Chapter Twenty: "From caring comes courage." ~Lao-Tzu, 'Tao Te Ching'

I have faith that my alarm went off when it was supposed to, but I don't remember it at all. When I realize how late it is and do get up, I'm in a rush, I'm behind already, so of course it gets worse - my manager phones in to check on me, and I don't dare ignore the call. I haven't even been opening my email from her lately.

However, I won't give up on struggling mightily to get out and away before the cleaning crew arrives to service the flat. I don't know why I am so paranoid about avoiding them; maybe I'm afraid they'll put me to work cleaning the toilet or something! Whatever, I know I'm just being stupid. I take the call and juggle my mobile against my ear as I finish doing my hair.

"Angel, are you well? Is everything satisfactory?" I don't know how she manages to sound both detached and solicitous at the same time, like she could care less, but in a very kind way.

"Yes, ma'am." I pull aside the blinds to peer out one of the windows and check the weather outside. Looks like another hot one, a good day for a miniskirt and minimal everything else, if I can find something I want to wear. Why can't we just go naked? It would save so much agonized decision-making...

"Good. I had cause to wonder, because you haven't been answering your email, my dear! There have been some important announcements that you seem to have missed." She sounds a little accusatory.

"I've, ah, been a little busy, ma'am." Understatement.

"Oh?" There is a world of inquiry in that one syllable. "I wouldn't have thought that Mr. Tate would be making many demands on you at all ... how are things going with him?"

I feel like telling her to piss off, none of her business, but that wouldn't be a good idea, so I just concentrate on getting dressed and my makeup done.

When there's been a long enough pause to let her know that I'm not going to answer her unspoken questions, I ask, "So, what are the important announcements? Is there anything that I need to take care of immediately?"

"Yes, there is." Now she sounds terse and cross. "Today is the last day for you to arrange to go and get that mandatory vaccination, Angel, and if you want to continue your employment, you need to at least have the appointment scheduled by the end of the day. Today."

"What vaccination?"

"For that nasty new hepatitis strain, haven't you been paying attention? We have been sending out email notices about it for weeks now! It won't take too much time out of your busy schedule to get one little jab, now, will it?"

I ignore the sarcasm. "No, ma'am, it won't."

I settle with her what paperwork I'll have to send in, then start to call my usual doctor to make an appointment when a thought strikes me - why not go to the surgery where John Watson works? He was a nice bloke, I wouldn't mind 'running into' him again - and maybe I can get him to tell me if there's anything interesting going on with Sherlock, or news from Lestrade. I look up the number for that surgery, and find that I'm in luck; since it's just a jab, they can fit me in straight away, no problem. I arrange to be there in about an hour.

As I'm leaving the flat, thankfully still well before the cleaning crew is due, I notice a homeless woman has parked herself on the low stone wall near the end of the street. That's strange; I've not yet seen a street person here on Ennismore, although it's true that I haven't been here very long. We have a few of them in the neighborhood around Sara's flat, but that's working-class, and the police don't move them along unless they present a problem. This is a different sort of neighborhood, though.

I'm certainly not planning on giving her a hard time, but I'm curious. I go over toward her, and she hunches up defensively. Now I'm definitely suspicious, because the approach of a well-dressed young woman generally makes street people start wheedling for money, not cringe away. I stop a small distance away, and the woman and I regard each other; she still looks worried, then she thrusts a hand out to me, as if she suddenly remembers what to do.

"Gotta little change ta spare?" she mumbles.

"Yes, I do," I tell her with a friendly smile, "more than a little. But you'll have to earn it." The woman eyes me suspiciously. She's old but not elderly, her face deeply lined, peppered grey hair hanging limp and greasy over a shapeless men's shirt and dirty dungarees. She has a large tote bag on the pavement between her feet, and I'm startled by a sudden movement amidst the flotsam in there.

Alarmed, I step back and point at the bag. "You've got something alive in there, did you know that?" I can't help my voice rising a little. Rats are not unheard of in the city; I once stayed in a flat that was infested with them, and it wasn't very nice.

The woman gives a weirdly girlish giggle and reaches into the depths of the tote. "It's just m'friend, Edgar. He don't hurt nobody." She pulls out a large ferret, and I relax. Ferrets are fine; Sara kept a breeding pair for ages, and we had them all over the place when we were younger.

Grasping him round his limber middle, the woman holds the creature up to her cheek, stroking his head. "Was you lonely in there, my boy? Needed a cuddle, did you?"

I know better than to try and pet a strange ferret, but I wouldn't be much tempted by this one even if I didn't - poor Edgar has a raging infection in both eyes, and they are running and gummed up with yellow gunk. I smile at him anyway and make the appropriate noises. "Hallo, Edgar! You're a handsome boy, aren't you! What a cute little pink nose! Too bad about that eye infection, though ..." Ferret people are worse than dog people - they're suckers for anyone who gushes over their pet.

The woman tch-tch's at Edgar and tickles him under the chin. "Ah, he's got a cold in his eyes. Been a while. I wish I could take 'em to the vet, but that's money, in't it? An' we don't have mucha that, do we, dear?" she says to the painfully blinking animal.

I have a lovely idea, two birds with one stone, as it were. "My sister is a veterinarian, you know. If you went to where she works and said that Angelica sent you, I know that she would see your boy for free, and she would give you some medicine for his eyes -"

Again the suspicious look. "An' why would she do that?"

"She would do it if I asked her to, and I would ask her to if you would tell me a few little things - see, people helping each other out, right?"

Still stroking the ferret, she asks, "What kinda things, then?"

"Well, like who sent you to hang out here and watch for me?" and I smile and wink, so she will know that I won't be cross or anything; she gives me a sly grin in return. Ha, I knew it, she's spying for someone!

Talking to the ferret, she murmurs, "What d'ya think, Edgar? This lady seems to already know, so it's not like tellin', is it?"

I patiently wait whilst she deliberates with her ferret, and consider who might be wanting to spy on me; Mycroft already has his watchers, and this half-mad woman with her sick ferret just doesn't seem his style. Doreshchenko might employ someone to keep an eye on me, I suppose, although I don't know why he would bother.

Finally Edgar and his mistress seem to reach a consensus. "We can't tell who he is, but we can tell what he is, then, right?"

I nod. "Okay, that seems fair." Like, how am I going to argue with a mad woman and her ferret?

She leans over and whispers, conspiratorially, "He's a detective."

"Oh, really?" I whisper back. Lestrade? That would be weird. "Like, a police detective?"

"No, no, we don't like the filth. A private investigator, he said he was."

Sherlock. "What did he want you to find out?"

"Jus' which street and which door was yours, and if a gentleman visited sometimes. I been watchin' four or five streets in turn, watchin for ya. I'll get paid extra if I get a photo of you, and even more for one o' him."

That sounds awfully excessive - even for the Holmes brothers. Why would Sherlock want a photo of Mycroft visiting me? "This detective, is he old or young? Was he a handsome bloke?"

She shrugs. "He was younger 'n me, I guess. As for handsome..." she just shrugs again, and pets her ferret. "Edgar is better-lookin'."

Okay, either she's lying to me, or else it's not Sherlock, because I really can't see even Mad Ferret Lady describing Mycroft's little brother as less attractive than a sick ferret. It has to be somebody else, then, and I feel a sudden cold chill; someone could be trying to use me to get to Mycroft!

"Thanks for your help," I tell Edgar. "You are a good boy." I have a feeling it's a good idea to stay on friendly terms with this pair. I dig through my handbag for my card case and a biro. Pulling out one of Sara's business cards, I scrawl my name on the back of it, fold a fiver underneath, and hand it to Ferret Lady. God only knows what Sara will think, but she has a soft spot for ferrets, and this one could use some help.

"There, I wrote my name on the back so you wouldn't forget, okay? When you take Edgar in, make sure and ask for Sara Talbot, her name's on the card, and tell her that Angelica owes you a favor, right? And she'll fix him right up."

Ferret Lady carefully tucks the card one of her pockets, the money in another, and then tucks Edgar inside of her shirt; he curls up into the hammock her bra makes, hanging between her pendulous breasts, and peers out over the top button of her shirt, crusty eyes blinking. She regards me craftily. "You wouldn't want to pose for me to get a picture, wouldja? I'll get extra for that, you know."

I shake my head. "No, no picture, okay? Of me or the gentleman. In fact," I lean forward a little, and get hit by a pungent whiff; Ferret Lady certainly smells ripe in the hot sun! "Could you keep where I live a secret? Could you just not tell that detective that you saw me at all? After all, I am getting your boy seen to..."

She scritches the ferret's ears thoughtfully. "I s'pose it really don't matter. I don't like that man anyways, he said Edgar was dirty," she kisses the top of the furry head in her cleavage and scowls fiercely. "Imagine!"

"Hard to believe," I agree.

I make my escape from Ferret Lady, and decide that it's too pretty of a day to waste any of it underground on the Underground, so I take the buses to my appointment, and walk the last few blocks in, thinking all the way about what the hell might be going on. I think I should warn Mycroft, although I suspect he already knows.

I arrive at the clinic with time to spare, and check in at the front desk. This won't take long, I'm sure, and then I can hunt down John and see if he's busy or not - it's too early for lunch, but just about on time for elevenses, so maybe we can sit and have a chat.

Well, I thought it wasn't going to take long. Once the intake nurse pulls up my chart, she wants to make me have every service under the flipping sun. I don't need an STD blood screening, just had one a few weeks ago; don't need another birth-control shot, I'm not due for that until January. I'm up on all my boosters, I just had a pelvic exam and swab done three months ago - I end up standing in the hallway, shouting at her, "Will you just give me the bloody jab I came in for and get out of my face? Please?!"

A bloke in a white coat comes popping out of an exam room, and pipes up, "I thought I knew that voice! Uh, Nurse, I'll handle this one, okay? Why don't you transfer her file over to me, and I'll take care of it."

He doesn't need to tell her twice. I grin at John Watson as he ushers me into the tiny room. "Were you worried I was going to start abusing your staff?" I tell him as I hop up onto the table, the paper covering crackling under my miniskirt.

He shakes his head. "No ... well, yes, a little. Elaine means well, but she doesn't take no for an answer, especially not from a patient." He squints at my chart on his computer screen. "You're just here for the new hep vaccination then, right? No problem. And I can see that everything else is in order," he smiles. "I think Elaine just saw your date of birth and got all excited to have you in here - not everyone your age is as regular as you are about taking care of their health." I nod. I know; actually, I wouldn't be so good about it myself if it weren't company policy.

"But, we still have to do the usual, right? Pulse, lungs, all that," John says, taking up my wrist professionally for a pulse-check. He does a double-take at the faint bruises and thin line of chafed skin, and I let him take up the other wrist as well to look at it; no point in trying to hide anything.

He makes a funny twitch with his mouth, then looks askance at me as he takes my pulse, saying softly. "I know it's not any of my business, but you don't have to allow yourself to be mistreated ..."

I roll my eyes. "It's not what you think ... not what it looks like!" He'd better not start in lecturing me again, I'm in no mood!

"Of course not," he says, gently feeling the sides of my throat for glands or whatever it is that they always want to feel there for. Thankfully, he has enough sense to not start in on me again about my work.

Getting the jab itself literally takes about twenty seconds, and half of that is him loading the needle beforehand, and applying the tiny plaster to my arm after. "Are you really busy right now, John, or do you have time to grab a quick cuppa with me? Do doctors get elevenses?" I ask.

"Well, breaks depend on how busy we are, but you're in luck; Thursdays are generally slow as anything, and today is no exception." He gives me a searching frown, which I return with a smile. He looks a little uneasy, but opens the door and motions me to follow him, stopping to tell one of the nurses that he'll be in the break room until his next appointment; she says it will be in fifteen minutes.

The break room is tiny and basic, but there is a sink and fridge, and a few tables and chairs. Once he's gotten my tea and himself a cup of coffee, and unearthed a packet of biscuits from the cupboard, John sits down across from me with an even more searching look that now borders on suspicion. I laugh at him out loud this time. "Really, you need to hang around with normal people more; I think Sherlock is warping your mind."

"Why do you say that?" John frowns as he sips his coffee.

"Well, most blokes would be thinking, 'Gee, this is great, an incredibly attractive young woman wants to have some tea and chat with me. I think I'll enjoy that.' But no, you're wondering what's going on, what I'm up to, and what you should do about it," I shake my head. "Not even able to enjoy the scenery. It's a pity, really."

He smiles a little ruefully. "So, why *are* you here? You can't blame me for wondering!"

"I came to get that jab, really and truly. I had to get it somewhere, and I came here because I remembered that this was where you worked, and I thought I could say hello and have a cuppa." I smile and raise my mug. "The biscuits are an unexpected bonus."

"Right," he says, still doubtful. "Well, I suppose you want to know how Sherlock is doing -"

"Yes."

"- and if he's found out anything more on your case -"

"Yes!" I wonder if I should tell him that Mycroft claims to have solved it?

"-and what Greg has found, or, has been able to tell us-"

"Yes!" John pauses there, and I add, "You forgot one important thing I want to know, though."

He makes a tiny bit of an I-knew-it face, and asks, "What's that?"

"How are *you* doing?"

John stops with his coffee mug halfway up and just stares at me, then he blushes.

Oh, good grief. "I'm not flirting with you, if that's what you're wondering. I don't go after married men. I respect that," I nod toward the ring on his left hand, "when it's a personal and not a professional matter, you know? I honestly just wanted to know how you were doing, amongst other things."

He looks like someone who isn't used to being asked how he is, looking around and down and slightly embarrassed. "Fine. I'm fine."

I lift an eyebrow at him with just the tiniest bit of skepticism.

"Well," he admits, "it certainly hasn't been a walk in the park. Sherlock was easier to deal with when he was in hospital the first go around, despite the surgeries; he was on some very heavy painkillers, you know? But now they are weaning him off, of course, and it's just been antibiotics ... he gets out tomorrow, on schedule, and I guess his mum and dad are coming into town to help him settle in again or something ... that's certainly not improving his mood any ... and Mycroft still hasn't come around to see him, and for some reason that infuriates him ..."

"Wait, Mycroft hasn't visited Sherlock at all this time around?"

John shakes his head. "Not just this time, not at all since he was wounded back in June, not once. As far as either of us know, anyway. It's a real sore point, but I don't know what the problem is or why it even matters to Sherlock. Maybe Mycroft has a phobia about hospitals ..."

I shake my head, remembering striding at his side just this Sunday past, to go to the morgue. "No, he has no problem going into a hospital. Sherlock's near miss has really rattled his cage, though."

"Really?" John takes a biscuit and dunks it in his coffee.

"Really."

"Well, you wouldn't know it from the way I can hear him shouting at Sherlock through the phone, even from the other side of the room! They've always been a bit tense, but it's degenerated into outright warfare the past few days."

"Hmm. There are a lot of different ways to show concern; maybe Mycroft's is just loud?" I hazard. I have a hard time imagining him in a shouting match, but I guess if anyone could drive you to it, it would be a younger sibling. I am not proud when I remember some incidents with Sara; I once goaded her until she broke a broom over my head!

John takes another biscuit to dunk. "Hard to tell what's going on with those two; half the time they seem to be speaking in a private code, and most of it consists of what isn't said. Currently, they seem to be arguing over pets, and somebody named Miriam."

"Pets? And Miriam?"

He nods. "Yep. Of course, you can bet it's not really about that, right? I don't know what's going on, but I wish they would stop it," he adds wearily.

"You look really knackered, John. Are you taking care of yourself, too?" Honestly, his colour is awful; he looks a little green around the edges, and there are dark circles under his eyes.

"I'm fine, really," he frowns. "Sherlock's condition is finally solidly stabilized, and the sepsis is under control - for now, anyway. It worries me that the lab still hasn't been able to positively identify - why are you laughing at me, Angelica?"

"Please don't be angry, but do you realize that every time I ask you how you are, you tell me how Sherlock is?" He looks a little annoyed, so I refrain from adding that you usually see that with very enmeshed romantic relationships - although, to be fair, there was a time when Sara would answer like that. Especially right after mum died, if someone asked Sara how she was doing, she would tell them how I was.

John shrugs. "I'm as well as can be expected, and let's just leave it at that, okay?" The look he gives me says, I'm drawing a line here, respect it or else. I bet it has something to do with the missing Mrs. Watson, but it really is none of my business.

I take a biscuit to nibble, and change the subject. "Has Sherlock come up with anything on the murder of my friend? Because Mycroft claims to have solved it."

John looks more than surprised, he looks shocked. "Mycroft? I wouldn't think ... he *hates* legwork, Angelica, I can't imagine that he would undertake a murder investigation. Why would he do that?"

Urk. Awkward. I wish I hadn't said anything, now. I'm certainly not going to divulge Mycroft's association with Steen, and claiming that Mycroft did it for me makes me out to be far too important to him - and I don't really know that's true, anyway.

So I give John the completely honest answer. "I don't know. He's Mycroft; I don't completely understand why he does anything, and he almost never explains."

"I cannot argue with that," John admits. "And I know firsthand how frustrating that is! And, true to form, I gather he hasn't shared his deductions yet?"

I bite my lip and shake my head. "Not really surprising," John comments.

"Maybe you shouldn't mention anything to Sherlock about this yet, John? Just forget I said anything. If they are already at each other's throats, then there's no benefit in adding more fuel to the flames." Awkward question averted, once more I change the subject. "So, you mentioned D.I. Lestrade? Any news from him that you can share with me?"

John considers for a moment. "Let's see. Well, you remember those two blokes who spoke Farsi?"

"Yes." How could I forget? One of them probably still has my boot-print on his forehead, from that fracas on the stairs.

"No connection to terrorist organizations, or sympathizers. But they do work for an organized crime ring, for someone called the Pigman ..."

I somehow manage to snort some tea up my nose when I hear that, and it takes a minute to get my breathing sorted out. What the hell? Those two have ties to Doreshchenko?

"Are you all right?" John asks with concern. "You seemed a little startled by that news ... "

"Only a little, it was just bad timing." I wipe my nose carefully.

"You know who this Pigman is, then?"

I nod. "Yeah, his name is Sacha Doreshchenko - the nickname is from his younger days, when he used to feed his enemies to a herd of pigs - he did it to establish a reputation for ruthlessness, you see? He's that sort."

"Purposefully mad?"

"And really calculating. His little corner of the mafia, his bratva, is involved mostly in transportation, but he's branching out into manufacturing and running designer drugs, and who knows what else."

John frowns at me. "You didn't get all of this from Lestrade; he didn't say anything about a drug connection."

"No, it's from ... other sources. And Lestrade isn't specifically in the drug enforcement unit, so how would he know?" But inside my head, I grit my teeth. If Mycroft had handed over the intelligence I obtained, then I'm sure Lestrade would know about Doreshchenko's drug lab. This means that Mycroft is very likely sitting on that bit of information...why? And what else is he keeping under wraps?

"Sounds like you've been conducting your own investigations," John gives me a wry smile and checks the clock on the wall.

"Some," I follow his glance. "You have to get back to work, don't you?"

"Yes. It's bad enough that I'm fraternizing with a patient, can't have being late on top of it!" He takes our cups to the sink for a quick wash-up, and I put the biscuits back in the cupboard.

"You're not fraternizing with a patient, you're advising a friend. They can't possibly criticize you for that, can they?"

"No," he says thoughtfully. "No, I suppose not." Then he suddenly asks, "You aren't a psychopath, are you?"

He's not smiling, and I don't know him well enough to know if he's teasing or not, so I take it as a serious question. "Um, no. No, I'm not." But then I remember that Russian gangster I kneed in the face, lying in a spreading pool of blood ... I very likely killed him with that blow, driving delicate facial bones up into the brain ... and I still have no pang of remorse or conscience about it at all ... "At least, I hope not."

"Good," John says with a brittle smile, and opens the door for me briskly, with a little bow. "Back to it, then. After you."

We get plenty of what-the-hell looks from the rest of the staff as John escorts me back to the waiting lounge; I'd give him a peck on the cheek to give them something to really talk about, except it might make more trouble with his missus.

Instead, I offer him a prim handshake. "Thank you, Doctor Watson," I say formally.

"You're very welcome, Miss Talbot," he returns, and we share a smile.

With that little errand seen to, and some more information to chew on, I am free to focus on my primary objective for the day: new clothes. It's not that I don't have anything to wear, I just hate all of it at the moment.

I both love shopping and loathe it. I loathe the looking-for-things part of it, but I love the buy-it-and-take-it-home part. I usually do better if I take someone along with me, because I just get so overwhelmed by the choices that I can't tell what looks good and what doesn't. Years ago, it was always Sara who came with me, then when she got a real job and became completely tedious, it was Steen ... we used to have so much fun playing up the take-your-gay-friend-shopping stereotype, he and I would laugh until we cried, and completely freak out the shop clerks ...

I'm standing in front of the dressing-room mirror, in a gloriously sophisticated cocktail dress by Anna Sui - it's on sale, I could afford it, but I can't make up my mind. All I can do is stand there and cry. I miss Steen. I miss knowing that I could call him. I miss the good times we had, and the ones we just never got around to. When life left me shattered, Steen helped me to pick up the pieces again when even Sara couldn't - one of the many reasons why she couldn't stand him, but family and friends don't always mix.

I carefully wipe my eyes to minimize smudging, and decide that this lace and black satin dress is a win. I think Steen would approve.

I score a few more nice things, but I'm fast running out of patience with the hunt. I'm beginning to think that maybe I don't need another pair of go-go boots after all, when my phone - my old one, I am still carrying both, just in case Lestrade calls me - my phone rings, and I'm surprised to see that it's Mycroft. Does he need another meeting with me so soon? Or is he just calling to chat or something?

"Hey."

"Angel," Mycroft's voice is low and urgent. "I need a word with you, immediately. Davies and Brown will transport you. Go with them." And he just hangs up! Okay, where are Davies and Brown? They are probably following me right now, and would have gotten notice just after I did... Yep, there is Davies - formerly known as Arm-hauler - and Brown must be the tall and dark bloke beside him.

I wait patiently for them to catch up to me, and when Davies says, "You're to come with us," I nod, and tell him to lead on.

I don't have too much in the way of shopping bags to heave around - which is a good thing, since neither of them offer to help, not one bit. However, Brown does open the rear door of the saloon for me to scramble inside. Maybe he wanted to be sure that I wouldn't try to take his seat in the front.

Wending our way through the noon-time traffic gives me plenty of time to consider what on earth Mycroft could need to see me for so urgently. I have a little tingle of excitement as I consider the possibilities, and I can't wait to find out. Finally, we end up near Whitehall, but not in the main district - a kind of back-alley, really, although it just looks disused and not derelict. Davies pulls the car up to a nondescript metal door, a service entry, and tells me, "That one, there. It's unlocked, go on in."

I leave my parcels in the car, although I take my handbag. The door leads to an empty, utilitarian hallway, which opens immediately into a commercial kitchen - or, what used to be a commercial kitchen. The huge cookers and ovens and steel sinks are still in place, as well as long butcher-block counters and high white metal cabinets. The place is run-down, with peeling paint in places and some bits of soft plaster have come down from the ceiling, but it doesn't smell nasty, and it's brightly lit by both skylights and strips of fluorescent lights above.

"Hallo?" I call out experimentally. "Anybody here?"

I hear footsteps, and a familiar form materializes in one of the darkened doorways. Mycroft enters the kitchen walking carefully around the fallen piles of plaster on the gritty grey-tiled floor, his umbrella hooked over one arm.

I look around us, and then at him with some puzzlement. He gives me a bland smile, and pulls his pocket watch out by it's chain, checks the time, and slides it back into his waistcoat. I wait in silence, because that's what my habit is with him; if I'm honest, that's how he's trained me to be with him. Not a flattering thought, but there you are.

"Angel. I have received notice that several hazardous individuals will be arriving in London tomorrow." As usual, there are no pleasantries - he starts right in with the matter at hand.

"Okay. Hazardous individuals. What do you need me to do?"

He plants the umbrella down onto the tiled floor and leans forward on it, looking serious and intent. "I need you to avoid them at all costs."

I nod. "Okay. For how long?"

"My source reports that they plan to remain in the area until Sunday. It is extremely important that you avoid even accidental contact with these individuals." He seems gravely concerned.

The hair prickles up the back of my neck. "Are they that dangerous?"

He twiddles a bit with the umbrella handle. "I didn't say they were dangerous," he says to his umbrella, and slides one hand into his trouser pocket.

"Right, hazardous, wasn't it? What kind of hazard do they present to me? What could they do?"

He twiddles some more, and shakes his head. "It's not you, they are a hazard to *me*, and it's vital that you avoid contact with them. I need for you to stay out of sight whilst they are in the vicinity." He sets his jaw and rolls his shoulders back, fixing his eyes on me and obviously squaring off for a fight.

Hazardous, but not dangerous. Hazardous to him, but not to me, but he wants me hidden away for a few days? And the twiddling and lack of eye contact means he's feeling emotional ... I bite my lip to hide a smile. It's his mum and dad, got to be! John mentioned they were going to be in town. I bet Sherlock is tormenting Mycroft with the threat of something embarrassing... Well, it's totally my fault that Sherlock knows anything, so the least I can do is to cooperate.

"Okay, no problem," I say.

Mycroft's eyebrows go up in surprise, then snap together in frowning suspicion. "What are you planning?" he growls.

I don't have to affect innocence. "Nothing at all! You made a request, it sounds reasonable, I'm agreeing to go along with it."

He continues to regard me with deep suspicion. "I seem to remember that you object strongly to house arrest, as you called it - and that you often do not stay where you are told to."

"This is a completely different situation."

"You are capitulating far too quickly." His eyes flick over me again, and then he turns his face slightly away; is he embarrassed? "You have obviously been talking to John Watson," he comments to the cooker behind me.

"Yes, I have." No point in denying it! I know that he knows exactly where I've been this morning. "I ran into him at the clinic where he has his practice."

" 'Ran into him?' How terribly convenient."

I shrug. "I had to get the jab today anyway, it's work-related. I chose that clinic because I wanted to see John."

"And ply him for information?"

I cross my arms, and lean against the edge of the cooker. "Well, it's not like you'll tell me anything, is it? I wanted to know if there was anything new on that torch business."

"Was there?"

"You probably already know."

"Tell me anyway."

"The two men who accosted Steen and I, and ransacked his flat, were working for Doreshchenko." Mycroft's face remains impassive, I can't read anything there. "That's all I found out. That, and the fact that John is under way too much stress and not doing very well. And that your parents are in town this weekend. And that Sherlock is really upset that you haven't been to see him at all."

Mycroft's expression has shifted into a tight-lipped mingling of exasperation and embarrassment, and it suddenly occurs to me that perhaps he hasn't been to see Sherlock because of what he might reveal. Mycroft's probably mortified that he might accidentally let it slip to Sherlock how the shooting has affected him. And then he might have to admit it to himself.

Yes, his cage is definitely rattled, and there's really only one way out. "You know, I think that at some point you need to let Sherlock know how you felt, almost losing him."

I guess that was just a step too far, because his expression turns to granite. "Oh, do you?" he says with icy contempt, but it can't touch me. I know what I know, and the smile I give him in return is genuine.

"Yep, I do. You'd both feel better, because holding in something that big takes a lot of energy. It's very inefficient."

Mycroft continues to glare at me balefully. "You have no right," he says flatly.

I can only huff at him in exasperation. "No right to what? To give a damn? Mycroft, if you wanted someone who wouldn't care, you shouldn't have chosen me! But, I think that was part of why you did choose me, wasn't it?" He looks down and doesn't answer, and doesn't look like he's going to, so I go on. "I really don't mind at all staying out of way this weekend; just tell me the exact times and I promise I will stay indoors at the flat until they're gone."

He raises his eyes, then. "You needn't stay just at the flat. Perhaps a visit to your sister might be in order?" he suggests quietly.

I bite my lip as I shake my head. "Maybe for an afternoon, but I can't stay there anymore. Sara's boyfriend has moved in, and there's no room for me now..."

"I see," he gazes intently at the tile floor, frowning at it.

For once, I'm glad that I can count on Mycroft not to feel sorry for me. "But, I don't think I will have a problem holing up at Knightsbridge for just three days. I can handle it."

His eyes dart up. "I shall, of course, compensate you for the inconvenience..."

I give him an evil grin. "No, don't. That's okay, I really think I'd rather have you indebted to me."

He gives me a look both calculating and concerned. "You're beginning to get a little too good at this, you know." He shakes his head, "It's a worry."

"Oh, don't fret. I doubt I'm really in danger of losing my breathtaking naivete any time soon."

That actually makes him smile, although it's directed at his umbrella. "I would tend to agree."

Then he looks up at me, serious once more. "These individuals are to arrive here in London tomorrow afternoon at three-fifteen, and they are scheduled to depart Sunday morning at eleven-forty. I need your word that you will stay secluded between those times. Do I have it?"

"Yes, you do."

"And if you should need to go out for any reason whatsoever, you will text me first for clearance?"

"Yes, sir," I intone solemnly.

After a searching look at my face, he nods, pulls his watch out again, checks the time and flips it back into his waistcoat in one fluid motion. "You may expect to see me Sunday afternoon at one o'clock."

With that, he abruptly turns to leave, but he stops when I call out urgently, "Wait, Mycroft, there's something I need to tell you!" I can't believe I almost forgot!

He turns, looking politely interested. "What is it?"

It comes out in a rush. "I nearly forgot to tell you, someone is using street people to spy on the flat, and trying to get photos of you going in. I talked to one of them this morning ..."

My concern evaporates as he rolls his eyes and huffs in annoyance. "Sherlock, and his insidious homeless network!" Mycroft says sarcastically. "That is merely the continuance of an old game, Angel, pay it no mind ..."

I shake my head. "I don't think it's Sherlock. I talked to the woman, gained her confidence, and it doesn't sound like she is working for him."

Mycroft flicks an eyebrow, but shrugs. "Still nothing to worry about. Ignore it."

"What if they're trying to blackmail you or something? They couldn't ... use me against you, could they?"

That seems to amuse him, and he chuckles as he shakes his head, No. "The primary advantage of being merely a minor civil servant, is that nobody cares. There is a great deal of freedom in that. My official position is of little consequence, so there is no leverage that can be applied, no public opinion that I might lose to scandal. My ... arrangement with you is nothing that will even raise an eyebrow, much less an outcry. It's not like this kind of thing hasn't been attempted before. Ignore it," he instructs again, then turns to go.

"Hey, one more thing."

"Yes?" he frowns impatiently as he half-turns toward me.

I wave around at our surroundings. "Why here?"

"Privacy, and convenience," he replies shortly. "Until Sunday, Angel." And he waves the umbrella at me over his shoulder as he vanishes through the shadowed doorway.

Privacy and convenience? Convenience undoubtedly means convenient for him. Privacy. Well, when he had me brought to his office it was night time, and quite dark. Right now there would be people about there - and even more of them at Whitehall. So I guess this would be the most private meeting-place, if he really felt the need to meet face-to-face so he could talk me into cooperating. I sigh. I guess it makes sense, in a very dramatic kind of way.

I pull out my phone and drop a Maps pin for this location, then check the address to see where we are; I'm not surprised to see that it's only a block from Mycroft's official office in Whitehall. I bet he has a whole slew of spots like this one, nooks and crannies in the city where he can arrange to meet people that he needs to see on the sly. Like me.

I put away my phone and go back the way I came in. Some working girls really get off on being the hidden little bit on the side, somebody's dirty little secret - and there is a certain pleasure in that, a kind of heady power. But for me, it's also a bit depressing, probably because I'm such a narcissist. I thrive on showing off. I don't doubt that Mycroft appreciates me in private, but I know he will never, ever take me anywhere on his arm - and like he said once, he doesn't come around for the conversation.

Before going out into the bright day again, I stop and consider the change in my plans and make a quick list. I'm determined to keep my promise, so I have a lot to do before tomorrow at 3:15.