Where Angels Tread

by stellamira1936

An erotic thriller that explores, from an original point of view, how incredibly complicated it is to be Mycroft Holmes, and how he could go from "Caring is not an advantage," to "Your loss would break my heart." Sexual situations (although that's not the main point), prostitution, light bondage. The timeline tucks into the six-month lacuna of "His Last Vow." Canon? What canon? ;)

22. Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-two: "Life is a succession of lessons which must be lived in order to be understood." ~ Helen Keller

The posh, carpeted hallway is completely deserted, and silent once the heavy ballroom doors close behind me. I head for the ladies' room, thumbing a text to Mycroft as I go: Doesn't the magic usually last until midnite?

He texts back: The fairy godmother is capricious. Phone me.

I pause in the hallway, looking at the message. Well, at least he seems in a good mood, but if he wants me to phone him, I don't think I ought to do it from the loo. I recall there were some hotel telephone courtesy booths beside the lifts on this floor, so, mobile in hand, I follow the signs pointing the way. I don't particularly like sitting in a tiny padded booth with a big window in the door, it's creepy, but it will be better than talking to Mycroft with the sound of flushing as background music.

After the lights and noisy crowd of the charity dinner, the hallway almost feels spooky; I'm aware of the silence and the shadows as I make my way to the third-floor lounge, where the plush carpet abruptly gives way to white marble tile. The loud click of my heels on the floor apparently startles a well-dressed older man pressed against the tall windows overlooking the marina; he visibly jumps and turns around with an expectant look, then frowns at me, brushing his fingertips across his bristling grey mustache - it's Cobb! His eyes rake across me, taking in my face, my breasts, my legs; he gives a polite and unconcerned nod of the head and turns to look out the window again. I stop and pretend to look at my phone, watching him out of the corner of my eye. He's waiting for someone, anxiously, and also peering at one corner of the marina, the far end under the Belvedere Tower. Everything about him makes the hair on the back on my neck prickly with anxiety.

There are just three tiny booths, and I duck into the one that will give me a view of Cobb, if I angle my head just right. Keeping one eye on him as unobtrusively as I can, I punch Mycroft's number.

"Hello, Angel."

"Hey. So, why do I have to leave early? Is there something interesting going on?" I say hopefully.

"No, not at all. It is of minor importance, actually, but the hazardous individuals that I am expecting are prone to unfortunate attacks of spontaneity. They are already here. Therefore, I am exercising my option to recall you with two hours' notice, and sending a driver around to collect you at 10:56; I trust that you won't find this an imposition?"

"I guess not," I say reluctantly. "But I'm not happy about it! I don't care about tonight, but I had some things I wanted to take care of tomorrow morning. Aren't you being a bit paranoid?"

There is a pause, then he admits, "I am perhaps somewhat...anxious at the moment-"

"Uh-huh."

"-and doing my best to keep things under control."

"Like me, for example!"

"No, not like you," he observes. "People can't be controlled, they can only be managed."

"Hmm. Is this spontaneity going to affect when I'll be able to leave the flat on Sunday?"

"Unfortunately, yes, as they seem to have hired a car. You'll be notified as events progress, but I need you to be patient."

"Just let me know the minute it's okay for me to go outside, okay? Because by Sunday I am going to be hanging on by my fingernails. Oh, and please do let me know if you decide to cancel your visit with me."

I could swear I hear a slight smile in his voice. "Oh, no. No, I don't think that I will be canceling my time with you on Sunday," he says dryly. "Not after the weekend I have ahead of me."

"Okay." I wonder what kind of shape he'll be in after two days with his family? He doesn't seem to hate them, but I don't get the impression that he's exactly looking forward to this visit, either. "Where am I to meet my driver? I'd rather they didn't come up to the ballroom..."

"Anthea will be at the main lobby entrance at 10:56."

"Who's Anthea?"

"My senior assistant, you've seen her before. The brunette."

Ah, Ms. Bitchy Black-dress. Oh, goody. "Okay," I sigh. "I'll be down at the lobby by eleven o'clock."

"Ten fifty-six," Mycroft corrects.

"-ish," I insist with a smile. "Hey, guess who I'm looking at right now?" Cobb is starting to pace now, and jiggle up and down on his toes.

Mycroft plays along. "I couldn't possibly."

"Cobb. He's standing by one of the windows overlooking the marina, peering at the berths at the south end by the tower, and I think he's expecting someone to come up here and meet him at any minute. He's so tense, he's almost freaking out. Do you want me to try to eavesdrop on him or something? It would be pretty easy..."

"Mr. Cobb is not your concern, Angel," Mycroft says firmly. "You are to meet Anthea in the main entrance at 10:56, go directly to the flat, and remain there until you receive further instructions from me."

"Sure thing," I murmur, watching Cobb jiggle and pace. He's looking over his shoulder every now and again, and keeps checking his watch. His rendezvous must be late. "Hope your weekend goes better than you expect, Mycroft."

"I doubt it." He sounds resigned. "Good night, Angel."

I end the call, but put the phone back up to my ear as if I just made another one. I want to watch Cobb for a few minutes more, just in case something interesting happens. And then, it does. A lift rumbles open and Evan McCutcheon walks out! He goes directly over to Cobb, who stops his fidgeting to turn full about, hands in pockets. Cobb's expression is surprised, and displeased. It wasn't who he was expecting, apparently.

McCutcheon looks exactly like he did at Verge a few weeks ago, a pale little humpty-dumpty of a man, dressed all in black. He has a big grin plastered on his face, like he is enjoying Cobb's discomfiture. I can't hear a word they are saying, since I'm in a sound-proof booth, and I'm not very good at lip-reading, either. I'll have to think of something else, but carefully, because McCutcheon will certainly recognize me if I draw attention to myself.

Keeping my head still so I can keep watching the two men out of the corner of my eye, I reach for the door handle of my booth, and very slowly turn it. Cobb and McCutcheon are engaged in a heated discussion, and neither one seems to notice my door opening just a few inches. Their voices are raised enough that I can now hear snatches of their conversation, and my curiosity is definitely piqued. Cobb refers to "that goddamned Russian" and "your boss;" could he mean Doreshchenko? And I'm certain I hear McCutcheon grate ominously, "Would we be even fucking talking to you if we didn't have it, jackass?"

Finally, Cobb seems to lose his temper entirely, and growls through clenched teeth, "Fine! I'll go, but I can't get down there until 10:30, and I'm not stepping onto that bloody boat, you understand?" And he storms off back toward the ballroom.

McCutcheon stands there a moment, very still and no longer smiling. He has a different face on now that he thinks he's alone, and even his posture changes; he's angry. He is a very angry little man, and looking at him standing there, alone and lost in his thoughts and his anger, I feel a catch of fear in my chest. There is something very, very not right about that little man.

McCutcheon takes out his mobile and thumbs a number as he strolls to the lift right by my booth. "It's Evan." McCutcheon reaches out to punch one of the call buttons for the lift. "He'll be down at 10:30... No, he wouldn't come earlier, said he couldn't leave the dinner any sooner... How should I know? He probably wants to wait for more backup...yeah, he knows where your boat is, the south side where the cameras are aimed toward the street and not the marina." McCutcheon really does have an odd accent, Scottish and Yank at the same time, and his voice has a raspy, soft quality to it. "This is your game, Sacha. I wouldn't be dicking around with this fucking prat, I would just start carving off bits and not stop until he handed it over...yeah, I know," McCutcheon gives a mirthless chuckle. "That's why we work well together. I'm going to go wait downstairs in the bar."

As he ends his call, I know that he is going to glance over at my booth and see me through the window, so before that can happen I shift my face completely away, and start murmuring "Uh-huh... mmm... yes..." like you do when the other person is talking your ears off. My skin crawls as I feel McCutcheon staring at me, willing me to look at him so he can identify me, but I shift in the little chair and examine my nails like I'm bored, keeping up my charade. Only after the lift dings it's arrival and I hear the doors rumble closed again do I glance over; McCutcheon is gone, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

So, what the hell is going on? What is this "it" that Cobb has, and McCutcheon and Doreshchenko want? It goes with something they have already, from the sound of things.

I consider if I should phone Mycroft back and tell him that Cobb is meeting with Doreshchenko, but decide against it; I don't want him to directly order me not to try and find out more. The timing is very convenient; I can leave the dinner just a little bit before I have to, go down to the marina, lurk a bit, and still be out in front of the hotel to meet Bitchy-dress by 11:00. And, worst case, if I get caught, both McCutcheon and Doreshchenko know me - I can claim to be trying to relay information about potential customers to them. Foolproof.

Back in the ballroom, the next hour or so goes by painfully slow. My announcement that I have been called into work and must leave a bit after ten o'clock is met with stony silence by Sara and Richard, and a few easily-fielded questions from Tommy, who sadly seems to be laboring under the delusion that he has actually pulled me. He keeps dropping hints about staying in town through the weekend. I will personally break Sara's arm if she gives him my phone number.

The after-dinner dance music is nearly enough to put me to sleep standing up, but moving around helps the time to pass, and out on the dance floor I don't have to deal with not talking to a totally miffed Sara. I am also able to keep an eye on Cobb from out there. He spends most of the time fidgeting and watching the door. A few minutes before 10:00, a very large, muscular man in a tweed sport coat enters the ballroom and goes over to Cobb's table - who the hell wears a nubby tweed in the middle of summer? He sticks out like a sore thumb, but he and Cobb look to be having an intense conversation. When I'm next able to glance over there, Tweed-man is gone, and Cobb seems less nervous. Maybe that bloke was the backup that McCutcheon was talking about.

When the clock hits 10:10, I can tell that Cobb is getting ready to get out of there, and I'm ready to beat him to it. Tommy tries to delay me, but I am politely adamant. No, I can't stay longer. No, you can't walk me down to my ride. No, I don't want to get together tomorrow. No, you didn't do anything wrong. I shake his thin, moist hand, nod to Sara and Richard - who both give me the stink-eye - and take the stairs down to the main floor. There's a restaurant at the rear of the hotel, and I go through it and out through the wide glass doors overlooking the marina, taking care to avoid the bar, just in case McCutcheon is still there. I stick close to the pavements by the buildings and away from the water for now, and make toward the south end of the tiny harbourage.

Once upon a time, way back in the 70's, this was a really dark, nasty little pocket of post-industrial blight; I've seen pics of it from before the renovation work done in the 80's. Now a quadrangle of big, modern buildings - the hotel, residential buildings like the Belvedere Tower - surround a tidy 50-berth marina, and the whole area is lit up like an upscale Christmas tree, which is why I feel perfectly safe lurking about to see what goes on between Cobb and Doreshchenko.

There's maybe twenty berths occupied in the water tonight; most of them are various powerboats, although there are a few small yachts as well. It's a calm night, nary a breeze, so the water is like a looking-glass reflecting the lights from the sidewalls of the marina as well as the big white globes of the terribly quaint victoriana street-lamps. The cobblestone pavements grit a little under my shoes as I click-clack along. Cobb is somewhere behind me, still in the hotel, but I pick up my pace anyway as I spot a huge powerboat moored against the marina's south wall, under the shadow of the Belvedere Tower. I can see lights on in the cabin of that boat, although there's no other sign of life. Still, I know it's Doreshchenko's. For one thing, it's enormous, and I can't imagine him wedging his girth into a smaller one!

Just past the corner of the marina, I come to an intersection of the cobblestone pavements and slow down, looking around carefully. I need to lurk someplace out of sight until Cobb comes, and there is a distinct lack of lurk-able places around here. Halting under one of the fluted iron lamp-posts, I take out my cigarette case and light one up to give myself time to suss things out. I don't know if I'm being watched or not, so I keep my attitude calm and casual, looking around like I'm just admiring the scenery. I notice that there is a tiny alley in-between the Belvedere and the building beside it, almost hidden by some thick shrubs. Ordinarily, I wouldn't think it a good idea to lurk in a dark little alley, but this is not a high-risk neighborhood. If they go down by the boat, I won't be able to hear or see much at all, but if they stay up beside the marina I'll have a ring-side seat. It looks like my best shot.

Looking at the inevitable CCTV cameras overhead, I can see that McCutcheon was right; they are aimed at the entrance to the Belvedere and not at this end of the marina. It really is a dead zone. I finish my cig and flip the butt into a bin, then stroll in a wide loop that ends with me slipping behind the shrubbery at the front of that little alley. It smells a bit of damp earth and mould, and it's dim rather than dark; even though there are deep shadows pooling on either side of the crumbling brick walls, I can still make out that I am the sole occupant. There's not so much as a stray cat hanging about.

I lean against the weathered brick beside me, and check the time on my phone before muting it. It's only 10:28, but when I look up I see that Cobb and Tweed-man are already here, standing at the edge of the marina and looking down at the big boat moored below. A bloke comes out onto the deck of the boat, and looks up - their heads would be on the same level if Cobb crouched down, but I doubt that he is likely to do something that undignified. I can't hear what they are saying quite clearly, but the bloke on the boat gestures at the steps leading down to the quay, and Cobb shakes his head. Tweed-man stands behind him, arms folded. It's a standoff. The bloke shrugs, and goes back into the cabin. A moment later, Doreshchenko comes out and, unbelievably, he steps off the boat onto the quay, and comes up the steps himself. He moves pretty easily for such a large man, I wouldn't have expected that. He joins Cobb by the iron railing surrounding the edge of the marina, close enough to me that I can make out the tartan of Doreshchenko's Burberry trousers under his green smoking jacket.

Their conference is brief, and I can make out almost every word. "Mr. Cobb," Doreshchenko starts in formally, "I grow tired of these endless negotiations. I have come tonight - I have come to you! - so that speaking face-to-face we might reach an agreement. Perhaps you would care to visit my very comfortable accommodation here," he waves at the boat, "So we can do some business?"

Cobb puts his hands in his trouser pockets. "I don't see any point in a conversation, you know what my terms are. Ten percent of the gross profits, from all the clubs, including the big one-Verge, isn't it? That's a bargain, considering that what you have is useless without what I have, and you stand to make a great deal of money combining the two."

The Russian purses his lips. "Yes, yes, but there are also expenses involved as well. Large expenses. And much risk. You seem to want a great deal in return for very little risk, Mr. Cobb."

This seems to annoy Cobb. "My level of risk is irrelevant!" he spits, "I have the code book, and without it your little scheme is tits-up! I should think that you wouldn't quibble over the price. Or are you that close to the edge?"

Insulted, Doreshchenko growls something in return that I can't hear, and Cobb growls back, turns away, and strides off with Tweed-man trotting at his heels.

The big Russian looks daggers after Cobb's retreating back, then shakes his head, and steps back down toward his boat. I lean my head against the brick beside me and let out the breath I've been holding. Bloody hell! I wonder if I should call Mycroft right away with all this, or wait until I see him? I guess I'll -

I hear a soft sound behind me, and half turn around, expecting to see a kitty prowling along behind me. It's not a kitty. Two men leap forward from the shadows, the larger one clamps a rough hand over my mouth and pins my body against him, the other holds the razor-sharp point of a knife to my throat; I immediately stop struggling as I feel the sharp prick of pain and feel a tiny wet trickle follow it. The one with the knife says, "Not a sound, right? Not a sound."

I blink in response, afraid to even nod my head, and the one behind me takes his hand away from my face. These thugs aren't muggers, they want me to talk. I'm so shaken right now that I think if the bloke behind me wasn't holding me up in a crushing grip, I might fold at the knees and go down.

"Now," the knife man says, "Who are you, and who do you work for? Lying would be a very bad idea, pretty girl, so tell me the truth."

I make a show of stammering with fear, to give myself time to think - and truth be told, I am scared, but the initial shock of being attacked is wearing off, and I can feel rage replacing it. How dare you pin me and hold a knife on me, you scrawny son of a bitch! I let myself go slack against the man behind me, so he is forced to hold up every stone, and he staggers slightly at the unexpected weight. Still stammering, and acting like I'm getting faint, I let my evening bag drop as I curl my hands into fists -

- but before I can move, another figure springs to life from the shadows, and Knife-man is suddenly flying sideways, grunting in pain as he crashes against the brick wall and bounces off of it, falling limp, his knife skittering across the ground. The other bloke lets go of me before the first has hit the ground, and whips out his own knife to slash at...well, thin air, because the person he trying to slice is suddenly behind him. A foot lashes out with deadly precision, and there is a wet crunch and a hoarse groan as falls.

Anthea thoughtfully surveys her handiwork, both men unconscious on the ground, then pivots toward me, casually tucking her dark hair back behind her ear. She doesn't ask if I'm okay, but her gaze sweeps over me once, checking for damage; her eyes linger at the trail of blood on my neck, but she comments, "That doesn't look too bad. Let's go, quickly." As she turns, she catches my eye and points at my evening bag on the ground; I scoop it up and follow.

"You were supposed to be waiting at the hotel lobby," she remarks as we reach the inevitable black Jag, parked in a well-lit area on the other side of the Belvedere.

I look at my phone; it says 10:52. "It's not time yet," I tell her.

Anthea doesn't answer, just raises a dark eyebrow and hits the squawk button on her key fob to unlock the car. She slides into the driver's seat, and on a whim, I get into the front with her. She registers that with another raised eyebrow, as we buckle in and take off.

I am simmering with curiosity. "How did you find me? Oh!" As the words leave my mouth, I know the answer. "You tracked my phone, didn't you?" She just smiles a little.

"Thank you for taking care of...that, back there. You completely kicked arse! I didn't even have a chance to help." I want her to know that I would have.

She shrugs off the compliment. "They weren't expecting it. It wouldn't have been that easy without the element of surprise. Those two were professionals."

"Do you know who they were working for?"

"Why don't you tell me?"

I sigh and look out the window. Those goons had to be working for either Doreshchenko or Cobb, securing the perimeter. The Russian wasn't too worried about security back there, but Cobb sure was, and with good reason if he's playing hardball with the likes of McCutcheon and Doreshchenko.

"They were probably working for Mr. Cobb," I say finally. "I overheard some things that Mycroft needs to know. Should I tell you right now?"

She nods, and I outline for her everything important that I heard in the hotel and out by the marina. I don't bother to explain any of it, I figure that she probably knows more than I do at the moment anyway.

When I finish, I'm waiting for some kind of response, either a Well done! or a That was pointless! but there's nothing. She just nods, and deals with the traffic. We're almost to Knightsbridge when I break the silence again.

"Would you have been able to beat those thugs anyway? If they had been ready for you? They had weapons!"

Anthea glances at me out of the corner of her eye. "So do I," she says simply, but doesn't elaborate. She's armed? That slim, dark dress doesn't look like you could conceal a blade or gun anywhere, and her classy black pumps aren't made for combat either. She sees me checking out her outfit, and gives the road an enigmatic smile.

I'm casting around in my head for tactful ways to ask her the questions that I am dying to ask: Where did you learn to fight like that? What weapons do you have? What do you do, exactly? But I don't have the nerve right now, so I just sigh and sit back.

She glances over at me. "Nice dress." It's a sincere compliment, I think. "Dior?"

I shake my head. "Anna Sui."

She nods. "Looks good. Better."

I almost ask, Better than what? But the answer is obvious-better than I usually do. I look out the window, my cheeks feeling a little flushed. Well, that's her opinion.

I minute or two later we are pulling up at the blue door in the narrow, cobbled lane. I have an urge to thank Anthea again for saving my hide tonight, but the words stall in my throat before I can say them; she was just doing her job, after all. I imagine she gets paid pretty well for what she does. Whatever that is. So I just quietly wish her a good night, and she wishes me the same.

As I'm getting out of the car, I remember to glance at her right hand, resting on the steering wheel - and there is a plain gold band on the ring finger. Same as Mycroft, and Davies. There is definitely something up with that.

She doesn't drive off until I have let myself into the flat, and when the door softly clicks shut behind me, it occurs to me that I won't be opening it again until Sunday.

I suddenly feel very lonely. Very small, and alone. It's probably just the adrenal let-down from being attacked in a dark alley, but knowing where it comes from is no help. I draw all the drapes tight, turn on every light in the entire flat, upstairs and down, and put on some soothing jazz music. I take a long bath, put a plaster over the tiny nick on my throat, slide into my favorite oversize t-shirt, make a nice cup of milky tea, and curl up on the lovely soft brocade sofa.

And I still feel miserable. I miss my cat, Pablo. I miss Sara. I miss sitting on her shitty sofa in her shitty flat and hearing about her shitty day. My eyes start to tear up.

Okay, damn it, this is an emergency. I go get my phone and grab the colorful, soft throw from the armchair. Pulling the blanket over my head to make a little tent, I call my sister.

"Hey," she says.

"Hey," I answer. There is a bit of a pause. Well, I called, so it's kind of up to me to say something, but I can't think what.

"Are you okay?" Sara asks.

"Yes."

"You don't sound okay." She's suspicious.

"I haven't said anything! How can I not sound okay?"

"You sound like you have a blanket over your head. You are not okay."

How can she tell? It must muffle the sound. "I do not have a blanket over my head, that would be silly. I'm fine."

She sighs. "So, what happened? Tell me what's going on."

I draw in a shuddering breath, and it all comes out at once. "I was attacked by two thugs with knives, I'm all alone here at the flat and I can't leave it until Sunday, and, and, and Steen is d-dead..."

"Hold it, hold it, just...stop! Angelica, slow down, take a breath," she commands. "Now, one thing at a time. Are you safe? Right now, are you safe?"

"Yes, I'm home..."

"You said you got attacked. Are you hurt?"

"No, my driver kicked their arses before they could do anything, she was awesome! She-"

"Good," Sara cuts in patiently, "you can tell me about the arse-kicking later. Now, who is dead? What happened?"

So I tell her. I tell her all about Steen, at least everything that I feel I can tell her. I have to pause in the middle and go get my handkerchief, because there's no stopping the tears, but I keep on talking around the sobs.

"Geli," she says at last, "I am so sorry about your friend getting killed. That is really horrible, I don't know what else to say. He was a good...you were very fond of him."

Something angry and perverse rears up in me then. "Yes, he was a good friend, but you never liked him, did you? You always blamed him because I went to work for the Agency instead of trying to go back to school."

"He was pretty up-front about recruiting you, Angelica! He was proud of making you his protege, and it always seemed an odd thing to be proud of -"

"He got me a job, a good job that pays really well! The Agency would never have even called me for an interview without his personal recommendation." And that's the truth; regular escort services will take applications from girls who want to work for them, but the Agency is strictly by referral and invitation only - you don't call them, they call you. "He was the one who helped me get back on my feet after I flunked out of uni."

Sara answers very quietly, "That's because you wouldn't let anyone else help you. I tried."

I don't want to go there with her, not tonight. "You did what you could at the time," I sigh. When he finally lost his battle with cancer, Daddy's long, agonizing death left both me and Sara shattered in different ways. I spiraled further out of control; she spiraled inward to compulsion. Neither of us handled it well, but since I was the one who completely trashed my life, by comparison Sara thinks she did just fine. I know better.

"Listen," she tells me, "You shouldn't be alone right now. Why don't we come and pick you up? I'll fix up Richard's study for you, and you can spend a couple of days here. Pablo misses you, I miss you...it'll be fun, we can go shopping on Saturday, and goodness knows there's probably an art festival somewhere. You like art festivals. Go pack a bag, and we'll come get you tonight."

God, I wish I could take her up on that! I could go over there, Mycroft already offered...but it wouldn't just be hanging out with Sara, it would mean being cooped up with Richard as well, and I don't think I could take it... "No, I can't leave the flat until Sunday. I have to stay here."

Sara makes that gargling-strangling noise in her throat that she does sometimes when she is really frustrated. "You aren't joking, are you? Why do you have to stay locked up until Sunday?"

"It's kind of complicated, really, and I don't want to go into it, but let's just say that it's for my protection and leave it at that."

"Oh, it's for your protection," Sara says sarcastically. "Can you even hear what you're saying anymore? The incredibly...odd things that you just take for granted since you took up with this Holmes bloke? Does it register in your brain that normal people don't do these things, don't worry about these things? What the bloody hell do you need to be protected from? He could just be making stuff up so he can control you, you know. I don't think this is healthy."

She just doesn't get it. "Look, this isn't a relationship, it's a JOB. I'm not being coerced or manipulated into staying, it is completely up to me to stay or go. The situation might be a little...unusual, but I'm being compensated very well for putting up with it."

"Right. Okay." She's not going to go there tonight, which is fine by me. "I only make a fuss because I care, you know."

"I know."

We lapse into a comfortable silence, until Sara blurts out, "So are you going to sit there until Sunday with a blanket over your head?"

I pull the throw down and push my hair back from my face. "No, I'm not. I'm going to watch movies and surf the interwebs and eat too much. How about you?"

"Well, the last BVA membership meeting is tomorrow afternoon, and then things go pretty much back to normal for us..."

I listen with only half an ear as she natters on about her work, about Richard, and his friend Tommy. I remember to let her know that he isn't to have my phone number.

"I figured as much, Geli, don't worry about it. I haven't said it properly yet, but I appreciate that you came out tonight on such short notice. I WAS thoroughly miffed that you left early - but it all worked out. Tommy pulled one of the accountants from the Watford clinic, and they ducked out before the last dance, so I reckon he's forgotten you already."

"An accountant! Much better match for him, I think."

"Mmmhmm. And your dangerous government man is a better match for you, I guess, although I don't approve at all."

"Sara! Will you stop? It's not like that."

"Oh, yeah? I reckon you're blushing right now."

"I am not. Stop being a jerk." I pull the throw back over my head.

"I'll stop being a jerk when you stop being a moron. Maybe you're not involved, but you are attached, admit it!" And she chortles in that unpleasant big-sister way.

"Look, you just don't get it, okay? You don't know this business. Caring about clients, even having friendly feelings towards them, it's part of the job. It may look from the outside like I'm overly attached, but I'm not. There are definite boundaries, some lines you just don't cross." Except that I'm not sure where mine are, anymore. I thought I knew, but then I let Mycroft just sail right over them...

"You know, I may not know 'the business,' but I do know YOU, Angelica. And I know what you're like when you are into a bloke, and you are into this one." I huff at her and start to object, but she talks over me. "No, don't bother with your bullshit, just listen to me for once. I know how you are when you are into someone; you're incredibly loyal, that's what's great about you, you're loyal, and you stick by the people you care for. You're devoted. The problem is, you devote yourself to the wrong people! You trust them to the ends of the earth, and you shouldn't."

My eyes tear up. I didn't call her to get a lecture tonight, I'm feeling too fragile for that. "So, you're saying that I'm so stupid I can't tell when I should trust someone?"

She sighs. "No, I don't think you're stupid. I just want you to stop and think for a change, and not just go by what you feel. Feelings...well, sometimes they go down the path of least resistance, you know? To me, it looks like you catch a whiff of someone being a bit shady, a bit untrustworthy, a bit dangerous, and it's like a cat smelling catnip, you know? You run over and roll in it!"

The image of me rolling in a bloke like a kitty in catnip makes me giggle - until I think about Dimitri and how I reacted to him. Damn. And Mycroft, too, how he fascinated me right away...and him sitting right there, telling me that I shouldn't trust him, not at all...

I don't want to think about this anymore. "Point taken, but that's enough for tonight, okay?"

"Okay."

We chat for a few minutes more to wind down. It's a relief to finally get off the phone with her, I can only take so much, but despite the fussing - okay, if I'm honest, because of it - I'm much more calm and relaxed. I curl up on the sofa with my head still under the throw, and fall asleep right away.

All that night, and the next two, I sleep on the sofa downstairs, with all the lights on. I don't know why, it's just what feels safer that way. The bed upstairs seems too big and too enclosed at the same time, like that ruffled canopy is too low, the room too small for everything in it.

True to what I told Sara, I watch movies, I surf, I eat. I smoke, too, but I didn't want to mention that to her, it's another thing she doesn't approve of. Sitting by the open window upstairs, watching the leaves flicker and rustle in the breeze, listening to the traffic rumble through the wash of summer rain showers - it's peaceful, and sometimes I sit there long after my cigarette is gone, just taking in the little slice of the world through that one window. I'd go mad if I had to be shut up in here for very long, but for two days, it isn't bad.

I'm also not completely isolated. I chat with online friends, catch up with the posts I've been missing on the escort's forum, stuff like that. On Friday afternoon, I also start getting random texts from Mycroft every now and then. It's things like: There can be no possible excuse for the existence of American Country and Western music. None. And on Saturday afternoon: There is no stopping Mummy feeding the pigeons at Trafalgar. She flouts the law, and I am left to suffer for it.

Maybe he needs to let off some steam about his family, and he might not be able to vent to Sherlock right now. Maybe he's rewarding me for following through with my promise; I haven't set foot outside the flat since Thursday night, and I don't intend to. Well, I lie; I did swing out the upstairs window in the twilight Saturday to sit in the tree, only for a little while. I just had to do it. But in any case, I get a little thrill every time my text alert goes off. He probably knows that.

I make sure and do something physical every time I get restless, working out hard enough to break a sweat. I push the furniture to the sides of the sitting room to make a clear space large enough to really be useful, and practice the moves I saw Anthea doing on Thursday night. It's hard to remember, exactly, because it was dark, but what she did doesn't seem physically possible. One second she was there and the next she was over there; it just doesn't seem possible, but I saw it. When I start to entertain the idea that maybe she actually has superpowers, I know it's time to stop speculating and give the whole thing a rest. I sure would love to spar with her, though, and learn her moves.

I spend a lot of time online stalking Mr. and Mrs. Cobb, but I don't get very far. Mr. Cobb is from a family that controls a private investment firm, very well-heeled, he went to all the right schools and has all the right associates. He doesn't work for the civil service, though, as I originally thought; he heads a private consulting firm and spends a lot of time at Whitehall, but it's a very slippery sort of business, and I can't pin down exactly what he consults on. Mrs. Cobb is what Daddy used to call a professional do-gooder; she's on the governing boards of half a dozen charities, but I think it's all for show. Both Mr. and Mrs. Cobb's names came up linked to some very shady stuff - they were two of a dozen people implicated in a human trafficking sting two decades ago, although the case was dismissed on a technicality and they were never actually charged with anything.

Looking at various online photos of his dapper, high-society facade, I can only hope fervently that *somebody* can bring that coke-snorting, child-molesting, murderous bastard down. I don't care if it's Mycroft, or Lestrade, or Doreshchenko and his pet psycho McCutcheon, I want Cobb to get what he deserves.

Then there's the business that I discovered on Thursday to consider. What the hell, so Doreshchenko owns Verge? That would explain why it was McCutcheon's home-away-from-home, and also the notable lack of police enforcement inside the club. And Cobb wants 'a piece of the action' in return for a codebook - it has to be the Torch codebook, which means that Doreshchenko managed to get his hands on the formulas, or a copy of them, and intends to make money from selling the stuff at his clubs.

Well, that's all above my head, to be honest. I don't like the idea of them doing shit like that, but I don't feel like I have to get out there and make them stop. I've turned the information over to people who can do something about it, and that's that. What matters to me is that the responsible party - whether it's Cobb or whoever - gets nailed for the escort murders, and that whoever killed Steen gets it as well. I wish Mycroft would give me that information, but he is likely worried that I would take it into my own hands. He might be right on that.

When it's finally Sunday morning, I am dying to text Mycroft and ask if it's time yet. I feel like a child waiting for school to let out. I pace, I tap, I twitch. I'm desperate to smoke as well, but I don't dare; even blowing the smoke out the open window would still very likely stink up the bedroom.

It's nearly noon before he texts me, and the message is so brief I almost think it's an empty one at first: 5:00 p.m. That's it, that's all. 5:00 p.m. Fine, okay, five o'clock. I can deal with that.

It's got to be the longest five hours I've ever spent. I put all the furniture back to rights, clean the place top to bottom, clean myself bottom to top (although leaving a little rough patch for him to play with if he likes), try on six different outfits before settling on the first thing I had put on (a brand-new little number in soft turquoise satin), unsuccessfully try to read four different books, and talk to Sara for nearly an hour on the phone about absolutely nothing.

By 4:30, I'm a wreck, and decide that a cup of tea to settle my nerves is an absolute necessity. I pad down to the kitchen in my bare feet, and once in there I realize I'm kind of hungry, too. I should grab some cheese and fruit for a light tea. It's not good to eat too much before a session with a client, but a grumbling tum isn't very sexy, either. I take a pear from the fruit bowl and the smaller chef's blade from the knife block, making pretty slices to lay on the plate beside my steaming mug. Mycroft will be walking in the door at 5:00 precisely, of course, so I still have time to have a quick nibble and brush my teeth again before he arrives...and then I hear the front door open.

I'm so keyed up that the unexpected sound makes me jump nearly out of my skin, but I recover quickly and stand absolutely still. I hadn't heard the key in the lock, but I wasn't listening for it. Now I hear the door being closed quietly. Too quietly, like someone trying to minimize the noise, and then it's completely silent. Is it Mycroft? It shouldn't be, because the clock on the cooker says it's only 4:37, and he is never, ever anything but precisely on time - but who else would it be? Whoever it is, they aren't coming out into the sitting room where I can see them. They are staying in the front hall, unseen and silent.

I start to call out - until it occurs to me that someone else might know that Mycroft is due here at 5:00; what if they are planning an ambush? What if those thugs from Thursday night found out where I live? Okay, that's kind of paranoid, but what if? Silently, I tighten my grip on the wicked sharp chef's knife in my hand. If that's Mycroft over there, he'll just think I'm being silly. If it's not, then I might be glad to have a weapon of some sort.

Holding the knife down at my side, partially hidden in the short, full skirt of my dress, I glide silently on bare feet toward the entry.