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? ;)

25. Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-five: "I myself am made entirely of flaws, stitched together with good intentions." ~ Augusten Burroughs

Sara just isn't getting it, and I'm losing patience with her. "I don't see what you are so excited about, I really don't," she tells me. "I mean, honestly, what's the difference?" There is a sudden, weird hissing noise, like static or something.

"What the hell is that?" I shift the phone over to my other ear.

"Oh! Sorry for the racket, I just tossed some rashers into the pan," she says loudly, but it's still kind of hard to hear her over the noise. "Richard likes a bacon sandwich in the morning, and it's my turn to do breakfast."

I look at the remains of my own breakfast on the room-service tray; just a short while ago, I completely demolished a huge veg omelette and an entire rack of toast before my tea was even cooled enough to drink. My stomach is currently somewhere between full and painfully full, but at least I'm not tempted to eat the floral arrangement on the little table anymore. I put my bare feet up on the window ledge and ruffle my still-damp hair; I probably should have waited until later to call Sara, but I was so chuffed that I had to tell someone right away. It's not working out how I thought, though.

I try again. "It's like when you are first dating a bloke, right? And at some point you hear him talking to his mates, and he calls you his girlfriend, it's like that. You realize that you've moved up from just being someone he's seeing, to being his girlfriend. It means something."

There is a long pause, filled only with the hissing bacon-static. "I thought you didn't fancy him. I thought that this was just a JOB, not a relationship. You weren't involved. What happened?"

Oh, god, I give up. "Never mind, you're really not going to get it. It's fine. Just try to be happy for me, okay?"

Sara sighs. "I can't see how it's a good situation, Angelica! How am I supposed to be happy for you?" I hear the whistle of her teakettle, and I know the clatter I hear is from the mugs, as she grabs two in one hand from the hanging pegs and sets them on the counter.

"Can we drop it?" I ask her.

"Okay, okay, okay. Well, then, what was the other thing you were all excited about? You said there were two really big things you had to share."

Now I don't want to tell her, but I kind of have to. "Yeah, well, I recovered some of my memory last night. Of mum. Of what happened. It's come back."

Now there is a very long pause, and the bacon-static slowly dies out into silence as if she's turned off the cooker. "That's...that's incredible. I never...we never thought you would, the doctors said probably never... Wow." Another pause. "Are you all right? How are you doing?"

"I'm...surprisingly okay. I still feel a little strange, a little unreal, you know? And I keep having weird flashes of memory, random stuff..." I don't mention the panic attack in the little shower cubicle this morning; that was a bad moment until I could remember how to unlatch the door. "But I feel great, really! It was very cathartic."

"What happened? How did your memory come back?"

"Mycroft helped me."

"Really? Helped you, how?"

I hear the rashers start sizzling again, but muffled, like she's put a lid on the pan. "He took me up in the lift here, and forced me to talk-"

"He what? He forced you to talk about it?"

"He just wouldn't let me out until I did, that's all." Mentioning that he deliberately pushed me into a panic attack would just muddy the waters.

"Wouldn't let you out...So he trapped you in a lift?" She sounds incredulous. "My god, didn't you go ballistic?"

"Yeah, I kind of lost it. It was hard on both of us..."

"I should think. At least one idiot psychiatrist still has the scars from trying that on you." The sizzling gets louder as she turns the rashers, then the lid clangs and the noise dies down again. "So, let me be sure I understand. You asked him to help you recover memories you didn't know were missing, and he decided that the way to do it was to keep you in a lift and let you freak out until you remembered?"

"I didn't exactly ask him to do it, but-"

"Oh, so the bloke decided on his own that you need to be trapped in a lift and re-traumatized? Lovely. Just lovely."

I cannot believe what a pill she is being. "Sara, he did it for my own good. It was rough, really rough, but it was necessary!"

"Who decided it was necessary? It couldn't have been you!"

I exhale a long, angry breath. "You just don't understand. People have different ways of showing that they care, and Mycroft-"

"For fuck's sake, will you listen to yourself!" I feel a little bit of a shock; Sara rarely shouts like that. "He shouldn't be doing things like that! That isn't normal! Normal people don't do things like that, no matter how much they care-"

"Normal! You keep blathering about normal. Maybe I don't want normal."

"There's nothing wrong with normal, Angelica." I hear the clink of plates on the counter.

"There's nothing wrong with extraordinary, either," I retort.

"Extraordinary, or just plain mad?"

I'm not even going to answer that. The silence stretches out, and I'm considering hanging up.

Finally, she sighs. "Geli, can you please please please just listen to me?"

"I'm listening." It's hard not to sound sullen, I know there's a lecture coming.

"This isn't just a job, not anymore, and you need to own up to that. Even worse, you let this man get away with all kinds of things, and then you make excuses for him. Geli, I've seen you stick by some tossers who didn't deserve it, but I've never seen you let anyone mistreat you, not ever. It's just not like you!"

I feel tears sting my eyes. "Yes, this IS like me, Sara! Maybe it's not like how you want me to be, but it's still me!" I draw a quivering breath to go on, but she interrupts gently.

"Okay, so maybe it's simply a side of you I never saw before, and things are really just fine. But could you consider that, at the very least, this bloke is a lot older and more powerful than you, and he didn't get where he is by being a sweetie pie? And will you please not dismiss the idea that he could be totally playing you for his own reasons, and throwing you a bone every now and then to keep you coming back for more?"

Whatever. "What do you mean, a bone?"

"Oh, for instance, this morning calling you his girlfriend-"

"Mistress."

"Whatever. I only want you to consider the idea, okay? I don't even want to discuss it, I don't want to argue with you and make you more defensive than you already are. Just...keep it in mind as a possibility, okay?"

"Yes, sir. I shall be utterly vigilant in observing myself for signs of Stockholm Syndrome, and report immediately should I suspect same. Sir," I say stiffly.

She sighs deeply, then says, "Hold on a minute," to me, then speaks in a low voice to somebody else. Richard must be up. I hear the clatter of silverware, then Sara is back. "Angelica, I want you to hang out with me today, okay? I don't think you should be alone. I'll take an emergency leave day, the other staff can cover my appointments. We'll do something fun, all right?"

I consider the idea for a minute. It would be nice to see her, but she's obviously going to spend the entire day either lecturing me, or wanting to.

"Not today, Sara, I have work to do." That's one excuse that she'll almost always buy.

We wrangle back and forth for a while about it, but in the end she relents, as long as I agree to contact her if things get bad for me, and that we'll get together on her next day off, whenever that is. As we say our see-you-laters and hang up, I feel wistful and sad, and then a little angry. Why does she have to be so bloody blinkered, so determined that she's right and I'm wrong?

I check the time. It's still not even eight o'clock! I'm not used to being conscious at such an ungodly hour. Mycroft said the car would be here to pick me up at half past ten. More than two hours to kill. Damn. I am wired with nervous energy, and pace around the little room, the light beige carpet soft and plush under my bare feet, pale in the early morning light.

I stop in front of the mirror that Mycroft used this morning, and pull aside the fluffy white toweling robe to look at my shoulder; it feels sore. Damned if I don't have more bruises coming up, this time just behind my collarbone where he dug those long fingers in to immobilize me. I gingerly press the area, and shrug my shoulder around, wincing a little. That man is harder on me than anyone I've ever...

I've never seen you let anyone mistreat you, not ever. I feel an unaccustomed stab of doubt. What if she's right? What if I really am slipping into some pathetic battered woman scenario? I don't feel like I am, but do you necessarily know? He could be playing you... Maybe it's only people on the outside that can tell, maybe I'm too far gone to see...

One thing is for sure, he doesn't stop. When I've said No, the few times that I have, he hasn't even seemed to hear me. I said, No, I'm not getting in the car, and he had me chased across London. I told him, No, don't shave me, and he went on his merry way with that straight razor. In the lift last night, I told him, No, let me out of here, and he pinned me tighter. He's not sadistic - I saw his face, I saw the distaste in there along with the grim determination, I know he wasn't enjoying himself - but it doesn't seem to matter to him one bit if I'm distressed or not, so long as he accomplishes his objective. He seems so arrogant, so sure that he's right.

And yet...and yet...while I'm not happy about any of that, I'm not really upset. Shouldn't I be upset? Shouldn't I be outraged? Sara is, on my behalf, and she doesn't even know the half of it. I think that Steen would be as well, he was always lecturing me about boundaries. I can think of half a dozen friends and acquaintances that would probably be appalled at Mycroft. Yet, truth be told, I'm not appalled. I'm not even put out. Why is that? Suddenly, it matters very much to me to know why.

I know why; I know, but I don't want to know. Leaning forward into the mirror, I look myself in the eye, and force myself to face myself. I'm not upset because I can't afford to be. I'm not outraged because if it showed, he might not want me anymore. Tears fill my eyes as I realize there is a great, jagged hole in the middle of me, and I'm trying to fit him in to fill it, and I'm terrified that he won't.

Name the hole, Angelica: It's called approval. It's called acceptance. It's called self-worth. If he sees me as valuable, then I have value. If not, then I'm nothing - and I'll do anything, endure anything, to not be nothing again.

I lean my hands on the nightstand, resting my forehead against the cool reality of the mirror, excruciatingly suspended in the pain of how much I have been willing to betray myself. I don't know how long I hang there, tears burning my cheeks, but eventually I surface, done with it. One thing I've always been good at is feeling the pain, and moving on. I don't wallow.

Right, so that's how it has been; now it's going to be different. Nobody, not even Mycroft - maybe, especially not Mycroft - can fill that hole in me. Yeah, okay, I know the scenario, I know my own story; Mummy died, Daddy became emotionally distant, and I internalized that into a wound to my self-worth. Boo-hoo. But I'm not a child anymore; at some point I have to fill in the missing bits for myself, and not be constantly looking to someone else to fill it. The alternative is to spend my life as an approval-junkie, always looking for the next self-worth fix, betraying and hating myself over and over.

So, do I break it off with Mycroft, then? Just get off the sauce, go cold turkey? I really don't want to. I really do like him, and since we seem to be subtly re-negotiating the terms of our agreement, then there's hope that he'll be willing to approach me differently as well. No more punishment for triggering his jealousy, damn it. No more restraints during sex - unless I want to, because it's fun sometimes.

If I'm no longer just a warm body on hire, if I'm his mistress, and he's my...whatever it is that mistresses have, then there is some kind of mutual obligation there, some consideration that both of us have beyond the exchange of money for value. I've always had the right to walk away if I didn't like the situation; now, I think, I have the right to change the situation if I don't like it. And, then walk away if it doesn't change...

Drying my face on the sleeve of my robe, I straighten up to look in the mirror once again. The face looking back at me is like my mother's, yet completely different. Her eyes were soft, warm and earthy-brown. Mine are clear and boundless as a summer sky. Eyes that could fly, given half a chance.

I look down at the nightstand under the mirror, searching, and find Mycroft's holey coin is still there. I'm not sure if he meant for me to keep it, or just wanted to be rid of a reminder of failure, but I guess it's mine now. I hold it to my eye and look around the room through the hole, wondering what the failure was, why Mycroft considered the coin a rebuke. It has to do with a bullet, since that hole is the most obvious thing about the coin..Sherlock got shot... Maybe Mycroft failed to protect his brother from the shooter? Sherlock said the coin was a reminder that neither of them is infallible, so that means they both blew it. Only human, after all.

The room doesn't look any different through the bullet hole; no lurking fairies. Too bad. I dig out my keys, and find a ring that I can slip through the bullet hole, adding the worn-shiny 50p to the flotsam and jetsam of fobs already dangling there. I have a small fistful of keys, although only the ones for the Knightsbridge flat and Sara's place are actually current; the rest are keys to places that used to be important to me. I like to hang onto keys, because you can never tell when you might need to go back.

My phone rings, and it's Sara again. I hesitate picking it up; I don't want to argue with her about getting together today, and I'm feeling too raw to talk about Mycroft any more. But, just before the last bloop of my ringtone, I impulsively answer it anyway.

"Hey." I hear traffic in the background, and general car-noise, so she's on her way to work. "You better not be driving and using your mobile!" I admonish.

"Don't be silly, Richard's driving, of course...Listen, Angelica, I've got some great news for you!" Sara's voice is sparkling with excitement. "At the dinner Thursday, you made a real impression with some important people! One of them just phoned me, trying to get hold of you."

"Oh? Who is it?" I feel a flutter of anxiety.

"It was the bloke who gave the awards for the Wildlife Fund's fairy penguin project, that nice Mr. Cobb! His wife is on the board, you know, and he's apparently quite important, too - he runs some kind of financial consulting firm or bank or something. He just now called me, himself! He's very keen to meet with you."

My mouth has gone very dry, and my omelette is heaving around with the buttered toast. "Why does he want to meet with me? I'm not available, Sara, I'm on a contract right now!"

"God, no! Not for...for THAT kind of meeting! I certainly hope he doesn't know anything about THAT. No, he's looking for a new personal assistant, and he thinks you'd be perfect! Okay, let's be honest, he'd be hiring you on your looks at first, but then you could impress him with your brains, right?"

Oh, this is so not good. "How did he know to phone you?"

"I'm one of the project coordinators for the Fund, so Mrs. Cobb knows me, of course, from all the meetings. I imagine he saw you sitting with us and asked around. He's a real gentleman, Angelica, a very nice man, and very successful. This could be your lucky break!"

"Wow, maybe so," I say, trying to feign enthusiasm. "So, what did you tell him about me?"

"Just the basics, you know, general stuff - but nothing about your current living situation! I'll leave that for you to figure out. I did give him your phone number, though, so I reckon he'll be ringing you today. He seemed very keen!"

Oh, probably very keen indeed. I get off the phone as quickly as I can, and flop face-down on the bed to think. Oh, buggerbuggerbugger.

Maybe this is a coincidence, maybe Cobb really did just notice me and decide I would make a decorative PA. It could happen. Except, I know I'm being incredibly naive even thinking that. Those thugs that Anthea dealt with in that dark, narrow alley weren't random muggers, they worked for someone, and I can't imagine who it would be if not Cobb. They must have given enough of a description of me for him to remember seeing me at the dinner.

A very nice man, a real gentleman. Eeewww. Sara just proved she's no judge of character! I roll over to gaze at the ceiling. I could use this as a way to get to Cobb, get some useful information out of him about the Torch codebook, and the escort murders - god, I'd love to help bring him down, he so deserves it! But like D.I. Lestrade pointed out, you can't go after someone without solid proof, especially a high-profile someone like Cobb. If I only could get him to admit to the murders, or find some kind of evidence - he had to have hired the hits, no way someone like him does his own killing. Maybe I could find out the name of his hit-man.

Or, more likely, I could get myself killed. He knows who I am. He knows my phone number. God help her, he knows who my sister is. The rest of my info is still locked down by Mycroft, thank goodness, but even so, I may as well be wearing a bulls-eye in the middle of my forehead. I shiver, remembering the descriptions of how Calypso, Tanya, and Regina were shot in the face at close range. Cobb's hit-man must be bold as brass, and cold as ice. For the first time, I'm really grateful for Mycroft's security detail on me.

I don't think Cobb is going to just give up if I avoid him; he knows I was spying. He's not going to believe I'm innocent, why would he? There's no reasonable explanation for what I was doing except that I was trying to spy on somebody. Either I "confess" to working for Doreshchenko and McCutcheon, or I "confess" to working for somebody else...but not Mycroft, of course. I'm going to have to come up with something, and face this human rubbish heap sooner rather than later. Ick.

A wave of revulsion ripples through me, and I jump up from the bed to keep from jumping out of my skin; but that turns out to be a bad idea. The sudden change in elevation mimics that little touch of light-headedness you get when a lift goes quickly up, and the next thing I know I am hyperventilating and fighting to stay on top of a panic attack. I sit on the bed and grab a pillow to bury my face into, knowing that the carbon dioxide buildup will slow my breathing down; paper bags are the best for that, but you have to use what's close to hand.

It doesn't take too long to get myself back in control, but it's scary as hell to go off like that unexpectedly. I used to over-react to stresses and hyperventilate occasionally, but full-blown attacks happened only if I actually got into a lift. Not any more, apparently.

I toss the pillow back onto the bed and grab up my phone. I really want to get out of here now, and back to my flat, back to familiar surroundings. I text Mycroft, Ready to leave now, pls send car sooner? If not, I'll get taxi, and start looking for my clothes, which have mysteriously disappeared from the heap I left them in on the floor last night.

I am completely unsurprised to open the closet and find everything tidily stowed in there; Mycroft hung everything at some point last night, lining my shoes up neatly underneath. I know he did it because he hates a mess, not because he wanted to please me, but it still makes me smile - and I do appreciate that the dress isn't wrinkled.

He texts me back before I'm completely dressed, Fifteen minutes. MH

Good. Just enough time to fix my hair and dash on a little makeup, and I'm out the door. There's a young man wearing the hotel's uniform and a cheerful smile waiting in the hallway; he bows at me as I come out and says, "This way please, miss," and he leads me, I presume, towards the stairs. It better be the stairs, because no way in hell I am getting into a lift right now!

The door to the emergency-exit stair is located directly across from the two lifts, and that is an unexpected problem. A big one. Once I catch sight of the lift doors up ahead, I stop dead in my tracks and cannot budge an inch closer. My legs stop working, and I can only stare mulishly at the lifts. "No," I blurt out. "No."

No fear, no heart-pounding panic attack, only the utter inability to advance even one step more. I am a pretty strong-willed person; at least, I've never thought of myself as weak, but there is nothing I can do to force myself to approach the emergency stairs, because the lifts are too close by. Oh, Mycroft, what have you done to me?

The page or porter or whatever he is at my side appears to be completely unflappable. He merely nods, "As you say, miss," and pulls out his mobile to discreetly send a quick text, then gently steers me back the way we came, remarking casually, "There is another set of stairs, miss, that will be more acceptable. They open out into the maintenance and service areas, but I can still easily guide you back to the main lobby. This way, please."

'More acceptable' means that the stairs are nowhere near any lifts. My guide and I do end up in the typical warren of dingy hotel back-corridors and service areas, but it's not long before we emerge into the sparkle and elegance of the main lobby. The concierge hurries over when he catches sight of me, his dark face creased with concern. He dismisses the young man with wave of his hand, quietly asking if I am well, and he returns my smile with a brilliant one of his own when I assure him that I am just fine, thank you. He escorts me to the main entrance, nodding aside the doorman to open the heavy door for me himself.

I start to feel a bit like a parcel being handed off from one runner to the next when a bloke in chauffeur uniform comes bounding over to see me to the waiting car. Before I go with him, I reach into my handbag for a proper gratuity for the extra help, but the concierge waves a preemptive hand at me. "No, no, that won't be necessary." I suppose Mycroft has already made sure it's worth their while; he wouldn't neglect a detail like that.

The concierge waits to see me seated in the hired car, and I note that he doesn't withdraw back inside the hotel until my driver has pulled out into traffic and we are safely on our way. I have to shake my head; I appreciate excellent service and coddling as much as the next person, but really, this is over the top. I know that Mycroft arranged it this way, but really... I sigh and lean back on the pale leather seat.

The driver pokes along like there is fragile and precious cargo in the back seat, taking the roundabouts slowly and peering at me in the rear mirror frequently, as if one wrong move could cause me to shatter or something. I wonder if he's surprised when we make it to the flat without any breakage happening.

He opens the door for me when we arrive, and shadows me so closely for the six steps it takes to get to the door that I get a little nervous; it's a relief when I close the blue door behind me. I am so happy to get back inside that tiny little flat! It feels like a cozy nest, and I kick off my shoes and flop down on the sofa to just soak that in.

I jump a little when a melodious klaxon goes off in my handbag; it's my mobile. All my trepidation about Cobb hits me full force as I pull out the phone and fumble it around to look at the screen - and I breathe a sigh of relief when I see a familiar number there.

"Hey." I am so glad that it's Mycroft! I honestly wasn't ready to deal with Cobb yet.

"Angel. How are you?"

"I'm well, thanks. Just fine." I feel reluctant to admit my various freak-outs this morning. "Yeah, I feel good."

"Despite the escalation of your anxiety into full-blown phobia?" he asks dryly.

Of course the concierge would've told him. "I do seem to have a real, live phobia now, don't I? There's probably even a special name for it."

"Surprisingly, there's no specific diagnostic name for fear of lifts, even though it's fairly common. More often related to generalized claustrophobia or anxiety disorders than direct trauma, however." Well, he certainly seems to have done his homework; I guess I should have expected that. "The problem ought to rapidly diminish as you re-integrate your memories."

"I sure hope so."

"It will," he states firmly. "You are highly resilient. Have you had any other unusual reactions this morning?"

I hesitate for a moment, but realize that's an admission in itself, so I go ahead and tell him about the panic attack in the shower, and the hyperventilation episode - although I blame that on the stress of a spat with my sister, not on the prospect of crossing swords with a slimeball. I'm not ready to tell him about Cobb contacting Sara yet.

"You'd do well to remain in familiar surroundings today and avoid further stress, Angel. I want you to stay indoors -"

"No! I've had enough of indoors. I'm going to go for a long run in the park, and I might treat myself to a nice luncheon out somewhere later on."

He doesn't reply; I think I'm supposed to hear disapproval or something in his silence, but, whatever. I wait it out, and finally he answers with a despairing sigh, "As you like. Have you noticed any improvements in your mood or mental state?"

"Yes; I have to admit that both seem really improved, overall. I really do feel...lighter. And more focused."

His response is smug. "Of course, that is exactly as I predicted. I told you that you would thank me."

"Yeah, about that...Mycroft?"

"What?"

"This may have had a good result, overall, but it doesn't make it okay that you did it."

"If it had the desired result, do the particulars really matter so much?"

"Yes. Yes, they do. The end may justify the means all the time in politics, Mycroft, but never in personal relationships. That's different."

He's quiet for a moment, and I can tell it's a thinking-quiet, not a manipulative one. "I don't really see the difference."

"Will you just take it as a given that there is? At least, there definitely is with me."

"You're niggling about a very fine distinction, Angelica. It seems pointless."

"No, it's not pointless," I'm getting upset, so I lower my voice to keep from getting shrill. "It matters to me, therefore it's not pointless. What you did to me in the lift was... unacceptable, despite the outcome. There were other options that could have achieved the same thing."

"That was the most efficient, and had the highest probability of success."

"And carried the most risk, but you decided for me that it was an acceptable risk, didn't you?" I pause for a moment, but he is silent. "And that's the bit I object to the most. It was a decision that affected me far more than it did you, but you didn't allow me to have any part in making it! That is NOT okay, damn it!" Finally, I feel outrage burning in my eyes and choking up my throat with hot tears. I swallow, willing myself to calmness. I don't think Mycroft would respond well to hysteria; few people do.

He sighs, sounding very put upon, and comments, as if to himself, "You'd think I would learn by now to take my own advice."

It reminds me of one of my favorite books, and I half-smile. "You're like Alice, then. You give yourself very good advice, and very seldom follow it?"

"Something like that. So, Angel," he sounds all business-like now, for some reason. "What do you want from me, then?" He waits, expectantly.

"What do I want?"

"Yes. What are your demands?"

I can't help it, I laugh out loud at that. "I'm not a hostile foreign nation, Mycroft -"

"Aren't you?" he drawls.

"No, I'm not!" The idea is still amusing to me. "Listen, I'm not demanding anything, this is not a hostile negotiation. However, I do have a simple request: Please don't do shit like what you did in the lift anymore, okay?"

There is a long silence. I can't tell if we are waiting each other out or not, or if he's buffing his nails or calculating his next move, or maybe all of the above.

Finally, he answers. "As you like."

He doesn't say any more, and after a moment I blurt into the silence, "Do you know yet what time you'll be stopping by tonight?" And I immediately kick myself for being pathetic and worrying if he still wants to come and see me; and then I consciously forgive myself, because you don't change the habits of a lifetime in a single afternoon.

"Well, I had thought, perhaps, around half past seven, if you would find that acceptable. Should I wait for you to decide and get back to me?" Snarkity-snark-snark-snark. I guess he doesn't care much for the shift in power dynamic.

"Half past seven would be great - and I don't believe we need to re-negotiate the two-hour notice thing." I sigh, and decide to risk kicking the conversation up a notch. "And you're snarking because you're angry with me for being angry at you, when all you were trying to do was help me. I want you to know, I really do appreciate what you did, Mycroft. I really am happy to have all my memories back, even if some of them hurt. I just really wish you had gone about it differently."

"There are very few people I would have troubled to do that for," he says quietly.

"I gathered that, and I'm amazed to be one of them." I'm glad we're having this conversation on the phone; I'd be embarrassed for him to see how hard I'm crying. "How's your arm?"

"A bit stiff," he admits ruefully. "Lacking the resilience of youth, it will take some time to heal, but fortunately it's on the left, which I use less. Although my piano practice will suffer."

"I thought you weren't musical?"

"That doesn't mean I don't practice," he admonishes.

"Of course." One surprise after another.

"Now, as I said, you may expect me around half past seven, circumstances permitting, of course. I shall text you with the precise time; I shouldn't dare be anything but punctual," he adds slyly.

"No, you shouldn't," I laugh. "Have an excellent day, Mycroft."

"And you, Angel. And you." I wonder if the warmth in his voice surprises him as much as it does me?

After I wipe my eyes and dry my face - again! - I stay curled upon the sofa with my phone, scrolling idly through my emails, and avoid thinking about Mycroft by thinking about how the hell I'm going to handle Cobb. I've decided that I won't take his call until I'm good and ready to; just because the phone rings, doesn't mean you have to answer it.

I'm startled out of my thoughts by the door bell; I freeze for a moment, blankly wondering what to do. The bell chimes again, and there is a knock. Well, answer it, noodle-brain, I tell myself - or at least see who it is before you decide to panic.

When I peer out through the peephole, I get a shock; it's the cleaners! Argh! How could I have forgotten that it's Monday? I let them in, and hastily run upstairs to strip off my dress and stockings and throw on my running gear. Not even bothering with a warm-up or stretch, I slip by the two women as they are dragging their kit into the flat, and take off for the park.

It's overcast but very warm today; probably going to rain at some point, of course, just before turning cold and nasty. Well, Mum used to say that everyone complains about the weather, but nobody ever seems to do anything about it, do they? It makes me laugh out loud with pleasure to clearly remember her saying that. Now I know for a fact where I got my weird sense of humor.

The chess-playing drug-dealers seem to be doing a brisk business today, and I give them a wave and a friendly Hullo! as I fly past; they look up with matching frowns. The endorphins from exercise, the "runner's high," are kicking in quickly today, and I feel incredibly good; then I remember that I haven't even really been outside since Thursday. No wonder I feel like a bird skimming along above the ground!

I let my mind be lulled by the rhythm of my feet into a light trance; like a lot of people, I do some of my best thinking on a run. So, what do I say to Cobb? What's the most effective story to spin?

The best lie is the one closest to the truth, so why not give him a version of it? On Thursday night, when he saw me, I really was just using a booth to call my boyfriend, and I was surprised when I saw McCutcheon come out of the lift. I followed McCutcheon down to the marina to see what he was up to. Doreshchenko and McCutcheon have been trying to recruit me to work for them, but I'm suspicious of them. I think they might have something to do with the murders of those prostitutes last month, the three women and the rent-boy. I'm equal parts fearful and greedy, and none too bright. Above all, I have no idea what the Torch is, or anything about a code-book; I reckon mentioning that would get me killed faster than anything! And, of course, I have never even heard of Mycroft Holmes.

That all sounds pretty good. Plausible. So, what do I do if Cobb actually offers me a job, besides try not to be sick? I could try to string him along. It worked for Doreshchenko, who seems to have forgotten about me for now - although maybe that's because Lestrade was able to use my information to give dear Sacha something else to worry about.

Working for Cobb would put me in a great position to spy on him - as well as making it easy for him to make me disappear. That needs some more thought. I park myself on an empty bench for a quick breather, as the close heat is starting to get to me, and take a few pulls on my water bottle. Just for fun, I look around to see if I have a security detail following today; I've gotten so used to the idea, that even if I don't see them, I assume they're there. Today of all days, you'd think I would have followers, but I don't see any. I wonder how Mycroft justifies assigning security to me - or, if he has to justify anything to anybody?

By the time I'm done with my run and back to the flat, the cleaning crew have blessedly come and gone, and I know exactly how I am going to handle Mr. Cobb. I'm also covered with a sticky layer of sweat and grime, so I shower and change into a breezy chintz dress and flat sandals. I plan on taking a nice walk to a wonderful Thai restaurant not five minutes away, and then a quick expedition through Harrods if I have the stamina for it.

I haven't got to the end of the lane before Cobb rings me. I honestly know it's him before I even answer the phone; I just know. And now that I've had time to prepare myself, I don't even flinch when I hear him ask for Angelica Talbot. I barely give Cobb time to introduce himself before I execute my plan of attack.

"Oh, Mr. Cobb, my sister told me you were looking for me!" I breathe in my patented Breathless Sex Kitten voice, leaning against a handy stucco wall. "I'm SO glad you phoned me, you must think I'm a complete IDIOT for how I behaved on Thursday night! I'm SO embarrassed, I could just DIE!"

Cobb tries to get a word in edgewise, but Sex Kitten steamrolls right over him. "I mean, just because I'm paranoid about what Mr. McCutcheon is up to, that's just NO excuse to go lurking in the bushes like some...some SPY or something, is it, I was SO ashamed of myself when your nice men caught me at it, and then my boyfriend had to go overboard and get violent with them, well, you can imagine how embarrassed I was, so we ran off, but I thought about it later, and I just felt SO BAD about it, I would really love to apologize in person for my terrible manners! Could we meet someplace? To talk?"

Cobb stutters around for a only moment, but I can tell I've totally confused him; he probably had a script all rehearsed to weasel me into talking to him, never expecting that he would be out-weaseled one minute into the conversation. "Miss Talbot, I would love to meet with you for a chat!" He's recovering pretty quickly. "Where may I send my car to pick you up?" Oh, he's good! In that one little phrase, he's angling to get my address, letting me know that he's rich because he can afford a private car and driver, and, he's taking control of where we meet. Nice try, but no cigar, sir.

"Well, I'm shopping in Knightsbridge at the moment, and just on my way to have a nibble at Patara; if you're free, and you like Thai food, why don't you join me?"

"I'd rather take you someplace more special, and private, Miss Talbot. Please, let me pick you up."

Sex Kitten giggles and flirts. "Oh, dear, special and private? Are you asking me out on a date or something, Mr. Cobb?"

"I...ah...well," I can almost hear the gears spinning in his poor head, trying to catch up. There's no way he can answer that and win. "Perhaps, yes, who wouldn't want to?" he finishes lamely.

"But I'm afraid I don't date married men, Mr. Cobb. It just isn't right. So, why don't you join me for a casual lunch in, say, half an hour? At Patara, in Knightsbridge, okay? There's some lovely private booth seating where we could talk, and they have the BEST food there!"

He tries to wrangle a different day, but I'm adamant that this is absolutely the only possible time, because, reasons. When he finally relents, I disguise my glee as excitement. "I can't WAIT to meet you properly, Mr. Cobb! I'll be waiting at the restaurant for you - do you remember what I look like?"

He's gotten his mojo back, and says suavely, "A blond goddess, lighting up the room; how could I forget ?"

Eeeww! But Sex Kitten giggles and purrs some more before saying goodbye, with a satisfied smile. I'm excessively pleased with myself for how I handled that - although, to be honest, I'm also more than a little anxious.

I take a few deep breaths to steady myself, then phone Patara to change my lunch reservation to a table for two, in one of the more private booths, and stride off toward the bustling shopping district. Out of the corner of my eye, I'm sure I see a black car pull away from the kerb in the next block, and I breathe a sigh of relief.