Chapter Eighteen: "The truth is rarely pure, and never simple." ~ Oscar Wilde

As I enter, and close the inner door behind me, my first thought is to wonder why on earth this office is so poorly lit; but there has to be a carefully-considered purpose, because Mycroft doesn't do anything without a purpose.

It's all shades of grey in here, with touches of red from the glowing wall sconces and the red phone on the desk - it kind of reminds me of that grey suit he often wears, with the touches of red tie and pocket square. He's not wearing that one right now, though. He's wearing lighter grey, with blue...oh, the umbrella tie. I'm always surprised by that one.

I look last at his face, because I am afraid he's going to be angry. In fact, I've decided that he's probably going to be furious, and I'm in for a severe talking-to, at the very least. But he seems completely calm, not even cross. I'm confused, and smile at him uncertainly, "Hey."

"Well," Mycroft says lazily, "You've been busy, haven't you?" He looks pointedly at the sheaf of papers in my hand. "What have you got for me there?"

"Some very good stuff, I think, and some I'm not sure about ..." I hold the bundle out for him, he takes it and waves me into one of the chairs in front of his desk, going around to seat himself behind it. I guess I'm not really surprised that he doesn't ask how I am, or if I'm okay, or any of the other things that most people would say to someone who just survived a traumatic kidnapping. He just assumes that I'm fine, probably because he would be. And I'm breathing, and not bleeding all over the floor, so ... "By the way, I'm fine."

Mycroft is examining the sheaf of papers, without looking up at me, but says absently, "Yes, I know, I have been listening to the police radio reports."

What am I supposed to think of somebody who will listen in on endless police band chatter to hear word of my status, but won't even say, Hello, are you okay?

He shuffles through the photos I picked up, frowning, then stops dead at the picture of the man with Calypso. His eyebrows shoot up and stay there, as he contemplates the damning photo. "Now, that is very disturbing, indeed," he comments aridly. "Where did you find this?"

"On the desk of the leader they called Mica -" I begin.

Mycroft interrupts quickly, "Not the pakhan Doreshchenko?"

I shake my head. "No, the second one. This bloke, Mica, wasn't a boss like Doreshchenko - he didn't seem to be prosperous enough to be that senior. There were a lot of files with photographs on his desk, my guess is that bratva specializes in blackmail. I nicked these because I recognized him," I lean over and tap the face of the man with the huge grey mustache.

Mycroft eyes me suspiciously. "How do you know him? Has he been ... a client of yours?" he says reluctantly.

"No, I saw him chasing after you to talk a few times, a couple of weeks ago ... at Stoke Park, and Whitehall ..." I let it trail off and bite my lip, none too happy to be reminded of my clumsy attempts at stalking. I hope he doesn't mock me again about it.

"Ah," is all he says, and turns back to the photograph, wrinkling his nose in distaste this time. "Not really surprising, but very disappointing," he says, as if to himself. "It's not so terribly hard to be discreet, you'd think he would put more effort into it. However, this does explain quite a lot about Cobb's actions lately, if this bratva has been blackmailing him." He seems quite pleased. "Well done. I believe this will prove extremely useful."

He leafs through the rest of the papers, and I decide it's a good time to ask him some questions, whilst he's still in a good mood. "Mycroft, I need to know why - well, you seem like you expected me to come here with intelligence for you, like you sent me out there on purpose or something..."

He puts down the papers, and just sits there, with his hands folded under his chin, looking at me. Waiting. I blink furiously, and shake my head.

"No way. No bloody way. You really did send me to Doreshchenko on purpose? You - you LET them take me?" He still hasn't answered, and his face hasn't even twitched. Bloody hell. "But, how did you know Doreshchenko was going to abduct me? And why didn't you warn me?"

"I knew because my staff reported that you were being followed by Doreshchenko's men, and after the questions you had been asking, it was only a matter of time until he arranged to interview you. I knew that your excessive curiosity would very likely lead you to finding out something useful, so I took steps to ensure that Doreshchenko wouldn't harm you, and," he riffles his fingers in the air, "let nature take it's course."

We have a mini stare-down then, because I am staring at him in disbelief, and he is staring at me with a bemused expression that dares me to disbelieve him. But, what the fuck? If Mycroft had enough control over Doreshchenko to ensure that I wouldn't be harmed, why would there be any useful information for me to find? And why would you expect an untrained twenty-three-year-old to find it if there were? It doesn't add up.

I shake my head slowly, and say, "Nope. Not buying it." But Mycroft's expression doesn't waver, and his eyes are steadier than mine. I don't think he loses stare-downs.

So I cheat and throw him a curve. "But what about Dimitri selling me to Mica? Damn it, Mycroft they were going to torture and kill me! Did you know about that, too?"

He drops his eyes and shuffles the pile of photos and papers again, avoiding my outrage. I got him on that one. Finally he answers reluctantly. "No. No, I didn't foresee that. I didn't know that Doreshchenko had a double agent in his organization. If it's any consolation, he no longer does. And, we recovered your belongings from the car."

Well, that is some consolation. I hope Dimitri is one sorry pup right now. "So, you got my call?"

"Of course, and we responded immediately."

"Responded how? I didn't see a cavalry or anything!"

Mycroft huffs at me. "Cavalry. A bit obvious, don't you think? No, I sent over an attack by a rival gang, and then the police once it was clear that you had already escaped on your own."

So that disturbance that distracted Mica and his men, that was a rescue operation after all, of a sort. Since he's in a question-answering mood, I ask some more. "How did you know that I had been asking questions about Doreshchenko?"

He rests his chin on his fingers again. "You told me, Angel," he says with the merest trace of a smile.

"Oh, right." I feel a slight flush creep up my cheeks. I wonder what else I told him that night that I don't remember, but I doubt that he's in that much of a question-answering mood.

I try for an answer to something else that's been bothering me. "Why have you been having me followed? Was it like that from the first, or what?"

"No, I didn't deem it necessary until you and your Australian were attacked. Then it seemed prudent, as I'm sure you'll agree."

"Prudent, yes." I sigh and rub my forehead. I am feeling a wave of weariness again. I really just want to go home and eat something and crash out, but I don't want to admit how tired I am.

"Now, perhaps you'll indulge me in a few questions as well, if you please."

"Sure."

He reaches into his desk, and draws out a phone, my old one, and places it carefully on the desk between us. "You seem to be acquiring mobile phones at an alarming rate. We located this one riding around in a taxi cab. The driver claimed it had been left behind accidentally this morning. However, there is also this one," he pulls out another mobile, my new one, and sets it beside the first, "recovered from the car in which you were abducted. It seems to be registered to your sister, although it is programmed with numbers she doesn't call," his soft voice suddenly hardens at the edges. "Such as that of Detective Chief Inspector Lestrade, whom you seem to have been phoning quite frequently in the past four days. And, if I am not mistaken, there is yet another mobile in your left pocket right now."

I reach down and pull out the phone I took from the Russian thug, and toss it on Mycroft's desk. "This one I grabbed off of one of Mica's men that I took down, to use to call for help. I ended up not using it, because a police cruiser spotted me first."

"Ah." Mycroft steeples his fingers against his mouth, and contemplates my two phones, then me. "I told you that the investigation had to be closed, Angel, and I have very good reasons for doing so. You have created difficulties by disregarding that."

"I didn't do it just for giggles, Mycroft. I had very good reasons as well, but I didn't think you'd listen to me. I had to get The Torch to Lestrade ..."

Mycroft's eyes fly open wide, and his eyebrows arch high in surprise. "The torch? What have you had to do with the torch?" he says sharply.

"I had it," I say simply. "Steen passed it along to me, before they killed him- "

Mycroft's palms are pressed flat on his desk, and he is looking at me with consternation. "Tell me about this torch that you think you had, Angel. Describe it to me, and please be specific."

"The Torch is a book, a paperback book," I see him frown fiercely, and I pause, but he motions me to continue. "I don't know how Steen got it, but he had it, and that is what those men that attacked us at his flat were after. He gave it to me for safekeeping, and called later and left a message telling me I had to get it to the Pigman, that's why I had to talk to McCutcheon and ask questions, to try and find this Pigman ... didn't I tell you this, if I told you about McCutcheon?"

Mycroft sighs and shakes his head. "You prattled on about a book, but I assumed it was a notebook of your Australian's drug-dealing contacts, which would also have been of interest to Doreshchenko. We know of "the torch" as a codeword for an ...extremely valuable document ..."

"Right! The document is a micro-card embedded in the spine of a book called The Torch!"

"And it was in your possession?" he sounds incredulous, then closes his eyes and huffs in exasperation at the ceiling. "Of course. That horrid romance novel you had in the sitting room. Thick Soviet-era glue bindings. Of course. How could I have missed it?"

"Because you weren't looking for it. You were probably too busy being appalled at my taste in literature." That gets a flick of an eyebrow from him, and I know I'm right. "You didn't know that Steen had it, so why would you think that I did?"

"Where is the micro-card now?"

"Inspector Lestrade had it as of this afternoon, although I think he was going to turn it over to the Met's counter-terrorism unit. Part of the information is encoded, though, and they'll be looking for the codebook now ..."

"So you have seen the contents of the micro-card? Has Lestrade?"

"No, but Sherlock -"

"Sherlock?"

It's an interesting thing about Mycroft's voice, when he's talking to me. It seems that the angrier he gets, the softer his already soft voice becomes, and the less he moves his already stilled lips. By that barometer, he is livid right now. "Please do continue."

I swallow some dryness from my mouth. "Sherlock was the one who found the card, and he said that it's a compilation of laboratory notes from a black-market chemist. Some of the formulas are for designer drugs, but some are for bio-terrorist weapons. The formulas themselves are in some sort of code, and Sherlock said that in order to break it, the codebook would have to be found ..."

Mycroft presses the palms of his hands over his face for a moment, leaning on his elbows. Still holding his head and not looking at me, he says, "Please tell me that this is hearsay from Lestrade. Please tell me that you didn't go to the hospital."

"This is hearsay from Lestrade. I didn't go to the hospital"

He glances up with a stop-the-bullshit look, and I shrug. "Well, you asked nicely!" I sigh. "Okay. Lestrade took me to speak with Sherlock. Twice."

Mycroft rears back in his chair with a pained look. "Angel!" he groans. His brows are drawn together tightly, the furrow deep between. "Why are you doing this to me?"

Good lord, what a martyr complex! "I'm not trying to do anything to you at all. It's just how this has played out ..." I say defensively. "Honestly, I don't lie awake nights thinking of new ways to make your life difficult, I really don't."

"It might be better if you did - you might have a little less success at it then!" I glare at him hard, and he glares back. "This puts me in an extremely awkward position, Angel, and it was completely unnecessary. Detective Chief Inspector Lestrade has quite a bit to answer for."

Poor Lestrade! I try to spin it a little on his behalf. "To be fair, I think that Sherlock insisted on interviewing me about the case, it wasn't all the Inspector's idea."

"Lestrade brought the case to him, after I'd expressly forbidden it. He deliberately disobeyed me, and there will be consequences -" Oh, that lordly attitude again! And poor Lestrade, he's only trying to do his job. Mycroft isn't being fair.

"Who are you to be ordering him around? I don't think you're in his chain of command, Mycroft. And Sherlock seemed competent enough to make decisions for himself - he didn't jump out of bed and go charging around endangering himself, although he seemed to relish the challenge of something new to work on." Mycroft continues to glare. Well, he's good and angry at me now, may as well go for broke. I owe it to Lestrade.

"I think you are totally irrational, when it comes to Sherlock."

His frown morphs into a look of icy contempt. "Please don't be so stupid, it's annoying. I am NEVER irrational," he states flatly.

Now I'm furious as well. "What kind of bullshit is that? Do you honestly believe that you're NEVER irrational? I could describe a quite few examples to the contrary, and calling it irrational behavior would be kind. Or have you forgotten who you are talking to, here?"

He presses his lips into a thin line, and looks away. I guess he actually had forgotten.

The silence stretches out for a while. Looking at one of the softly glowing wall sconces, Mycroft says quietly, "I suppose you might have a point. I suppose I am not always rational. Or even civilized." He frowns at the sconce, then his face twists briefly with loathing. I seem to have hit him harder than I meant to.

"I don't judge, Mycroft, I never have. It's not in my nature," I reassure him softly. I'd like to tell him that he has nothing to be ashamed of, that on the scale of possible human weirdnesses, his hardly register at all. But I don't know if that would be much help - sometimes, telling someone that they have nothing to be ashamed of only draws attention to their shame. Sometimes it's best to simply leave it alone.

"No, you don't judge, do you?" he turns his face toward me again, eyes searching mine. "I considered that a significant character flaw at first, but now I'm not so certain."

Nice to know he can change his mind. "People are what they are," I give him a wry smile. "You're a people, too - much as you resent it. You make a lousy robot." He gives me a look that I think tries to seem more affronted than he actually is.

Then his face and posture change, and he visibly shifts into professional mode, closing the door on the personal stuff with a snap. "We were already aware of the contents of the torch document; the imperative was only to locate it and keep it out of the wrong hands. The source has already been dealt with." It's like he rewinds to the earlier part of the conversation! "What other intelligence were you able to obtain?"

It takes me a few beats to catch up, and even then I'm not ready to let go of the personal stuff. "I might have a lead on who murdered Steen -" I begin, but Mycroft interrupts me.

"I have already deduced that, beyond any doubt," he says, smugly.

"What? When?"

"Yesterday afternoon, if you must know. I did the legwork myself." He says this as if he deserves a medal or something, but I just stare at him. So, he didn't send Steen's body off to prevent an investigation; he had already completed his own investigation.

"What did you find out? Who was it?"

Mycroft frowns and shakes his head. "No. There's no need for you to know at present."

"Why not?"

"The matter is not open for discussion, Angel. I only brought it up so you would stop obsessing about trying to solve the case. It's solved. Done, ended, fini."

"So, are you going to take your information to the police for them to follow up?"

"NO," he responds, the single syllable dripping with contempt. "Why would I do a useless thing like that?"

"Oh, I don't know ... maybe so the killers could get what's coming to them? So they won't be able to kill anyone else? Something like that?"

He closes his eyes and shakes his head mock-wearily at me. "Your naivete is breathtaking sometimes. The constabulary are very well-meaning, but generally ineffectual in something like this."

"So, you're not going to do anything? Those bastards are getting away with it?" I'm incredulous, and outraged.

"I didn't say that," Mycroft answers sharply. "I have my own ways and means, Angel. The matter will be seen to. That's all you need to know."

"And I'm just supposed to leave it all up to you?"

"Yes."

I look at him searchingly for a moment, and find that I believe him; I think he's telling the truth that he will see to this in his own way. "Okay," I nod, and repeat, "Okay." He looks relieved, and starts gathering up the documents and photos on his desk, putting them into an envelope.

"Was there anything else of note?" he asks brusquely; his eyes flick to the right pocket of my skirt - how the hell does he know?

"Yes. I learned from Doreshchenko that his organization is also manufacturing grey-area drugs locally, with materials imported via the Netherlands. I know the location of his lab, too, and the front for it ..." I feel in the right front pocket of my skirt, and pull out the three little vials that Doreshchenko gave me, the ones Mycroft was waiting for me to tell him about. "He recruited me to sell for him, and gave me these samples. McCutcheon is supposed to be my contact with him, although he said that later on he would deal with me directly. He also offered me a job."

Mycroft listens with interest, picks up one of the vials and examines the label. Then he frowns at me, looking a little grim. "Doreshchenko is a businessman, Angel. You obviously impressed him, but even so, he wouldn't have given you that information for free, not something that important. How did you win his confidence? What did he ask for in return?"

I was afraid of this. "Just a small service, really. No big deal."

Mycroft looks concerned, and presses further. "I need to know, Angel, what information or service he wheedled out of you. It might seem insignificant to you, but it could be very significant indeed, potentially dangerous. Now, what did you give Doreshchenko in exchange for the information about his drug enterprises?"

"A handjob."

Mycroft gives me a blank stare. "I beg your pardon?"

"A handjob. Basically, he gave me the information in exchange for a handjob." I give him my best forthright you-asked-for-it stare right back.

The pained look, complete with vertical furrow between his brows, is back once more. "Was that really necessary?"

"Well, I thought the information was worth it, so yes, I do think it was necessary." I thrust out my chin a little, defiantly. I can tell that the more he thinks about it, he's less nonplussed and more angry.

"Do I have to remind you once again that you are under contract with me? That was hardly a life-or-death situation, it didn't warrant breaking the terms of our agreement, did it?"

"I didn't break contract. A handjob isn't sex."

"What -? No, I'm not going to ...quibble with you over semantics. Just understand that *I* consider it such, and please have the courtesy to respect my preference," he says tersely.

"I'm sorry. I didn't know." I say earnestly, and that seems to mollify him a little. He hesitates a moment, his mouth tensing to a tight line.

"Did he ... touch you?"

"Sexually, you mean?"

"Yes."

"Well, I guess he fingered me, a little ..."

Mycroft's expression doesn't change, but his jaw tightens, the muscles on the sides bulging out briefly as his teeth clench together. Oh, he certainly doesn't like to share his toys. "And did you respond to that?" his tone is suddenly so pleasant and light, he might be asking about the weather.

I know what he's getting at. "No! Eeww, it wasn't like that, not at all. I didn't get anything out of it."

"I see." And then, snap, he's back to business mode again. "I'll be wanting a full report from you on the entire operation, from the abduction to your escape, and include in detail all information about illegal activities and locations of such. Email it as an attachment here," he jots down an addy on a sticky note and hands it to me, along with my two mobile phones and a slightly admonishing look. "Within the next twenty-four hours, please."

It's making me a little dizzy, this shuttling between the personal and professional. "Right, okay, one report coming up." I pause, feeling kind of confused. "Mycroft, this feels very, well, official. I mean, filing a report? That's not exactly escort work, is it?"

"Well," he sounds resigned, "Since it seems impossible to keep you out of things, you may as well be in them in a controlled fashion, rather than as a loose cannon. Wouldn't you agree?" I nod silently, not really knowing what to say. He's right, I guess.

Mycroft rises and opens the inner door for me. "I will still be seeing you tomorrow evening, at half past eight."

"Yes, sir," seems the only possible response.

Leaving Room 9, I find Arm-hauler waiting for me in the corridor. He nods to me, then turns and heads back down the way we came, obviously wanting me to follow. It's very dark now outside, and looks like it might rain again, surprise, surprise. My handbag is waiting for me in the car, and when I check it I find all my things still in there, including cash and cards; I assume that Mycroft's people got to Dimitri before he could do anything, so I don't need to worry about calling in the cards.

When we are almost to the flat, I make Arm-hauler stop at the neighborhood takeaway so I can rush in and get some food; I can't remember if there's anything to eat at home or not, and I'm famished.

When I climb back in the saloon, clutching soggy sacks of steaming goodness that are making my mouth water, I tell him, "Thanks so much for stopping-" and I realize that I really can't keep calling him 'Arm-hauler.' That's kind of a silly way to refer to him, but we are a bit past first introductions, as well. "Um, I don't know your name ..."

"Davies," he says, pulling up to the kerb in front of the blue door.

"Talbot," I reply, gathering my parcels and bag.

"I know."

I give him a quick smile in the rearview as I get out. I'm not exactly sure what shifted, but there is a different vibe from him now. It's hard to believe that just a few weeks ago this guy was chasing me across London and shoving me around in handcuffs with a snarl. Maybe it's just me, though.

Once inside the flat, it feels unbelievably good to at last strip off those vinyl boots, although the stink from my feet being encased in plastic for an entire day is also unbelievable. I take a good look at the tears and scuffs on the shiny black toes, and toss them straightaway into the bin. Plastic isn't like leather, you can't salvage it after a hard day. Quickly I strip off the rest of my clothes, grab my sacks of takeaway, and make for the tub.

Immersed in warm water up to my shoulders and picking away at a container of moo-shu with chopsticks, I am in bliss, absolute bliss. My god, what a day. How the hell am I going to write a report for Mycroft about it all? I don't know the first thing about writing operative reports. I guess I'll just wing it.

Funny how little fibs have a way sometimes of becoming the truth when you least expect it. I told Lestrade and John Watson both that I work for Mycroft gathering intelligence - and here I am, doing just that, only I had no idea that is what I was doing. I feel like I actually did something useful; Mycroft was very pleased to have evidence that the grey-mustache bloke, Cobb, was being blackmailed. Who knows what situations that little bit of information averted?

And being treated like a Secret Service rock star by those cops, that was pretty sweet. I felt a little like a fake at the time, but I guess I really wasn't a fake at all. I put the takeaway on the floor, and let myself sink a little further down, dunking my shoulders in the steaming water and lolling my head back, carefully avoiding the tender lump on the back from where I hit the ground. I don't think I'll be sore tomorrow, but I sure am going to sleep well tonight ...

I'm jolted out of my half-doze by my old mobile's ring-tone, from the bedside table where I put both phones. I'm not going to leap out of the tub to answer that, although it's a little odd for someone to be calling this late. A minute of silence later, and my new mobile starts to ring.

It has to be Sara, she's the only one with both numbers -oh, or possibly Mycroft, although he just saw me so it's less likely to be him. The new mobile rings for a while and then stops as well. I should go and see what it is, in case there's something important, and I should get out of the tub in any case before I fall completely asleep and drown or something. I do a quick washing-up and go check my phones.

It was Sara, and I feel a small pang of guilt when I realize that she's called me half a dozen times today. I haven't talked to her for four days, which is a long time for us.

I call her back, and the conversation is stunningly lackluster.

"Hey."

"Hey. How are you?"

"Fine. You?"

"Fine. Anything new?"

"Not really." I don't feel like talking about Steen's murder, international intrigue, getting kidnapped, or my new work responsibilities just yet. "Same old shite. You?"

"Same. You in bed?"

"Almost."

"Me, too. Later, okay?"

"Yeah, later."

I hang up, and look at the call timer. Twenty seconds. That's probably a new record for us. I sigh and get ready to turn in. I'm still cross with her for making me move out, she's probably cross with me for making her feel guilty. Such a functional family we are. Still, we're sisters, and I know beyond a doubt that we will patch it up sooner rather than later.

Lying in the middle of the big canopied bed, I think about Mycroft and Sherlock. Brothers. Mycroft's obviously a bit older, but they still grew up in the same family. Must have been quite a circus, with those two. I try to imagine what it might've been like, and I just can't wrap my head around it. Both so intense, so damned right about everything. Competitive. But why does Mycroft feel so responsible for Sherlock? Sairs is sort of like that with me, but Mycroft has her beat six ways from Sunday in the over-controlling older sibling department. I kind of feel sorry for Sherlock; Mycroft would always have been a dozen steps ahead of him, and pulling everyone's strings at every opportunity, always in control, or making you believe that he is...I still can't believe that Mycroft knew I was going to be kidnapped, and just let it play out...

I drift into sleep, dreaming of strings and puppets and a ginger werewolf...