Chapter Nineteen: "The betrayal of trust carries a heavy taboo." ~ Aldrich Ames

I was wrong; I am very sore in the morning, but not as bad off as I could be, all things considered. Turns out that actual fighting is different from sparring - who knew? It's probably being hauled out of the car by Dimitri's mates that did it. There are also some bruises and chafed skin from that damn zip tie they used on my wrists, and the back of my head is still more than a bit tender ...

No matter, I know I'll be right by evening. I roll out of bed with the determination to get that report out to Mycroft before lunch, so I won't have it hanging over my head all day. I'm a little spooked by it, to tell the truth. I wrote plenty of papers at uni, and I'm certainly not illiterate, but I know intimately what a perfectionist the man is - I don't think I can impress him, but I can at least do a good job.

By afternoon I am ready to tear my hair out in frustration. I don't know what I'm doing, for god's sake! Everything I write down sounds wrong and stupid. In lieu of throwing my laptop across the room, I put on my running gear and go for a long run in the park, really pushing myself hard, until I'm gasping and sweating. The day is sunny and dry, and much, much warmer than yesterday. I push so hard I actually start to feel a little dizzy in the heat, and have to sit down on a bench and gulp from my water bottle, catching up my breath.

I fall to people-watching then, resting on the bench, especially two old men playing chess at a table under a big old oak tree. I've seen the same two blokes at the same table almost every time I'm here. They are always so into it! Solemn and intense, they play by the clock and rarely speak. Today I notice that every now and again a young person, usually a young man, will approach the chess-players. They stand and watch the game for a minute or two, then they will put some folded bills down on the table, like placing a bet or something, and one of the players - the same one each time - takes a small parcel out of a satchel at his feet, and places it on the chess-table. The young men take up the parcel, leaving the folded cash, and the player pockets the money. This is all done without the player looking up from his game, or breaking the rhythm of it.

So, is this a drugs deal I'm seeing? Very possibly, although they're casual enough that it's probably not a high-stakes one. The thing is, I've been running in this park almost every day since Mycroft moved me into the flat here. I've sat on this bench, and watched those oldies playing chess how many times? And I never noticed that there was money changing hands before, or parcels being taken up. How much else is going on in this city, right under my nose, that I look at but don't take notice of?

I jog more slowly back to the flat than I went out, thinking about perception. I've never been one much for picking things apart, judging them against some standard - like I told Mycroft, I don't judge. I've always been a little proud of that, because all Daddy did was judge, all the time. He had the most suspicious mind you can imagine - he could never give it a rest, and it could be horrible being around him at times because of it - but it made him a good cop, one of the best. He just couldn't turn it off. Maybe, though, not being able to turn it off was the real problem.

If I'd been more willing to judge, more suspicious, maybe Dimitri wouldn't have fooled me. I came out of that all right, but it could easily have gone very, very badly.

Police and policing is still on my mind when I get back home to the flat and shower, and still when I sit down to work on the bloody report some more. Why not model it on a police report? I know what those look like, I used to read Daddy's paperwork for fun sometimes.

Once I have a template in mind, the thing flows smooth as silk, and I've got it done and emailed in less than two hours. I dig out a bottle of wine to have with the rest of the Chinese takeaway to celebrate, and hook my laptop into the stereo system so I can listen to some proper music for the occasion; I don't know what the neighbors think, but I am amazed how these old windows can rattle when the bass is cranked all the way up! I have to cut my one-woman party short when I realize that it's time to get ready for work: Hair, nails, makeup, and a girly new dress. I'm in such a good mood it's ridiculous, chilling upstairs with a little bit more of the wine, and some Lermontov - I am loving me that Russian romantic poetry lately.

I hear Mycroft come in at precisely eight-thirty, of course. His movements down there are quiet, but I hear the clink of the glass decanter, and after a minute or two some classical music starts wafting quietly from the hidden speakers - oh, good grief, it's those damned wailing Baroque violins again! Why on earth did he pick that stuff? I down the rest of my wine with a grimace, wishing for something stronger to numb out my eardrums. Oh, well, it's just for a few hours.

I wait expectantly, but there is no soft tread on the stairs. Well, when he's ready for me, he'll come up. Patiently I flip to another poem and keep on reading.

After what seems like a very long time, finally I hear him calling me to come downstairs, please. That's different. What is going on?

I trot down to find him standing by the sofa, hands in pockets. He's already taken off his suit coat, and his shirtsleeves are rolled to the elbow, an empty tumbler on the coffee table. He looks ready, but I don't know for what. Silently, I join him by the sofa, and wait. He just contemplates my face for a moment, frowning slightly. He raises a hand and delicately flicks a strand of my hair over where it should be, brushing a fingertip over my sensitive ear accidentally-on-purpose, making me blink. He bites his tongue briefly, looking over my shoulder.

"I'm very disappointed in you," he says calmly. "Very."

He doesn't look it, he's not acting it, but when somebody who ruthlessly controls affect like Mycroft tells you they are feeling something, it's a good idea to take their word for it. My stomach sinks. I guess I did a shitty job on that report after all; well, damn it, what does he expect? I haven't had any training; I didn't even manage to graduate from uni, did I?

Don't jump to conclusions, Angelica; find out what the deal is first. I struggle to keep my voice even. "Okay. What are you disappointed about?"

He takes a deep breath in and lets it out slowly, still focussing over my shoulder and, apparently, addressing the wall behind me. "We have a contract, an agreement. I thought that I could trust you to honor that, and I was wrong. That is extremely disappointing to me."

He's upset because of the handjob I gave Doreshchenko? Still? "But, I didn't realize you would think I was breaking the contract! It was an honest misunderstanding ..."

"A convenient one, you mean." He goes over to the sideboard with his empty crystal tumbler and refills it. I wonder how many he's had already? I can't remember how much that decanter had in it earlier, I don't pay any attention to it.

"No, I said what I meant. An honest mistake."

He rounds on me, and the intensity of emotion in his face is a little scary. "Well, which is it? A misunderstanding, or a mistake?" He bites the words off harshly. Oh, he is really, really angry at me.

Carefully, Angelica. "Both," I say softly. "A misunderstanding, because I believed we had a common understanding and we didn't. A mistake, because I didn't think to check my assumptions. I'm sorry."

He answers with an unpleasant huff and a curled lip, and enthrones himself in one of the armchairs. "Sorry. Such an easy word to say, isn't it? But it doesn't change anything at all, does it? I've never understood why it makes such a difference to people."

Well, I think, that certainly hasn't stopped you from using the word, has it? But that would only be a defensive counter-attack, and not helpful right now. "Well, it's a start. It indicates a willingness to take responsibility, and to try to make amends."

He pulls a face and looks away. Not ready for me to make amends yet, then; he needs to vent some more, but he's not going to do it willingly. Maybe the direct approach?

I perch on the padded arm of the sofa. "I didn't mean to make you jealous, Mycroft."

He leans forward, elbows on knees, and impales me with an icy stare. "I do not wish to be cruel, but please don't flatter yourself," he says slowly, deliberately. "Jealousy would require that I be personally involved, and I'm not. I don't get involved. Not with you, not with anyone."

I do not have any idea at all how to respond to that. It's obvious he absolutely believes that to be the truth, but it's not what I see at all - and I don't think now is the time to argue about it. Maybe later, if there is a later.

"Okay," I shrug, "so you're not jealous. You're not involved. But you're still very upset. Why?"

He turns the glass tumbler in his hands slowly, watching the light play on the faceted crystal and the amber liquid within. The baroque violins screech away quietly in the background.

"Trust," he says finally, to the tumbler. "Breach of trust. I trusted you, and you failed me."

No more excuses. "Yes, I guess I did." I resist the urge to say 'I'm sorry' again. "That happens sometimes. Human error." And then, I impulsively add, "And I trusted you, and you failed me, too."

He glances up at me, then, and frowns deeply. "Yes, I did, didn't I? That double agent, Dimitri -"

"- nearly got me killed."

His eyes are still fixed on the tumbler. "You proved yourself beyond my expectations, Angel. You got yourself out of it."

"I shouldn't have had to get myself out of it! You shouldn't have let them take me to begin with!" I give him an accusing look. "I trusted you."

"Maybe you shouldn't. As a matter of fact, I know you shouldn't." He drains the last of his drink, and leans back with an completely unreadable expression. He looks almost ... defiant? Like he's issued me a challenge.

"You know what? I know that." Inexplicably, I can feel my eyes pricking with tears. "I know I shouldn't trust you, but I do anyway. That's really fucked up, isn't it?" I shake my head, and have to look away. I'm not completely sure what I'm feeling, but it's almost overwhelming. "I just ... I think that you'll do whatever it takes to preserve the things you believe in, and I think that they're the same things that I believe in ... so maybe that's what I trust. Not that you'll do what's right, but what you think is necessary - and not that you won't make mistakes, but that you'll make fewer than most."

I glance up to see him contemplating the wall behind me, his face a still cipher. I let the silence stretch out between us, until finally Mycroft leans forward slowly and places the empty tumbler on the coffee table. "What is necessary. Yes," he says to the table, nodding. "But, there is still -" he sighs, crosses his legs and twiddles briefly with the gold ring on his right hand. Feelings make him nervous.

"Still what?" I press.

Reluctantly, he begins, "I am at a loss as to how to look at you now without thinking …."

I let him sit on that for a few moments, but it becomes clear he's not going to finish the sentence; that would be too close to admitting what he isn't going to admit.

Once again, I'm going to have to say it for him. "I am guessing that when you look at me it's hard not to imagine me with Doreshchenko, isn't it?" Mycroft's face turns so stony, it would make granite look yielding in comparison. "I'm guessing that, whether or not you want to, you might be thinking kind of obsessively about what exactly I did with him, and whether or not I –"

"I simply cannot fathom how you could bring yourself to … that!" he bursts out, the stony façade broken by a surge of disgust. "He is an obese, repulsive, slobbering fool, a tin-pot tyrant with delusions of aristocratic grandeur! How could you even –" he checks himself, swallowing down whatever invective was next. He adds, more quietly, "I can hardly bear to look at you at the moment, much less entertain the thought of touching you myself."

Oh, good grief. Impure! Polluted! It would be SO much easier if he could just admit to being jealous, then we could have a big domestic and get on with things, but no, he has to make it SO bloody complicated. Do we call a priest, get an exorcism? I keep the sarcasm to myself, though, because somebody around here has to be mature. Patiently, I ask "Is there anything I can do to change that? I'm willing to try whatever will help."

He thinks for a minute, then gets a funny glint in his eye. I'm not sure if it's the alcohol or what, but he looks equal parts menacing and mischievous, and it makes me just a little bit nervous. "There is something that occurs to me, that might, as you put it, make amends."

"What is it?" I'm definitely feeling nervous.

"Well," he says smoothly, "since you granted something to him that rightfully belongs to me, it seems fair that you should grant it to me as well ..."

"You want a handjob?"

"In the same fashion, everything the same. A re-enactment, so to speak."

Ah! Classic. He needs to take ownership of the betrayal by inserting himself into the scene. Very gestalt-therapy. "I can do that. There's just one catch, though..." Mycroft gives me his 'I'm-listening' look. "You'll have to let me touch you."

Unconcerned, he simply shrugs, "It's not a phobia; merely a preference."

Hmm, privately, I think his no-touch rule is a little more than just a preference, but now is not the time to go there ... "Okay, then, let's do it." I wave at the sofa. "Sit down in the middle of it, like you own the entire world." Not a hard task for him, I should think. It flashes through my head that maybe one reason Mycroft dislikes Sacha Doreshchenko so much is that in some ways they are quite similar.

Mycroft sits down, legs sprawled comfortably, his arms on the back of the sofa. He looks up at me expectantly, still with a hard glint of anger in his eye, his jaw tight. This is going to be very tense and uncomfortable, at least at first.

Still feeling overly warm from my run, I've dressed in a fluttery sheer blue sun-dress with shoulder ties, and, for a change of pace, no bra or knickers. I chose it because I thought he might like to untie the shoulders and let it flutter down, but, 'The best laid schemes o' Mice an' Men' as Burns said ... The full skirt of my dress proves awkward as I kneel on the sofa close beside Mycroft. He turns his face away to look straight ahead, but still watches me out of the corner of his eye as I settle myself in and arrange the folds of the skirt fabric around my knees.

"By the way," he comments as I reach down toward his leg, "I am aware of Doreshchenko's predilection for intimate discourse. I believe you would not have been silent?"

I sigh inwardly. That's going to make it even worse, which is no doubt Mycroft's intent. "Okay, you want a re-enactment, that's what you're getting," I tell him.

Very cautiously, I place my hand on his knee, and rest my chin lightly on his shoulder; I can sense the tension in him like a coiled spring through the smooth, rich cloth, and I feel rather than hear his sharp intake of breath as I make contact. The muscles of his jaw clench and release again and again. I'm tempted to remind him that this is what he wanted, but that would be just chatter.

I inhale the scent of him for a second, appreciating the soap and cologne and warm musk. I remember when I thought that was overpowering; now it's kind of comforting. I draw a breath to begin, but Mycroft stops me again, turning his head slightly. "Wasn't he touching you?"

"Not yet, not at first. I'll let you know when." He nods slightly, turns his head back so my mouth is parked once more just inches from his ear.

Softly, I breathe into it, "Let me tell you about the time last autumn, when I met another woman and two men at Stoke Park for a long weekend. Have you ever stayed there? It has lovely rooms, with very big beds ..."

I elaborate this telling differently, since I have a fair idea of what Mycroft will like to hear, and I slowly tease my fingers along his thigh, circling higher and higher. When I reach the top, I'm a little disappointed to find that he's hardly aroused at all; funny how we can take that personally! I remind myself that submitting to being touched might take all the erotic juice out of an encounter for him, and adjust my expectations accordingly.

It's far, far easier to unzip his trousers than it was Doreshchenko's - there's no massive gut overhang to get in the way, and Mycroft doesn't even have to shift around; he is still as a statue. I remember that the Russian slid his hand down between my legs about now, so I pause in my colourful recitation to take up Mycroft's wrist with my free hand, and guide his fingers downwards. I withdraw my hand when his fingertips reach the bare smoothness of my thighs, figuring that he will go where he wants to, but he interrupts me again to ask, "Where?"

"Hmm?" I'm a little preoccupied with keeping up my narrative, as well as worming my hand into the front of his trousers, so it takes me a beat to catch on. "Oh, you mean, where did he put his hand?"

Mycroft turns his head ever so slightly towards me, and nods.

"Well, I'll have to show you ..." and I reach down again to move his fingers around until it feels pretty much like I remember, one finger intruding slightly, the others curled into his palm. "There, like that."

"And like this?" he begins to rub my sensitive spots, like I taught him, and I squirm away slightly.

"No! No, he didn't move anything at all, just sort of parked his finger in there and left it, some like to do that ..."

"Hmm," is all he says, and is still. I go back to my narrative, making the story and details as hot as I can, and going on to the next one, just like I did with the Russian.

I manage to get a little more arousal going for Mycroft with my talented fingers, but I sense that it's a losing battle; whether he's inhibited by being touched, or is just fighting it, I don't know - but it doesn't matter; this is about repairing things, not getting anybody's end away. Although, I am getting myself a little worked up; like I've said, it doesn't take much. I can feel the wetness sliding down the inside of my thighs, and his hand has got to be soaking.

Maybe because of that, he starts to move his fingers again, but just barely, the merest pulse and quiver. It sends shivers though me, and I'm quickly getting more aroused. My breath starts to catch just the tiniest bit, and deepens. I've reached the point to where I have to cast around in my memory for more erotic tales, and recall that that is when I pulled out on Doreshchenko. Right, re-enactment it is. Without warning, I pull out and away from Mycroft, and he looks at me questioningly.

"This is what I did to him," I say with a shrug.

"Stopped in the middle of it?"

"And made him give me the rest of the information, then and there. And some more besides, actually. He told me much more than he meant to." I grin with grim satisfaction, and Mycroft nods, I think approvingly.

"Effective. Was he annoyed?"

"Very. He called me a dirty whore in a dozen languages, I think."

Mycroft looks thoughtful for a moment, but says, "I believe I will spare you that."

"Thank you!" I say sincerely. It didn't mean anything coming from Doreshchenko, but from Mycroft, especially in his present mood ...

I scoot back over to him, and pick up where I left off, but now I'm thinking furiously how to modify the ending of this little scenario. I don't want Mycroft to know that I described any of his escapades with me to Doreshchenko; that wouldn't help things at all, I don't think. So I'll bring the story I'm relating to a close, and say that the Russian went boom right there, and we'll see what comes next...

When I scooted back over, Mycroft put his hand back where it had been, but adjusted slightly. Now he begins to do just a little more than vibrate, making subtle, deep movements in all the right places. My breath catches more than a little, and I start to stumble over words and get more and more distracted. A familiar fire starts to build in my lower belly.

Damn him, he's going to completely turn this around on me, isn't he? Well, I offered 'Whatever you want;' and this is obviously what he wants. Before I abandon myself to his wicked hand, I swallow hard and whisper, "He came about now, and then I went to the loo and cleaned up..."

Mycroft doesn't stop what he's doing, but throttles it down to just a quiver, and turns his head to bore narrowed eyes into mine. "I take it that you didn't describe any of your activities with me, then?"

"No, of course I didn't - urk!" You wouldn't think a tiny bit of flesh could hurt like that, but he's pinching very hard. I can't breathe, much less move.

"It's not the lying that I find offensive," he remarks calmly. "It's the insult to my intelligence. Please don't do it."

Once again, the only possible response is, "Yes, sir," but this time I whisper it, painfully.

He releases the tender bit, and turns his ear toward me again. "Now, continue. Truthfully."

I swallow hard, and start in with it. I feel him stirring, finally, under my fingers as I launch into describing our encounters from my point of view; by the time I've gotten to narrating the first time here at this flat, he is rock-hard and trembling with my touch.

With a sudden, unexpected movement, he captures my wrist and pulls my hand away; I guess it was getting to be too much, or he doesn't want to take the chance of soiling his trousers. At any rate, he turns his body fully toward me, pushing my wrist back behind my hip as he moves closer. "Don't stop," he tells me. "Keep on talking."

I keep on with my narration, and as I do so Mycroft begins nibbling gently up and down my neck and ears, increasing the depth and tempo of his hand below. I abandon myself to it, barely able to keep my voice going or my thoughts at all coherent any more. He bends his head down and applies his teeth and lips gently to my taut nipples through the silk gauze of my dress, and I have to grip the back of the sofa with my free hand to keep from toppling over backwards. I'm almost at the point of no return, when -

- he backs everything off, all at once. Panting, I open my eyes to see him looking at me with a mocking little smile. I laugh out loud at him, "You bastard! You filthy bastard!" Still laughing, I finish telling him, to his face and with great drama, the scene I had just been describing, finishing with, "... 'and he was into my arse soo deep, I thought I could feel him hitting my bellybutton from the back' ...and that's when the fat bastard came, and THEN I -"

But I don't get to finish the sentence; Mycroft begins brushing my lips with his, and his fingers are once more relentlessly moving me toward release. He kisses me more and more deeply as my climax builds, then as the waves take me and I arch from my knees, head back and shrieking, it's only his hand grasping my wrist at the small of my back that keeps me on the sofa at all.

I loll my head against the back of the sofa as I sink back down again, panting. I look up to see that same mocking, sardonic half-smile playing across his mouth, deep blue eyes no longer narrowed in anger, but not exactly gazing fondly, either. There is something fierce there I haven't seen before.

His hand is still parked between my legs, but not moving, until with a swift flick, he has hold of that tender bit once more, although this time not painfully. Just as a reminder.

"I dislike sharing," he says emphatically. "I hope I won't have to remind you again about the terms of our contract."

I shake my head, No. "You've made things pretty clear, I don't think I'll be getting it wrong again."

"Good." He releases me, and lets go of my wrist as well. "Now, I want you to go upstairs, and wait for me."

I take a minute to go to the bathroom and freshen up a bit, and by the time I'm out, he's just hanging up his waistcoat on the valet. "Come here, please." I saunter over, and he fixes me with that intense, fierce stare for a minute, then, like I thought he would, smiles slightly as he pulls the shoulder ties of my sun-dress and it flutters gracefully down around my ankles. He reaches out and cups my breasts with his hands, feeling them, rubbing his thumbs across the texture of the nipples. They're a nice shape, although not as big as I'd like. I envy the girls with round, full breasts, but not enough that I want to go under the knife for it.

Mycroft doesn't seem to mind, in any case. He fondles them, hefting the weight in his hands, bending his head now and again to suckle on one and the other. After a bit of this, he leisurely reaches down and retrieves the leather gear from the bag on the floor. Although he is as deliberate and careful as always, he straps the harness and ankle cuffs on me rather tightly tonight. When it comes to putting on the wrist cuffs, though, he examines the light bruises and chafed skin on my wrists first with a frown. "Is this painful?" he asks, pressing gently. I shake my head, No, but he still straps my wrists quite loosely.

He has me lie on the bed, then, and as he starts guiding my limbs into position and clipping me into immobility, it's more like our first few times together than the most recent. When I am completely trussed and unable to stir more than a finger, he steps back to admire his handiwork, and goes to the silent valet to rapidly undress; I can hear him breathing, fast and a little ragged. No shaving tonight, he's too far gone. I wait, the screeching violins not exactly adding to the ambiance for me at this point.

When he joins me in under the bed's canopy, at least Mycroft has shed all of his clothes, and I can feel the hard press of him as he moves to make contact against me, skin to skin. He buries his face in my hair, inhaling deeply, then winds his fingers into it as he breathes roughly in my ear, "What is mine, is mine, and for now you are mine. I look after what's mine." And then he's touching, fondling, tasting me, and I don't know whether that's the most romantic thing I've ever had anyone say to me, or the most terrifying. His for now - but when he's done, what happens then? And, too, his idea of looking after someone ...

He is already tremendously aroused, and it isn't long before he is moving inside me, as deep and as hard as he can go. Since he's in my arse, and rather abruptly to boot, I've got my eyes closed, concentrating on relaxing so it won't be uncomfortable. I feel him cup the side of my face in his hand, and he breathes, "Look at me! I need to see you -"

No, I think, you need me to see you, but in any case, I turn my head and open my eyes, letting his gaze lock with mine as he clutches me tightly, one gigantic spasm after another silently wracking him until he is spent.

He rests there a long time, still buried in me, catching his breath and shivering slightly now and again. After a while, he raises up on one arm and showers my shoulders and throat with light kisses as he un-clips the restraints, freeing my limbs. This is new, I think, but I'm bloody well not going to call attention to it; I don't want him to stop.

When I'm unshackled and stretched out, Mycroft shifts around to spoon behind me, keeping himself still as deep in me as he can manage. He reaches around and down with one hand to stroke and pleasure me again, as the fingers of his other hand roll and lightly tweak my nipples. He's gently nibbling what he can reach of my ear, and, as I get more aroused and move myself against him, I can feel him growing thicker and harder again inside of me, moving in short, rolling thrusts. He is clearly aiming for a second round, and the Agency has rules about re-using condoms - which I immediately decide don't apply to the present situation, thank you very much. This feels too delicious to stop.

I let him stay in charge, and he precisely times it so that we come together, both of us in shuddering gasps, writhing against one another. As we lie there afterward in an exhausted puddle, I realize that he has wrapped his arms around me, and my hands are clasped over his, our fingers lightly intertwined. Yeah, you are so totally uninvolved, aren't you, Mycroft? I slide my fingers further between his, and pull him tighter against me. He runs his lips along the curve of my neck, then silently releases me and rolls off the bed.

Sated, I drift into sleep.

I jerk awake suddenly, very disoriented; the flat is dark and completely quiet, and I have no idea what time it is. I experimentally call out, "Mycroft?" but there's no answer. How long was I asleep? I rummage around in the bedside drawer for one of my phones and turn it on. The answer is ... about four hours. Well, Mr. Holmes is obviously long gone.

I'm still wearing my leather gear, so I strip that all off, put it away, and head for the bathroom. Even after a good, hot shower I still feel really strange, probably because I'm not used to going to sleep that early and then waking up in the middle of the night. I decide a nice cup of milky tea is what's needed, and head downstairs.

A few minutes later, I curl up with my steaming mug in the stillness of the darkened sitting room, illuminated only by one of the small spotlights in the kitchen. It's so quiet, I can even hear the distant, ever-present rumble of traffic from the nearest motorway.

I can't stop thinking about some of the things Mycroft said tonight - "You are mine for now. I look after what's mine." It makes me feel warm and happy, and cold and frightened, all the same time. And I literally can't stop thinking about it. Obviously, it plugs into something really deep and important for me.

Well, the pleasure of being claimed by someone that I see as having high status; that's biology, pure and simple. Then there's the ego-boost of being close to someone who isn't close to much of anybody. Right, so I feel chosen, special. "I look after what's mine;" well, there's the assurance of safety, care-taking, even if it's a tad bit obsessive at times. What did John Watson call it? Maniacally overprotective? Something like that.

But "Mine for now," that's the part that gives me cold chills. I'm on the inside for now, but it seems to be inevitable that at some point, I'll be back on the outside again. Abandoned again ... Oh, yeah, there it is, eh? It's not so surprising that I would have abandonment issues, but I keep thinking I've dealt with them, and they keep coming back to haunt me.

The funny thing is, I am in full agreement that this is "for now." It's a good situation "for now," but I can't imagine a long-term relationship with somebody like Mycroft. He's so much work, and you can't ever be sure what's really going on with him. I've even given up trying to tell if he's sincere or not, because I don't think the concept applies to him. Sincere implies acting in harmony with your true feelings, but he seems determined to keep his actions completely separate from his feelings - so how can anything he does be sincere? He's the most insincere person I've ever met, and he would consider that a compliment, I think.

And he's clueless about his emotions half the time. I still can't believe that he can't see how jealous he is. "Jealousy would require that I be personally involved, which I'm not." Ha! How can he be saying "not personally involved" with one side of his mouth, and "mine, mine, mine" with the other? I just don't get it. He's either massively in denial, or has a completely different definition than I do of those things,

With a sigh, I put my empty tea mug on the coffee table, beside Mycroft's cut-glass tumbler. Looking at the faceted crystal brings to mind what he said as he sat there turning it in his hands; "You proved yourself beyond my expectations, you got yourself out." So, he wanted me to prove myself? That sounds like the real reason that he let Doreshchenko abduct me, as a test. Of what, I'm not sure, but the idea that it was a test makes more sense than his claim that I was sent to gather information. He didn't seem especially surprised by the news about Doreshchenko's hidden lab; if he already knew about it, that would help explain why he was so annoyed at what I exchanged for the information.

The obvious question is, why does he need to test me and let me prove myself? It would be so cool if he thought that I could be an agent or something, but I feel silly even thinking it. They only take the best and the brightest to train as agents, and that certainly isn't me. Still, there must be other things I could do ...

My head jerks up, and I realize that I am nodding off. Better go up and get some more sleep; the cleaners come to service the flat tomorrow morning, and I'll have to get up much earlier than I would like.