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? ;)

23. Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-three: "Trust no friend without faults, love a woman, but no angel." ~ Doris Lessing

The polished oak floor is cool and hard under my bare feet, and I am not even breathing as I slip down the short hall between the kitchen doorway and the front entry. As I step silently around the corner, I see that it's Mycroft after all, in a creamy linen suit, hands clutching his umbrella, leaning with closed eyes against the wall just inside the front door. He looks just shattered, poor man, and almost like he's fallen asleep standing there. I relax and move closer, breathing a sigh of relief.

At that soft puff of sound, his wide blue eyes fly open. My mouth begins to curve into a smile of greeting, and I draw a breath to say, "Hey -"

Lunging forward, Mycroft whips the umbrella at my right wrist, hitting it precisely on a nerve that sends a hot jolt through my hand. My fingers go numb as I scream with pain and surprise, and the knife clatters to the floor.

From my wrist, he arcs the umbrella up, around, and down, cracking it into the tendons behind my left knee. My leg crumples under me and I go down, landing on my knees, cradling my right hand against my chest.

Then somehow he's behind me, the shaft of the umbrella gripped tightly in his fists and pressed so hard against my throat that I am fighting for breath, not quite strangling. With his bony hip braced against the back of my head, I know he could snap my neck right now with minimal effort. I let myself go limp, surrendering, as I rasp out, "Mycroft, please! I didn't think it was you!"

He releases me and steps to the side, but keeps the umbrella in a ready stance. "Why wouldn't you think it was me? You knew I was coming!" he says warily.

In response, I fling my left hand toward the clock on the wall. "You're fucking early! Really early! You're never early. And you were being so quiet..." I'm embarrassed to realize that I've got tears in my eyes.

He flips out his pocket watch and checks the time, brow furrowed in dismay. "My god, you're right. I'm twenty-one minutes early." He looks down at me, completely chagrined. "My deepest apologies, Angel." Mycroft hangs the umbrella over one arm and helps me back up to my feet. "I don't know how... I seem to have misjudged transit time, that never happens...frightfully distracted, I'm afraid..." He leads me over to the sofa, insisting that I sit down beside him so he can evaluate my wrist and knee.

Mycroft's manner is clinical, his touch on my wrist and leg light and impersonal as he completely regains his composure. "No obvious fractures. Make a fist...now flex, please...and extend..." I repossess my hand from his ministrations, and briskly wriggle and clench my fingers. It still hurts a bit, but even though I really hate pain, I take some pride in appearing tough about it. Besides, I don't want to make a fuss over this; it's as much my fault as his, and I'm feeling pretty foolish right now.

"I'm fine, Mycroft, see? You didn't hit that hard, just in all the right places." I nod at the umbrella, hoping to change the subject. "So that's not just for keeping the rain off after all. Any other tricks it can do?"

He looks down at the knobby handle curving over his arm, then back at me. "Tricks?"

"Is it, you know, weaponized or something? Does it fire bullets?" I ask, eyeing it and wondering if I was lucky to have not shot myself in the fanny that one night...

Mycroft scoffs as he rises from the sofa. "Weaponized. What for? It's already a weapon." Standing clear of me and the furniture, he runs through a stylized set of stick-fighting moves so quickly that the umbrella is a black blur, whooshing as it slices through the air. Then he's abruptly still, the whangee handle hanging casually from his arm once more. "Wielded with appropriate skill and force, anything can be a weapon, you know." His voice is soft and casual, but his eyes are hard. "Anything at all."

He's unsettling me a little, and I distract myself by jumping up and fetching the knife from the floor to put it away. "So, you mean I didn't have to come at you with a kitchen knife? I could've used the egg whisk?" I say lightly.

Mycroft puts the umbrella in the stand, and adjusts and smooths his light blue tie, studiously ignoring my attempt at banter. I duck into the kitchen to lay the knife by the sink and, smelling the heavy perfume of cut fruit, I can't resist nicking a sliver of juicy pear from the plate and popping it into my mouth, rolling the sweetness of it around on my tongue. God, that's good! I'll have to save the rest for later, though.

I pad back out and see that Mycroft is leaning, hands in pockets, against the wall beside the umbrella stand. He frowns at me, and peevishly asks, "Whatever possessed you to go skulking about with a knife like that, anyway?"

I look at the floor and shrug. I hate being scolded, especially when I know it's probably deserved. "I...well, it just seemed like a good idea at the time... my nerves are a little stretched, you know?" I tell him. "From being cooped up too long, and from - Hey, did Anthea tell you what happened Thursday night?"

He nods circumspectly. "Yes, she gave me a full report."

"Was it useful, what I found out? She didn't say if it was or not."

Mycroft takes in a long breath. Delaying. Letting it out. Delaying more. Finally, he says, "I don't want to encourage you in playing spy games. It's dangerous, and you are eventually going to get hurt, something I'd prefer to avoid."

I narrow my eyes at him. "So, it was useful intelligence, but you don't want to tell me so because it'll encourage me to do more?" Why doesn't he just lie to me, then, and say they already knew all that stuff, I wasted my time? Why admit it to me without admitting it?

In answer, he just raises his eyebrows, and my next retort is on my lips - but I ought to be on the clock, here. I'm supposed to be working, not demanding answers for my own satisfaction. Besides, there's more than one kind of satisfaction...

So I let it go, for now. "Okay, whatever. You're here, it's all good. We kind of got off on the wrong foot - maybe we should just do a reboot?" I wait for a few heartbeats, but he doesn't answer, he just regards me with kind of a remote expression. Hmm. I sway slowly toward him, and as I move deliberately into his personal space, Mycroft tilts his chin up further, an exaggerated show of confidence. He's also biting his tongue, though; anxious. Dilated pupils; desire. What a mixed bag of signals! No wonder he's just standing there. I think maybe I need to lead the dance today. Carefully.

Even a very domineering man like Mycroft sometimes needs the partner to lead - but it would be a mistake to automatically assume that he wants to be dominated. That may be the case sometimes for some people, but more often than not, he just needs to not have to take the initiative for a while. He wants to go with the flow, and it's up to me to provide a flow for him to go with.

I lean my palms against the wall on either side of his head, to show that I won't touch him without permission, and slowly move in for a light kiss, testing. He tilts his chin down slightly and yields to my lips, softening but not seeking. I draw back to look in his eyes for a moment, making sure that I'm on the right track. What I read there is both defensiveness and desire; he doesn't know what the hell he wants right now, does he? Well, then, I may as well head for what I want, and hopefully he'll sort himself out along the way.

I lean in until the whole length of my body is pressed against him, and gently work my lips on his. He's basically pinned against the wall by my body and my mouth, and after a bit I feel his hands emerge from his trouser pockets to glide along the curve of my hips, stroking the smooth fabric, and a bulge begins to grow firm against my groin. Yeah, Mr. Holmes likes satin quite a lot.

I open my mouth to let my tongue play lightly along his closed lips, then I feel them part slightly, an invitation that I gladly accept, my tongue moving to explore the contours of his - and then there is a loud noise from somewhere between the press of our bodies, a deep rumbling growl from somebody's tum, and it wasn't mine! I stifle a giggle, and keep on kissing deeply, subtly grinding against him, reveling in the feel of his desire for me rising...

And there is another, louder subterranean rumble, and this time I can actually feel the vibration of it against my own stomach. Good grief! It's so incongruous, I collapse against him, giggling madly. Sighing, he stoically waits for me to recover; he doesn't seem embarrassed, he just doesn't seem to think it's funny.

"Pears." Mycroft gravely accuses. "You taste of pears."

"Are you hungry, then?"

"Obviously. I had no time for breakfast, and no appetite for Sunday lunch at the Ritz. After seeing everyone off, the rest of the afternoon has been quite full-on."

I draw back slightly so I can look him full in the face. "Then go eat, you silly man! No wonder you're distracted, you probably have low blood-sugar." I move away a bit further, relinquishing my hold on him. "You're not going to be much use to me if you pass out in the middle of everything, you know. You could raid the kitchen, the cupboard certainly isn't bare..."

He wrinkles his nose. "I don't feel like cooking tonight."

"Well, I'd offer to make you something but -"

His eyes fly wide in alarm. "God, no!"

I burst out laughing at that. "Well, then, I'm sure you can locate a restaurant serving acceptable food out there somewhere. Go! I'll be here, another hour or two isn't going to make any difference to me." Well, actually, it does, more waiting is the last thing I want - but I'd rather wait a little longer for an excellent evening than to have a disappointing one right away. Low blood sugar can drastically affect male performance.

Then Mycroft does the completely unexpected; he blurts out, "Come with me."

Caught unawares, I hesitate, and he misreads my hesitation, his eyes flicking away from mine. "- or, perhaps you'd rather not. I've been told I'm a poor companion at the table..."

"I'll be the judge of that, thank you very much," I pronounce solemnly. "We're not exactly spoilt for choice on a Sunday evening, though. Do you have some place in mind?"

Still not looking at me, he nods and says absently, "I sometimes rather enjoy the Reading Room at Claridges..."

Figures! The upper end of the upper end; he doesn't half like his luxuries, doesn't he? I guess I should be flattered, since that includes me. The thought curves my lips in a wry grin, and I tell him, "Great! Me, too."

His eyes shift to my face and he frowns; at first I think that he doesn't believe that I frequent places like that, but then I realize that he's digesting the fact that if I've been there, it was likely with a client. "Very well, then," he says thoughtfully, "Very well." His hands are still resting on my hips, and he glides his fingertips around in small circles over the sleek satin. "This is a delicious frock, but hardly suitable, I'm afraid. You'll have to change."

"Not a problem. Give me, say, fifteen minutes?" He nods, and I bound away, taking the stairs two at a time. Woo-hoo! He's taking me out, and it's not to a damned morgue!

Claridges for an early Sunday dinner would call for something elegant but relaxed. I try on two or three outfits in quick succession, but everything is either too dressy or too revealing. I eye my new Sui, but it's not quite right - then I remember one of the nice things I found at the same shopping trip, a pale gold, swishy silk number that is very bare and strappy on top, but it came with a self-embroidered bolero that makes it considerably more demure. Yes, and yes. I look very casually elegant.

Suspenders and sheer stockings, then a quick check of the hair and makeup, both fine - okay, just a little more eyeliner, a little light lipstick - and I slip a wide cuff bracelet on my right wrist, to cover the red welt still rising there. I never would have believed that languorous Mycroft could move so fast! It was almost worth the whack on the wrist just to see it.

When I get downstairs, Mycroft is at the sitting-room window, speaking quietly on his mobile. I hang back where I am at the foot of the stairs and wait, giving him as much privacy as I can. That's a change! I can't help but laugh at myself. I'm still damned curious, but it's not overriding my manners so much any more. Besides, since we are going out, I might get to ask him a few questions, and he might be feeling genial enough to even furnish some answers.

When he's done with the call, I twirl around for inspection, and my outfit passes muster with a satisfied nod, although he still has to fuss until I am immaculate. I stand patiently, feeling more objet d'art than anything else.

Finally walking out of the flat and into the summer evening feels SO good! To tell the truth, I'm a little giddy with it, although I try to tone it down and not get silly. Some people find youthful high spirits charming, some find it annoying; I'm not sure yet which camp Mycroft falls into, although I suspect the latter. I feel like he's side-eyeing me curiously as we leave the flat, with me doing my best to stay quiet and refined and not bounce all over the place.

The car that comes to collect us is a black Mercedes, and I don't recognize the driver, so I reckon it's a commercial hire and not one of his staff. I'm good with that; I'd just as soon not have Anthea driving us around tonight. That would feel kind of awkward to me.

Mycroft hasn't said a word since he got off the phone back at the flat, but he's also not fidgeting at all - oops, make that hardly at all. He's absently twisting the heavy gold ring on his right hand around in a very subtle motion, a barely-perceptible slow rolling. He seems more thoughtful than twitchy.

It's a short drive to Mayfair, and we're walking in the door in almost no time. Art Deco is one of those things you either love or loathe, and personally, I love it; I think it's fun, all that glamour and lavish ornament. Claridges kind of distills the quintessence of Art Deco - everywhere you turn is glamourous and elegant and just so. I certainly didn't grow up around places like this, and it would be easy to get flustered by it, but at the end of the day, it's just a hotel - and I know hotels.

And this hotel knows Mycroft. The maitre d' bows and says, "This way, sir," before even opens his mouth, and leads us himself through the main restaurant, the Foyer, to reach the more secluded Reading Room. Even on a Sunday the Foyer is lively with a pianist playing light jazz for a small, but appreciative, crowd of diners; judging from the multilingual buzz, many of them are guests of the hotel.

On our trajectory I catch the glance of a familiar face; 'Mr. Jacobs,' the foodie who likes to lecture, looks up as we glide past and smiles at me in recognition, so I give him the requisite discreet smile and nod. I notice that the pretty brunette escort that shares his table wears a very familiar look of barely-concealed boredom. I feel for her. As poor a dinner companion as Mycroft might be, he can't be more tedious than Mr. Jacobs!

The Reading Room is like a very large alcove attached the the Foyer, and feels much more isolated than it actually is. Mycroft has arranged for us to have a little table in the quietest corner of this quiet dining room, seated on padded armchairs. There's no music over here, only the distant tinkle of the jazz piano from the main restaurant. The plush carpeting on the floor muffles the sounds of the servers' steps, and even the murmur of the other diners in here seems very far away. It's as quiet and secluded as you can get in a public restaurant, I think, and very posh and comfortable. Very Mycroft.

Once we are seated, I look around for a menu, but there are none to be seen; I point this out, and Mycroft tells me serenely that everything is already taken care of.

My impulse is to chide him for not even giving me a chance to look at the menu - he obviously ordered when he called in our reservation while I was getting dressed - but I restrain myself, remembering that this isn't really a date, this is a GFE, and he has every right to order what he wants to; although if I don't like it, I'm not gonna eat it.

He seems disinclined to talk, so I follow his cue and stay silent, although I could easily think of quite a few topics I'd like to get into. I'll wait until the wine comes and see if a little of that will help to make him more talkative, and amuse myself in the meantime with some people-watching. There are maybe six tables total over here, and three besides ours are occupied; one by a lone diner, one nearby us seats an older couple, and the banquette seating in the middle of the room has four Korean businessmen speaking quietly amongst themselves.

It's really interesting to notice the differences in body language between people of different cultures, and I'm surreptitiously studying the Koreans, when Mycroft quietly murmurs, "They're talking about the investment banker that they met with today, comparing notes...evaluating their chances of securing the loan they need... And," he continues, completely deadpan, "...one of them rather fancies the very beautiful, tall blond woman at the table in the corner...he's certain she is interested as well, because she keeps glancing over at him..."

I can feel my cheeks flush. "Stop teasing!"

He looks slightly affronted at the suggestion. "I assure you, that is a literal translation. You should learn Korean, it's not especially difficult."

"Nor especially easy." I avoid looking at the businessmen any further, and let my gaze stray out through the pillars separating us from the main restaurant.

"How many?" Mycroft murmurs, and I'm not sure if he's speaking to me or not.

I focus my gaze back on him. "I beg your pardon?"

"I mean," and his eyes sweep the dining room here, and the glimpses of the larger one beyond, "How many of the patrons here do you...know?"

Ah, he noticed the look that 'Mr. Jacobs' gave me. "Just the one," I lie with a little shrug - in the other room I saw two other men that I have been with at one time or another, but only Mr. Jacobs acknowledged me.

Mycroft twitches his lips into a fake smile and narrows his eyes; he knows I'm lying to him, but honestly, it's none of his business. I'm just about to point out to him that this is not a healthy line of enquiry when the sommelier arrives with the wine, and Mycroft becomes completely engaged in the process of the bottle being presented, opened, tasted, and evaluated. I can tell this is no mere formality; the sommelier's look of relief is genuine when Mycroft pronounces the bottle good.

The sommelier presents the bottle for my permission before he pours for me, and I grace him with a charming smile and present my glass. Whatever the hell it is, is fine with me. Wine appreciation was part of the etiquette course that the Agency put me through when I was hired, and I passed with adequate marks, but it's just not my passion. Mycroft, on the other hand, seems practically humming with pleasure as he savors his first sips.

After a few minutes of silent appreciation, he begins to wax lyrical about this vintage, giving me a lecture worthy of Mr. Jacobs on the climatic influences of 2002 on Bordeaux grapes in general and this cru in particular, and why it's such a bold choice as a pairing for the meal. Then he stops abruptly, with a slight frown. "This is irrelevant to you, isn't it?"

I smile into my wine as I take another sip. "Yep. I could care less. Although, it does taste very nice, and I'm glad that you're pleased with it." I set down the glass and tell him candidly, "Of course, I'm supposed to sit here and pretend mightily that I care, and you're supposed to pretend that you don't notice that I'm pretending, but I didn't think you'd mind skipping all that."

He contemplates the glass in his hand; it certainly is a very pretty colour, a glowing ruby red. "We are in agreement there, Angelica, I would prefer to discard such pretense. However," he appreciatively inhales the aroma of the wine, "It is a pity that you are unable to appreciate good wine; it's one of life's great pleasures."

Okay, I can't let that slide. "There's a fairly enormous difference between 'unable to' and 'doesn't care to,' Mycroft. The finer points of wine are no more interesting to me than the finer points of any other esoteric knowledge base, like... Afghan hound bloodlines or something silly like that. I could discern it if I cared to, but I don't."

Mycroft seems oddly intrigued by what I just said. He puts his wine glass down to lean forward, gazing at me across the table curiously. "Why did you bring up Afghan hounds?" he asks.

"It just popped into my head. I was searching for an example of something that some other people care quite a lot about, and I don't at all. Why? What's wrong with Afghan hounds?"

He takes up his glass again, lounging back into his padded armchair and giving me a speculative look. "Nothing. Nothing at all. What exposure have you had to them?"

"Dog shows." I reply promptly. "My auntie raised and showed bulldogs, and when Sara and I lived with her, we went to the big all-breed shows with her to help handle the dogs. I got to know all sorts, more than I ever wanted to. So, why is it remarkable that I would bring up Afghan hounds?"

He imperceptibly inclines his head. "Because the man and his wife sitting at the next table keep at least two of them."

I glance over at the elderly couple quietly finishing their meal. "Oh, you know them?" I ask Mycroft.

"No. I don't need to." He sips his wine, savoring it.

"So, you can tell just by looking at them that they keep a certain kind of dog?"

"And a great deal more that I'd rather not go into."

The waiter unobtrusively slides our starters in front of us then, and I am quite disappointed; it's a little foie gras terrine, with cherries in it, of all things. I'm sure it's amazing, if you like that sort of thing, but no matter how you dress it up I don't do liver. Mycroft is entranced, though, and smiles with pleased anticipation.

He savors the foie gras with the same blissful absorption that he did the wine, and I leave him to his enjoyment, nibbling some very nice, fresh, crusty bread as I side-eye the couple next to us. How can he tell just by looking at the people what kind of dogs they keep? There's nothing extraordinary about either of them; typical well-off oldies, the man is wearing a navy sport jacket and trousers; the woman, dark brown slacks and a frilly cream blouse, lots of gold jewelry, and a little too much makeup for her age. Her hair is also too dark; she should be having her colourist gradually lighten it out to grey...the poor woman is hanging onto middle-age with both hands, but it's slipping away from her...

"Look at their trouser legs," Mycroft murmurs. Oh! And there it is. Dog hair. Not a lot, but it's there, long strands of it.

I glance over at Mycroft, who gives me a little satisfied nod; I have the distinct feeling of being patted on the head. So, he noticed the traces of dog hair because he scrutinized them for it? That's fairly odd.

"So, do you notice everything," I ask him, "Or only pet hair?"

He leans forward and says emphatically, "Everything."

"Literally, everything?" I'm having a hard time believing that. He's probably exaggerating a bit.

"Everything, all the time. Literally." He has stopped eating, halfway through his terrine, and is focused intently on me. "It's a habit I formed very long ago...some habits become ingrained, when begun so young."

"It's kind of a strange habit."

Mycroft's eyes dart down, and he starts talking to the salt shaker. "It grew out of a technique my mother taught me, when I would become...distraught, to focus on the details of the surrounding environment, and to organize those details into patterns of logic. It helps to calm the mind, you see, much more grounding than working equations, although I think that Mummy eventually regretted teaching me to do deductions. Sherlock and I would..." Mycroft looks up from his conversation with the salt shaker and blinks. "You must be frightfully bored with all this." He picks up his fork and busies himself with his tiny dish of mashed liver.

I sip my wine thoughtfully and reach for another slice of excellent bread. "I'm not bored at all, actually. That's pretty awesome, that your mum was able to teach you self-management skills like that when you needed them."

Mycroft looks up at me, wineglass halted in mid-air. "My mother is an exceptional person," he says frankly. "Occasionally trying, but exceptional."

Impulsively, I tilt my wineglass across the little table and touch it lightly against his. "To Mrs. Holmes."

His eyebrows raised in surprise, Mycroft echoes my impromptu toast, then glances down at my untouched plate. "You haven't sampled your foie gras yet. You should, it's excellent here."

I shake my head. "No, thank you. I don't care to have any."

"Because it's inhumane?" He asks condescendingly.

"No, because it's liver. I don't like liver. You should've asked me."

He doesn't reply, but from his expression I gather that he thinks it's rather more my fault for not liking it than his for ordering it. I leave him to enjoy the rest of his nasty liver. I really do hope that the next course is something edible.

Afghan hounds. It's got to be a coincidence, that I brought them up. What else? It's not like I go around making deductions about people like he does...

"Most people see, but they do not observe." Mycroft comments as if he's read my thoughts, and dabs his lips with his serviette. "However, there are a few who observe because it's their nature, but without training the observations usually stay at the level of the subconscious, coming to attention only as 'hunches' or 'a gut feeling', or perhaps an odd impulse or stray word or reference-"

"-like my mentioning Afghan hounds...?"

"Yes." He pauses, lowers his voice even further. "You know things sometimes, don't you? You simply know, and can't explain why?"

I nod, not daring to look at him straight on. I don't hardly even admit this to myself, much less talk about it to other people. I have dim memories of it getting me into trouble.

He presses on, relentless. "The problem is, Angelica, that you've learned to doubt and deny your abilities. You are capable of far more than you think you are."

The waiter comes to clear the table for the next course, so I just stare at the crisp white linen tablecloth, feeling Mycroft looking at me. What is he seeing? For the first time I can recall, I'm not enjoying being looked at.

When the waiter is gone, I finally glance up into his eyes and ask quietly, "Is that why you like to...look, you know, at the beginning of a session? Because you're deducing things about the person?"

The question doesn't seem to embarrass him at all; I didn't think it would. "No, not really," he answers evenly. "I simply...appreciate beauty. It's an aesthetic experience I crave, but not one I can indulge without making special arrangements. It's not polite to stare, you know," he says with a wry look.

The waiters begin flitting around the table then like silent, smiling ghosts bringing food. The plates that they slide down in front of us have what look like grilled midget lobsters on them, with braised slices of fennel and apple.

"I trust that you eat shellfish?" Mycroft asks archly.

"Yes, I do." I pick up the long, slender fork provided and dig in, grateful that the tails are already split open.

Mycroft does likewise, warming up for a lecture "These are not common prawns," he informs me.

"I know. They're langoustine, or scampi, 'Nephrops norvegicus.'" Thank you, Mr. Jacobs! "I'm not a complete Philistine, you know." Mycroft just raises his eyebrows and doesn't answer that at all. Probably just as well.

We eat. Mycroft is once again nearly humming with obvious pleasure - his manners are impeccable, of course, whilst I am struggling to not dribble down my chin with the seasoned butter bathing the succulent scampi.

After a long, companionable silence, I decide to chance a personal question. Something he said earlier piqued my curiosity; the worst he can do is tell me to piss off, right? "Mycroft, forgive me if this is too personal, but why did your mum have to teach you self-management skills? Why were you distraught?"

It makes me feel kind of awkward when he doesn't answer; his silence seems to be politely indicating that I should piss off. After he has finished enjoying the entree, however, he fastidiously dabs his mouth and leans back, wineglass in hand, saying, "Because, Angelica, my brain simply doesn't slow down on it's own. Never has. Disciplined application of the faculties is my salvation. When that fails, sensory stimulation is a crude but effective means to slow things down to manageable levels."

That's certainly more of an answer than I anticipated, especially coming minutes after I asked the question - I have to pause and concentrate to take it all in. "So...your mind kind of races madly, unless you focus it on something engrossing?" He nods encouragingly, so I go on. "When that fails, sensory stimulation..." I glance down at the plate of empty shells on the table. "Right, food! And...music?" Again he nods. "And..." Here I have to laugh. "And me!"

Mycroft's lips curve in a smile as he inclines his head graciously. Damn, but that explains a lot. I mull it over as the waiters materialize again and clear for the next course, which turns out to be small platters of various smelly cheeses and some really delectable fruits, paired with a small glass of dessert wine. There's no Swiss, so I don't touch the cheese, but the sliced pear is every bit as good as the one that tempted me in the kitchen at home.

When the staff have once more vanished, I lean forward and ask Mycroft "Okay, the scientist in me has to know, does the sensory stimulation have to be pleasurable?"

A shadow passes over his face, and once again I'm sure he's not going to answer, but he does. "No. Actually, in some ways pain works better. But that is not a wise path," he says simply, and busies himself with his cheese. End of discussion.

I nibble at my fruit and watch some new diners being seated, mulling over what he's just revealed and trying to imagine what it might be to live inside that head of his - and I can't, I really can't. No wonder he's a little odd.

Mycroft interrupts my reverie with a question. "Since we are on personal topics, I trust you will forgive me for asking about your mother?"

"Sure, go ahead." I shrug.

"Tell me, please, how did she die?"

"She went to hospital." I toy with my little wineglass, watching the light shimmer through it. It's the same colour as my dress, very pretty.

"Yes, but why did she go to hospital? What happened?" he insists.

I shrug again, and shake my head. "I don't really know. They told me that there had been an accident. I was very young, only seven years old, so I don't remember much."

"Interesting," is his only comment, and he thoughtfully returns to his meal. I'm more than happy to let the subject drop, it's not really good dinner conversation.

Pausing for a sip of wine, Mycroft glances over at my platter and remarks, "You might at least try some."

I reach for another juicy grape. "Nope. I don't care for smelly cheeses, thank you."

He shakes his head with a sigh, "Carl Jung was quite right. 'In der Regel ist eine schöne Frau eine schrecklech Enttäuschung.'"

" 'As a rule, a beautiful woman is a terrible disappointment,' " I translate archly, reaching for my wine. "I suppose that would depend on what your expectations are, and his were obviously unrealistic. That's fairly common." Mycroft winces at my emphasis on the word 'common.' I swirl the golden stuff - it's probably a sauterne, but I don't really care what it's called, it's good - around in my glass and watch the 'legs' it makes as it runs down the inside. "People like to hang all sorts of things on physical beauty, don't they? All kinds of expectations. But looking like a heavenly creature doesn't mean you actually are one. At the end of the day, we're all just human beings, with just as many flaws as strengths, just as much animal as angel."

Mycroft gives me a thoughtful look. "Your occupation has certainly given you an unusually candid view of human nature."

I shake my head, "No, I started out that way; it's one of the reasons that escort work appealed to me."

Finished with his plate, he leans back comfortably with rest of his wine. "The other reasons no doubt having to do with an inclination toward indolence," he observes smugly.

"Indolence?" I'm kind of offended by that, but Mycroft chuckles at my indignation.

"I only recognize it because I share the same general inclination." He smiles and sips his wine.

"Still, that bothers me. You really think me indolent? That I work as an escort because I'm too lazy to do anything else?"

"If you would have me be brutally honest about it, yes."

I huff in disbelief; this is one of those things that really gets me going. I lean closer to him so I can lower my voice. "Well, let me be brutally honest with you, then. You have absolutely no idea whatsoever how much work it is to be everyone's fantasy. Do you think a body like this just happens by accident? Sure, the basic genetics are there, but I have to work out regularly to keep toned and cut, and I have to constantly watch what I eat. Grooming takes loads of time and money, to make sure that every inch of me is as perfect as I can get it, all the time. I have to study and memorize current events and news and social trends every single day, whether or not I'm interested, so that I'm prepared to provide interesting conversation.

"And all that's the background stuff, before I even meet with a client. When I'm on the job, I'm constantly 'on;' it's like doing improv theatre performances night after night, for an audience of one. And, here's the clincher: I make good money for my performances because I have extremely high market value right now, but the performance itself erodes that value." I lean back with a sigh, wondering if he'll get it - so few people do. "Even if they enjoy the work like I do, most escorts don't stay in it for more than a few years if they have a choice; the social and emotional costs are too high." I could say more, a lot more, but he's looking a little stunned, so I stop. "Sorry," I add in a small voice. "I guess this isn't a conversation that we should be having, is it?"

Mycroft shakes his head slowly. "Possibly not, although I've never been terribly good at gauging these things." He frowns, considering, and says quietly, "Angelica, if you feel you need more compensation-"

"No!" Oops, I didn't mean that to come out so loudly! "No." I repeat more quietly. "I didn't mean to insinuate that at all. I just get really defensive when people accuse me of being lazy! It really bothers me." I sigh, and bite my lip. "Of course, I have to admit that if there were no germ of truth in it at all, I probably wouldn't be offended." I look down at the starched white linen with a sinking feeling. "The fact that it really bothers me to be called lazy probably means that I really am lazy, doesn't it?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Damn."

I put my little wineglass back on the table even though it's not completely empty; after three glasses and not too much to eat, my head is getting a bit fuzzy. The waiters manifest to clear the table for the last time; they were probably watching for a lull in the intense conversation. Mycroft looks like he is rising to leave, so I gather my evening bag and make ready to follow, but he holds up a hand.

"Wait here, please, I need to speak with the concierge for a moment."

"How about I visit the ladies' room while you visit the concierge? I'll meet you in the lobby." He gives me a brusque nod, and away we both go. Standing up, I realize that I am even more buzzed than I thought, but I manage to not wobble or trip as I navigate to the loos.

The facilities are as ridiculously lavish as the rest of the hotel, which I thoroughly enjoy, and primping in front of the huge, gilded mirror makes me feel like a movie star. I automatically start to freshen my lipstick, but decide to tap on a little clear gloss instead; if I have my way, we are headed for an intense snog session, and lipstick just makes a mess. I give myself one last admiring look in the mirror, feeling like a tawny lioness. Rawr!

The lobby isn't exactly thronging, and it's easy to spot my companion across the black-and-white marble expanse. Mycroft is speaking with a short, round man in a dapper tux with a gleaming gold name-plate on his lapel; the concierge's dark face flashes with a bright smile as he sees me approach, and bows in my direction and to Mycroft before withdrawing.

Mycroft turns and offers me his arm, which I take with a broad smile, saying, "Let's go!" I'm trying to not dance with happy anticipation, but it's difficult.

His lips quirk slightly as he shakes his head. Instead of leading me to the desk to claim my wrap and his umbrella, Mycroft escorts me across the lobby to one of the hotel's two lifts, and pushes the call button. I look at him in surprise. "The flat is less than ten minutes away," I murmur. "Are you sure?"

"I am sure," he answers, and flips his pocket watch out to glance at the time, nodding. I feel a weird prickle go up my back, but I'm more concerned at the moment with whether or not I've remembered to restock the supply of condoms in the inner pocket of my evening bag. The escort's first rule is, Be Prepared, and I usually am, but I left in such a fluster tonight that I don't remember checking. Damn. I hope he's prepared; maybe that's what he had to see the concierge about? Then the lift bell dings, and the prickle goes from my spine all the way up my scalp. God, I hate lifts; why aren't we taking the stairs?