why is your hair cut like that?"

I raise a hand to my hair, running my fingers through the ends. I've got the shoulder-length bob done today in a cute little bouffant, with the fringe swept to the side, and a black leather band holding the rest of it back behind my ears. "Because I like it?" I say uncertainly. I'm not about to tell him that it's because his brother insisted.

"You had your hair cut recently, probably last week. You are living in Knightsbridge, although you don't rent the flat yourself. Since you are also a prostitute, it would be safe to assume that you have a patron looking after you. Who is it?"

Wow. What am I supposed to say to all that? How the bloody hell does he know all of that? In open-mouthed surprise, I look over at Lestrade and John, who both give me kind of helpless looks, then back at Sherlock. He gives me a disdainful huff.

"You look like a goldfish with your mouth gaping open like that, you know."

Is he trying to get me angry, or is he really that much of a wanker? My knee-jerk reaction is to poke back, so I poke. "Okay, right about everything except my job description. I'm just a prostitute the way you're just a nosey parker."

Sherlock almost smiles. "So, what is the equivalent of a consulting detective, in sex-worker terms?"

"An escort. I'm a paid companion."

"Paid...how much?" This elicits a huff from John, but Sherlock ignores him completely.

I give him my best charming smile. "I'm very sorry, but if you have to ask, you couldn't possibly afford me."

Sherlock doesn't answer, just looks, his eyes flicking here and there. "Who IS your patron?" He's not asking so much as demanding.

"Confidential." I look over at Lestrade, with the tiniest suggestion of a pout. Although I feel like fuming, I know that hurt plays better than anger; it makes you seem less of a potential threat. "Inspector, is this necessary? I know your friend is bored, but I'm not here to entertain him!"

Before the Inspector has a chance to respond, Sherlock cuts in sharply, "Yes, we've established that *I* couldn't afford you." Then, he sighs and holds out his hand. "I'll take your case, Miss Talbot. Give me the book, please."

I pull the dog-eared Russian paperback out of the side pocket of my handbag and place it in Sherlock's hand. "How did you know the evidence was a book?"

"You touched the handle of your bag when you said 'evidence here,'" he says absently, leafing through the book. "I could see the outline of it through the kid leather of the bag's pocket, but you aren't the type to carry reading material around with you."

"Oh, no?" Now I'm really getting angry-god, I absolutely hate 'dumb blonde' stereotyping!

"No. You're too self-confident to need to hide behind a book, and too curious to want to." Oh. Well, maybe he's right.

Sherlock takes the two pieces of paper out from the book's end pages, and examines them closely. "You wrote this one yesterday," he declares, holding up the yellow sticky note, "but where did this other one come from? It was written with a cheap ball-point pen, by a left-handed man..." He contemplates the two scraps of paper with a frown.

I explain where the two notes came from, and the book, and about Steen, and about everything else I can think of. John has taken a seat against the wall beside Sherlock's bed, and is steadily sipping his coffee; Lestrade stays standing where he is, every now and again glancing at his watch.

When I pause and tell Sherlock, "That's it. That's all I can think of," he gives me a very speculative look, then gazes out of the window. Lestrade checks the time again and makes a face.

"Sherlock," he says,"do you think you can help us out here? Can you tell if there's actually something coded in that book that's worth people dying?"

The pale man riffles through the book's pages again, and looks at the soft-core porn on the front cover with a frown. "There's nothing coded in this book at all," he declares. Lestrade sighs and shakes his head at me, and I start to object, but Sherlock continues unperturbed. "There's no code, but it is obviously a cipher. I just have to determine the algorithm. Won't take long."

"Well, you'll have to let me know what you come up with later. Miss Talbot and I have to go, NOW." Lestrade gives me a meaningful look and nods to Sherlock and John. "Nice to see you both," he points then at Sherlock, saying, "Take care of yourself!"

I add my little see you later, and nice to meet you, and Lestrade takes my arm to steer me out of the room, but Sherlock calls out, "Miss Talbot!" I turn around, curious, but he just frowns at me for a long moment, then shakes his head, "Never mind."

I look at Lestrade, who gives me an I-warned-you sort of shrug, and opens the door for me.

As we're walking back to the car, I have to ask the D.I.,"How does Sherlock know all that stuff about me? You didn't tell him, and I doubt that Myc-Mr. Holmes did, either. Is he psychic or something?"

Lestrade laughs and shakes his head. "I think it might be easier to take if he was. No, he just looks at details and deduces things from them."

"How did he guess my line of work, then?"

"I don't know. I'm as mystified as you, I always am, but I can tell you that he's not often wrong. I'm very glad that you didn't ask him how he knew, though."

"Why?"

The D.I. grimaces. "Because he would've told you, and when he tells people how he deduced something, they are just about always sorry they asked."

I nod. I bet they are.

"So," Lestrade asks as we get into his car. "Should I take you back to Knightsbridge, or...?"

"No, if it's all the same, I'd rather you dropped me off at Battersea, where we met; I can find my way from there."

As we go, I ask Lestrade about the other cases he's working on right now, if there's anything interesting. He sighs.

"Not really. If you've lived with somebody who does police work, you know how it is - days of boredom blended with hours of frustration, punctuated by moments of sheer terror."

"Yeah, I do remember hearing about that," I give him a smile, then turn back to what is on my mind. "But what about the escort murders? Anything new there?"

"Nothing at all, I'm afraid."

"Do you think that it was a serial killer, like the media were saying?"

"No. No, we don't think it was a serial killer at all. It was somebody who wanted it to look like one, but they didn't do their research. Not too bright, overall."

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"Well, a true serial killer will kill the race and gender they find attractive, so that's consistent, but serial killers don't just kill their targets, they create a personal contact with them as part of the killing, either during it or afterwards. These ladies," he shakes his head, looking sad, "these ladies were executed, pure and simple, but despite loads of physical evidence and three eye-witnesses, we aren't anywhere near to nailing a suspect. It's one of those hours of frustration things."

"I'm sorry to hear that, Inspector."

We're at a stoplight, and he looks at me directly. "You could call me Greg," he offers. Biting my lip, I shake my head, No.

"Why not?" he asks. "You were calling Dr. Watson, John in a matter of minutes!"

That's because John Watson wasn't considering asking me out to lunch, I think, and look out the window. I need to be a little less friendly with the Inspector; there's no advantage in having him interested in me. I ask him drop me off at Roper's Gardens on the north bank near the bridge, because I need to sit someplace green and think for a while.

As I get out of the car, I ask Lestrade if he will please make it a priority to call me when he hears back from Sherlock, and as we shake hands the D.I. promises he will.

Watching the BMW drive away, I'm suddenly quite sad. If that man were twenty years younger I'd be all over him, and I think he can sense that. Why are all the good ones always too old, too married, or too gay? Life just isn't fair.