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? ;)

26. Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-six: "I want/ To do with you what the spring does with the cherry tree." ~ Pablo Neruda

Sitting across from Cobb in the tiny private dining nook of the tiny Thai restaurant, I can understand how Sara thought he was just the nicest man. Slimy git that he is, the elegant, mustached gentleman pouring me another glass of expensive wine knows how to be charming.

He has done little but flatter and fan-dance with me since I got here, and I have been Sex Kitten-ing him right back. To be honest, his posh accent and dapper double-breasted suit remind me a bit of Mycroft, although I feel bad even thinking that comparison; Cobb is much older and infinitely creepier.

Like they were on Thursday, Cobb's eyes are narrowed with tension, and he has dark circles under them. He is not a happy man, and I suspect that things are not going well for him at the moment. He also has a chronic sniffle, probably from irritated sinuses, and a slight nervous tic under one eye; I wonder if he's just a touch high right now?

The fan-dancing continues back and forth across the tiny table even as we order for lunch, but after the waiter disappears I decide that I've bloody had enough of bantering about the bloody weather. I lean low across the table, and hush my voice, even though we are alone in the nook and quite separate from the rest of the posh but crowded little restaurant.

"I really want to let you know how sorry I am, Mr. Cobb, for my awful manners on Thursday. I just can't tell you how embarrassed I am! Please say that you forgive me!" I purr.

Right on cue, Cobb reassures me. "Think no more of it, my dear, think no more. But, that was very foolish of you! What on earth possessed you to be in that alley listening in? You could have gotten hurt!" His manner is jovial and patronizing, but his pale grey eyes are sharp and suspicious.

"Well," I toy with my wineglass, as if embarrassed. "Well, I saw Mr. McCutcheon, you know? And I overheard him talking to Mr. Doreshchenko on his mobile, and it sounded like something important was to be going on down at the marina, so I followed Mr. McCutcheon and hid near the boat..."

"How is it that you know those two?" He can't quite keep the sharpness out of his voice.

For this, something near the truth is more effective than a lie. "Well, he and Mr. Doreshchenko kind of want me to work for them, as a, um, product representative. If you know what I mean?" Cobb bares the teeth under his mustache in a semblance of a smile, to show me that he knows what I mean. "But I just don't know. You know? I just don't know." I shake my head and sip my wine. "I mean, they have good product, it's not rubbish, but I just don't really feel comfortable trusting either of them..."

I trail off here with a pretty little shrug, waiting for Cobb to break in, and he obliges. "There's precious little reason why you should trust either of them, my dear. The Russian is a barbarian, and McCutcheon, well, he's only Scottish by birth; technically, he's a Yank." Cobb takes up his wine glass and swirls it with a dramatic look. "Ex-CIA, actually, and I don't think the Russian even knows it."

McCutcheon is ex-CIA? The suprise must be showing on my face, because Cobb gives a nasty chuckle. "Not exactly the image of a CIA man, is he?"

I shake my head. "Are you sure about that? It just seems so...unlikely, you know? Is he gone rogue or what?"

"Retired because of illness, I believe, and returned to the ancestral roost for his premature twilight years. He seems to have taken up crime as a hobby." Cobb drawls, sounding dryly amused, but he fidgets with his cuff a little, then sniffs.

"Goodness!" I shake my head again. "My goodness. Well, I just knew there was something very wrong with him. I just knew it!" I make a dimpled smile at Cobb. "I'm surprised a gentleman of your quality associates with people like that."

The grey mustache twitches. "One must associate with all sorts, my dear. All sorts."

Hmm. More like birds of a feather, I should think. "So true!" I agree. Now, let's push the envelope a little. "Do you think, well, I hate to say it –" I pause breathlessly, "But, might they be capable of murder? Because I think they may have had something to do with the shooting of poor Calypso and the other two escorts..." I watch his pale eyes carefully, and note that his wide pupils suddenly contract when I mention Calypso's name. Not evidence admissible in court, mind you, but convincing to me. "And there's that male escort, Steen Dijkstra, who was murdered recently as well, and all the messy business from that –"

Now it's not just Cobb's pupils that react; his eyes widen very slightly, and he shifts himself a bit back in his chair, away from me. He recovers quickly, but his attitude is completely changed. He drops the avuncular, jovial mask completely. "Whom do you work for?" he demands abruptly.

I maintain my facade, acting puzzled and anxious at his change in demeanor. "I– I'm a freelance escort. I don't work for anyone. Did I say something wrong, Mr. Cobb?"

He leans forward again with a dangerous look. "Dijkstra's death never made it to the papers. Only a few people know about it, and even fewer know how it brought the whole house of cards down. The ones who do know are the police – and the people who work for them." He lowers his voice to a meaningful growl, and I don't have to feign my sudden pang of fear.

"I knew him!" I blurt out, louder than I intended. Lowering my voice, I add, "Like I said, I'm an escort. We were colleagues. I knew him. I was...I was the one they called in to identify –"

I break off when our server appears with our soup, and Cobb takes the opportunity to pull out his phone and unobtrusively check his text messages. I watch him through my down-turned lashes as he scrolls rapidly through several, then stops and reads one carefully. He snarls rudely at the server when she asks if we require anything else, and the slim young woman bows quickly and makes a hasty retreat.

I pause for a moment to genuinely appreciate the soup; it's coconut-based, with fiery chilis and crunchy green bits and a delicate aroma of seafood, beautifully garnished. I love Thai food so much – one of these days I am going to take a holiday and just go to Thailand. Looking up, I see that Cobb is ignoring the steaming bowl in front of him, glaring at me instead as if he could force truth from me by sheer willpower.

He looks totally worked up, so I try to smooth it over. "Mr. Cobb, you have to believe me, I know about Steen's death only because I knew him personally, and the police brought me in for questioning. I don't work for the cops!"

"Really?" he sneers, all charm and suavity completely evaporated. "But how are we going to explain those two plainclothes law-enforcement types that trailed you here and stationed themselves across the street? How are we to account for the Level One security lock-down on your public records?" He waves his mobile at me. "I've just now gotten confirmation of both those facts. Humble prostitutes don't have security guards and records lock-downs. So. You will tell me whom you work for, and what they know about me." He pockets his mobile and reaches across the small table, grabbing my slender wrist tightly, his eyes narrow and cold. "Tell me what you know, and then I'll decide what to do with you."

Don't you TOUCH me! I flip my hand around and grab the arm that's gripping me, as hard as I can. My hands are stronger than they look, and I twist his arm slightly. He winces and tries to jerk free, knocking over his wine glass. As the fine red floods across the golden tablecloth, I hold fast and hiss at him, "Everything! We know everything! We know about the Torch codebook, and how you got it, and about Calypso and Regina and Tanya and Steen. We know about the young girls, and the boys as well. We know why you were acquitted twenty years ago, and we have evidence to get a conviction this time. We know about the cocaine, and all the other drugs, too. We know about the bribery, and the corruption, and we are going to GET YOU!"

I finally let go of his wrist – he let go of mine ages ago – and he just sits there for a moment. Cobb's face is beet-red, and his eyes are bugging out. Seriously, I wonder if I've given him a heart attack, but he doesn't fall over, he just sits as if paralyzed. Now, here's where a misspent youth can come in handy, because I know that long-term overuse of coke inclines toward paranoia and anxiety disorder. He just needs one little push more...

Mercilessly, I lean forward at him and whisper, "We have people undercover everywhere, watching you. We have been for a long time. We're closing in."

He stares at me with undisguised hatred. "The police!" he grates angrily. "I knew you were with the police!" Cobb jumps up, knocking his chair over in his haste to stand. "I won't!" his voice is loud and hoarse. "Do you hear me? I won't!" He abruptly turns and hurries down the risers separating our nook from the main restaurant, and is gone.

I flop back in my seat. Damn, that didn't exactly go how I intended it. I guess I lost my temper when he grabbed at me. I rub at my wrist where he touched me with a corner of the tablecloth, sighing. If I'd played it cooler, I might have gotten something more out of him; as it is, all I accomplished was to throw him into a panic. Trapped animals are the most dangerous, Sara has always said, and I think she's right. I hope this doesn't make Cobb more dangerous to me. Hopefully, he won't see any point in having me killed if he thinks I'm just a cog in the machine.

The server comes to check on me, and I shrug and smile helplessly, a little embarrassed. She obviously thinks Cobb and I had a lovers' quarrel – ick! – because she keeps glancing sideways at me with a little smirk as she sops up the spilled wine and clears Cobb's uneaten soup. Once she's gone, I settle in to enjoy my lunch, and a tiny bit more of the excellent wine. At least Cobb already put the meal on his tab, so that's something.

Bloody hell, McCutcheon is ex-CIA. That is so weird. Of course, that could mean he was a data analyst or something, not necessarily a field agent... Still, I can't underestimate him; there might be a lot more there than meets the eye. And, Cobb said that Steen's death 'brought down a house of cards.' I didn't know he was that pivotal! Just how deeply was he involved, and in what? I need to poke Mycroft again about that.

I thoroughly enjoy the rest of my meal, and by the time the coconut ice arrives at the end, I'm thinking about what to do next. I don't think I need to be too worried about Cobb doing anything to me at the moment, and even if he did, I'm not on my own.

So, what do I want to do? I haven't got the focus for a museum today, and I don't feel like socializing, but I also don't want to just go back to the flat... I guess I'll go into first-world default mode and go shopping. Harrods is just around the corner, and I could certainly afford to treat myself to something nice.

It's a short, pleasant walk. The day is still very warm despite being cloudy, and the pavements are busy but not awfully crowded. As I draw near the endless row of green awnings over the Harrods shop-windows, I notice that I am feeling a little anxious. Maybe I don't feel up to this after all? I need to be mindful that I had a bit of a breakdown just last night; I feel fine, even better than fine, but I could be fooling myself.

I stop outside the main entrance, hesitating, feeling the lunch in my stomach curdling with anxiety. The doormen in their forest green livery look at me curiously. I give them a wan smile, then go to lean up against the weathered stone wall around the corner for a moment. What is wrong with me? I've never in my life suffered from agoraphobia. I close my eyes, calm my breath, and listen inwards for a moment. I realize that, for one thing, I am much more stressed by the encounter with Cobb than I realized. It was a very intense hour, and I am surprised at how angry I still am. I'm angry that he touched me, threatened me. I'm angry that a person like that exists.

Behind that is... I'm afraid of this building. Of going in. That's silly, I've been in here before, the escalators are very open and user-friendly, the place is palatial and beautiful with lots of pretty-shiny things to look at... And lifts. There are lifts in there, lifts that go ding.

I groan inwardly. Oh, god, I don't need this. I thought it was bad enough this morning, when I couldn't go past the lifts at the hotel. Now am I not even able to enter a building that has them? This is beyond ridiculous.

Ridiculous or not, I need to respect my limits. I hope Mycroft is right, and the symptoms will improve with time, but if not, there will be time to work on it later, when my psyche has had a chance to settle down.

I open my eyes to find Davies standing in front of me, flanked by a older man I haven't seen before. They are both regarding me with polite concern. "Miss Talbot?" Davies asks, "Are you all right? Do you require assistance?"

I make a pale smile. "No, Mr. Davies, I'll be fine. I seem to be... I seem to be having some problems with going in there," I nod at the entrance around the corner. "So I think I shall just do my shopping at the little boutique stores, right? Here we go." I heave myself away from the supportive wall, and, with a nod to Davies and the older chap, I march off in the direction of a cluster of shops that I know for a fact don't have lifts in them.

I find a few things here and there, especially a nice new summer dressing gown to replace my shabby cotton one, and then I hit the motherlode; I stumble across a bookstore that has stacks and stacks of intriguing, rare old books. I would love to collect real, live books, but it's not realistic right now. Books are heavy, and bulky, and hard to move, whereas my e-reader can store thousands in no space at all – and if I lose my reader, I can still access nearly all of my collection on the cloud.

Still, I heft the volumes in my hands, smelling the pleasant mustiness of old book as I carefully turn the brittle pages, and I think how nice it would be someday to have a place in my life for real books. Someday.

I spend an hour or two in that bookstore, and it helps to ground me immensely. By the time I leave it and wend my way back to the flat with my shopping bags, I feel nearly peaceful and quite calm. It's teatime, and although I had a large lunch, I still feel peckish enough to bother making a little bite of sandwich to go with my tea.

I get a text just as I'm finishing the last of my sandwich: Expect me at 7:34. MH Two hours, plenty of time to get ready. I tidy up the little flat – it was just cleaned this morning, how did it get so messy? – and get ready for work at a leisurely pace.

Suitably polished and dressed, I curl up on the big four-post bed with my reader and flip through my collection for something to pass the time. Pablo Neruda catches my eye, but of course that reminds me of my fat, sassy kitty. Poor Pablo, he must despair of me as much as Sara does. I pull out my phone and check the time; over half an hour to spare, so I phone Sara just to let her know that I've met with Cobb, but no job is forthcoming. She was so excited for me, and I don't want her to cherish any hopes in that direction!

No answer, so she must be working late. I leave her a message and mute my phone, snuggling down with the fine, fiery love poetry that I adore Neruda for...the room is warm and the sun finally peeps out as it sinks lower, flooding my eyes with bright green-gold light filtering through the blinds, and my eyelids get heavier and heavier, harder to lift...

When I open them again, the light is deeper green and not as bright. I don't know how long I was asleep, but I guess I needed it. I stretch, yawning, and roll onto my back, still stretching. I'm wearing my short, tight white eyelet-lace dress, and it slithers above my hips as I stretch and roll – and I freeze, realizing that the chair beside the bed is occupied. My heart in my mouth, I slowly turn my head to see who it is.

It's Mycroft, long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle, his fingers laced together, a slightly bemused expression on his face. He raises an eyebrow at me.

"Oh, good grief, what time is it? I didn't mean to fall asleep!" I put my e-reader on the nightstand and palm my eyes, careful to not smear my makeup. I become aware of quiet, soft piano music swirling in the background.

"Approximately seven fifty-five," he replies, without looking at a watch. He's already taken off his waistcoat anyway, and his tie. He looks like he has been comfortably settled in for a while, with a tumbler of something amber on the small table beside him.

"You didn't have to let me sleep," I tell him. "Waking me up would have been totally okay."

"I know." He sips the drink at his elbow. "However, the sound of your snoring is oddly soothing."

I peer at him closely, but I can't tell if he's joking or not. I don't know if I will ever be able to tell if he's joking or not, so I decide to not worry about it.

"Your luncheon date must have left you quite exhausted," Mycroft remarks offhandedly.

Of course he knows all about it; the thought didn't cross my mind that he wouldn't. "It was kind of intense," I agree. "But I feel pretty good about it."

"Do you?" Oh, dear lord, he's in one of those infuriating moods tonight, sitting there smiling like a dapper, middle-aged Sphinx.

"Yes, I do." I sit up, hugging a pillow. "Cobb told me a few interesting tidbits – and by the time he left, he was totally convinced that I was an undercover cop!"

"Is that a good thing?" Mycroft asks mildly.

"Isn't it?" I'm starting to get annoyed. "I thought it was good for him to be misdirected. You know, so he wouldn't try to kill me or something inconvenient like that."

He just flicks an eyebrow at that, but says nothing.

"Lovely. So I wasted my time this afternoon?" I sound more peevish than I mean to, but he remains unruffled.

"Not at all. In fact, your assistance has proven invaluable."

"How? How has my assistance been invaluable?"

"As the straw that finally broke the camel's back," he says smugly.

"You need to give me a little more than that," I protest.

"Do I? I find that fairly disappointing, Angel. You ought to be able to deduce it yourself."

He really is a pill tonight. I had teachers pull that 'you ought to be able to figure it out' rubbish back when I was reading psychology at uni, and I detested it then as much as I do now.

I make a disgusted noise in my throat and glare at him angrily. He shrugs imperturbably, and sips his drink. Oh, all right, I'll play the silly game. I'll be wrong, he can be all smug, and then he'll tell me what's going on.

I stare up at the green canopy over my head. So, why would Mycroft refer to me as the straw that broke the camel's back? What did I do today that could be considered helpful? Well, he didn't even ask what I found out, so it can't be the information that I gleaned. It can't be that I gained Cobb's trust, because the smarmy git left the restaurant in an utter panic...he seemed ready to do anything, leap any which way...

Damn.

I flick my eyes down to meet Mycroft's. "A bird dog. You've been using me as a bloody bird-dog, to flush the game out from cover. That's it, isn't it?"

He rewards me with a ghost of a smile, raising his glass in a salute. He could reach over with a long arm to pat my head, but if he does I swear I'll bite him again. "So, has everything been a set-up to use me to panic Cobb?" I ask bitterly.

Mycroft calmly shakes his head. "No. That possibility presented itself only recently; it seemed likely to produce maximum effect with minimal risk, and you did not disappoint."

"Why the hell didn't you tell me? I think I have a right to know when I'm being used like that."

"Do you?" He's not mocking me; he's just disagreeing. "I simply made sure you had an opportunity to do something you would find both interesting and useful." He lowers his head and voice, admonishing. "Admit it, you enjoyed yourself! Why should it matter that you weren't accomplishing what you imagined you were?"

"You should have told me," I insist stubbornly. "Why didn't you?"

He sets the nearly-empty glass down and leans toward me, elbows on knees. "Because it would have skewed your performance. You don't have the maturity or training to successfully fool an old player like Cobb, so you had to be genuine in your attempts to ferret out information."

Damn it, I can actually see that. It's not exactly flattering, but I have a hard time arguing with it. "Why did you need to panic him? What happens now?"

"It's already happened. Cobb has scuttled out from under the protector who was ruthlessly exploiting him, and fled overseas."

"Who was Cobb's protector?"

Mycroft shakes his head slowly. "No. There are some names it's better that you not know."

I sigh. More secrets."Okay, then, what about everything else? What about the Russians? Have you been using me to flush them out as well?"

Mycroft frowns. "You're not thinking it through, or you wouldn't be asking that, Angel."

"Whatever!" I hate feeling like I'm being schooled. "And what about Steen? Cobb implied that Steen's murder caused a lot of trouble. Why was he so important? What was really going on?"

Another slow headshake, but this time Mycroft remains silent, instead parking his tongue briefly between his molars and working it around his cheek for a moment.

Damn him. "Okay, so you can't, or won't, tell me that. Can you at least tell me who killed him? You said ages ago that you had figured it out, and that you would see to it that some kind of justice was done. Well?"

"As I told you, Angel, I have my own ways and means – but you'll have to accept never knowing the particulars of how and when and whom."

"Why?"

He doesn't answer me, only presses his lips together grimly.

In the silence, we stare each other down. Unsurprisingly, I break first. "So, I'm just supposed to trust that you will take care of it?" I ask.

"Yes."

"You once told me that I shouldn't trust you."

"I seem to recall that you said you did anyway," he reminds me.

I bite my lip, remembering. "You know, the hell of it is, I still do. Even now. It probably means there is something very wrong with me, doesn't it?"

I'm not sure how to read the face that he makes; it's both rueful, and very resigned. "I'm afraid that I am not the best person to judge that."

"We're both in trouble, then."

"Apparently so," he agrees, reaching for the tumbler and swallowing down the last mouthful of amber in it. Setting the glass down again, Mycroft gives me one of his subtle smiles. "Stand for me," he says, and adds, "If you please?"

Yes, I please. I set aside the pillow and unfurl myself from the bed, not bothering to tug down my wayward hem, and straddle his outstretched legs, striking a provocative pose with a playful smile. He gazes up at me for a moment, drinking me in, then reaches out to run his hands over my thighs and up, pulling me in even closer until I have to kneel in the chair, still straddling his legs.

Caressing my nearly-bare arse, he lifts his face up, inviting; I don't have to be asked twice. I cover his mouth with mine, resting my hands lightly on his shoulders, feeling the muscles shift under the fine fabric of his shirt as his hands grip and knead the taut smoothness of my hips and thighs. Like always, the response of my desire is quick and sharp, the swell of need rippling like flame between my legs, sending me wet and writhing.

He can tell, and I feel his mouth beneath mine shape into a smile. He raises his hands to cup my face and pull it back a little, so he can look up into my eyes. "Tonight I think I might like to try out the use of those sturdy bed-posts over there."

"Sounds like fun!" I agree with an evil grin. "The cuffs should fit you very nicely."

Mycroft actually looks a little alarmed. "Ah, no. I'm afraid you misunderstand me –"

"That's a shame," I delicately trail my fingernails down his chest, pressing just enough so he can feel me through his shirt and the vest underneath. "You might like it. I could make your entire body sing." I punctuate the statement by pressing just a little harder as I circle over the hard nubs of his nipples; the instantaneous reaction is even more than I bargained for, though. He reacts as if hit by an electric shock, his face contorting in a tight grimace as he gasps, his body arching back in the chair and almost spilling me off his lap.

Laughing, I grab his shoulders to keep from falling, and he clamps his hands over my wayward fingers, once more completely in control. "No!" he says emphatically, as if to a naughty child.

Still laughing, I ask, "Why not?"

"It's a matter of trust." Oh, he's talking about being tied up.

"You ask for a great deal of trust, Mycroft, but you don't give very much," I complain.

He sighs, his thumbs stroking the curve of my palms where his hands curl around mine. "You have no idea, Angel. I don't... Just allowing you to touch me freely is more than you can imagine..."

I've been wondering about that for quite a while. "Why is that? Did something bad happen to you?" I ask softly.

"No, not at all." He looks away from my face and over my shoulder, but with a bemused expression; there's nothing haunting him. "I've actually led what you might call a charmed life, particularly compared to some." His eyes flicker back to mine. "I prefer not to be touched because very, very few people do it properly, and it HURTS if it isn't! You can't imagine..."

I shake my head. "No, I can't. Not at all, actually." I brush my lips against his in the barest whisper of a kiss, and smile when I feel the responsive catch in his breath. "So, you'd like to play with tethers and bedposts tonight? I could go for that, but on one condition."

"And what might that be?" His eyes narrow, a glint of the negotiator's steel in them.

"You have to release me before you come."

He looks puzzled. "Why?"

"Because that's how I want it. I don't know why, I just do. Agreed?"

He nods, a little reluctantly. "Very well."

I beam him a brilliant smile, and we snog a while longer as Mycroft undresses me there on his lap, but the git still won't allow me to even undo a single one of his shirt buttons, even though I try several times to sneak my fingers around and pop one open whilst he's busy elsewhere.

By the time my dress and lingerie have hit the floor, I'm more than ready for the next course. I hop off the chair and pull the black gym bag out of my toy-box, and hand it to Mycroft with a smile. One of the accouterments in there is a nylon tethering strap of adjustable length; once he has slipped the wrist cuffs on me and made them snug, he slings the strap over the top of the nearest bedpost and clips my wrists to it. It's to be standing up, then? That can be fun.

He's calculated the tether precisely so that my arms are stretched high as they can go without discomfort, and I'm forced to nearly stand on tiptoe, leaning my back against the smoothly-carved mahogany bedpost. It feels cold and hard against my flushed skin, and I shiver with anticipation.

Once I'm secured, Mycroft visibly relaxes; his shoulders lower just a little, his face softens just a bit. I would call attention to how much more relaxed he is when I'm helpless, but making an issue of it right now might break the mood – and oh, lord, I certainly don't want to break the mood! I am so turned on that I am trembling.

He steps back a little to admire the picture I make as he removes his cufflinks and meticulously folds back his shirtsleeves. I glimpse the dark purple mottling on his bared left forearm and feel a spark of grim satisfaction – you deserved that, mister! – as well as an unexpected kind of possessive thrill. I've marked him, and he will have a hell of a time explaining it away if anyone sees it.

He follows the direction of my glance with a slight smile, as if he knows my train of thought, then comes over to stand in front of me. He reaches up and cups my face again, running his thumb over the curve of my lips. When he kisses me it's urgent and breathless, his hands roaming over my body unhindered. I undulate in response to his touch, the leather around my wrists creaking every now and again as I twist and moan. He keeps at me with mouth and hands, driving me nearly insane, teasing me to the edge of orgasm and backing off repeatedly until I am a quivering mess, deliciously on fire and panting for release.

Eventually he steps away, smiling smugly at my soft groan. I watch hungrily as he whips off – but folds! – the rest of his clothing. He pulls a wrapped condom from an inner pocket of his jacket and tosses it onto the bed behind me and pauses, once more gathering in the sight of me hanging there, breathless and disheveled – then impulsively presses the full length of himself against me, bare and hard, shivering a little as he buries his face in the curve of my neck. I feel the heat of his breath against my skin, the urgency of his tight embrace. I don't have many brain cells that are firing coherently at the moment, and all I can think is, he wants me as badly as I want him.

Nothing in the way, nothing between us. Now, right now. I grasp the nylon strap above my wrists for more leverage and pull hard, my strong abdomen curling my hips up as I wrap my legs high around Mycroft's waist. Before he can pull away, I work myself around to slide him deep inside me, bare skin shocking against bare skin, and clamp my thighs around his hips like a vise.

He whips his face up to stare wildly at me, eyes wide with surprise and disbelief, but I am too far gone to give a good goddamn what happens. Suspended from my wrists, I lever my back against the bedpost to squirm and slither myself against him, and that tiny bit of friction, combined with the exquisite way he fills the width and depth of me, sends me plunging into a wild orgasm that has me literally banging my head against the bedpost.

When my vision clears, I find I am nose-to-nose with a furious Mycroft. "Angel!" he groans through gritted teeth. "For the love of god, what are you doing?!"

I can only swallow and make gurgling noises for a moment, then my head clears a little more and I know exactly what I am doing. A bareback ride – unprotected sex – is incredibly risky behavior. It takes a lot of trust these days to go bareback with a new partner; that, or just plain stupidity. You have to be either willfully ignorant, or truly believe that the other person isn't lying to you about their state of health and their test results.

Tightening my legs around his waist, I work my hips, riding him in and out of me in a slow, deliberate rhythm that makes him shudder and gasp as I hold his eyes with mine. "I didn't lie about my health status when I signed our contract, Mycroft; did you? Can I trust you, or not? Will you trust me?"

His face is a perfect chaos of mixed emotions: Intense pleasure, anger, and uncertainty are battling it out there. He pushes his hands against my chest, pulling away, but my legs are very strong. He could get away from me, but he would have to really try.

And he doesn't. He gives up after a moment with a throaty groan, and grips either side of my wriggling arse to give an assist to my gyrations. I kiss him wildly, heedless of the burning in my shoulder muscles, heedless of everything except the heated coupling of our bodies as we rock and writhe together.

It doesn't take long at all for him to come, but I'm actually a little disappointed when he does. I expected this big mind-blowing explosion from him – I mean, bareback, right? – but all that happens is that he curls tightly around me in a long, shuddering exhale that keeps going and going and going, his face buried in the crook of my neck.

Finally he comes up for air, eyes closed, gasping a little, and leans his arm on the post above my head for balance. I slide my feet to the floor, taking the strain off of my protesting shoulders. Mycroft looks up with a frown at my tethered wrists and says, still out of breath, "Oh, I didn't...Very sorry...I did agree..." He reaches up and unbuckles the leathers, and I slip my hands free, wriggling my shoulders to work out the kinks.

"Sorry," I tell him. "I kind of changed the game on you."

"You certainly did," he growls accusingly, letting go of the post and nearly falling over.

"Lie down before you fall down!" I scold.

He leans forward onto the bed and flops down on his stomach, and I curl up close beside him. He lies there, still breathing heavily and shuddering every now and then, for quite a while. There are shadows gathering now as the sunlight finally fades, and the room is still except for the continuing soft ripple of piano music.

"That was...incredibly stupid," Mycroft finally says, into the mattress. "I cannot believe you did that. I cannot believe I let you."

"You have trust issues," I intone. "It needed to be done."

He rolls his head to the side so he can glare at me with one fierce, unblinking blue eye. I smile serenely, knowing I'm right. He does have trust issues, and they interfere with his effectiveness.

Suddenly his shoulders start shaking, and for a horrible moment I think he's weeping – then I realize that he's laughing. Really laughing, not smirking or snarking, but real laughter. He rolls over, still chuckling. "How?" he asks. "How is it that even handcuffed and strung up, you can still find a way to make trouble?"

"Just talented, I guess?"

He just looks at me and shakes his head, something indefinable in his eyes for a moment, then abruptly leaps up from the bed and heads toward the bathroom; I hear the shower run. Damn, I think I missed my chance for a cuddle.

I rise, wipe myself down, and fetch my new dressing gown, a pretty light-blue satin, from the hook on the back of the door. Throwing it around me, I put on one of the small bedside lamps and settle into the plush armchair by the window. Mycroft shortly emerges from the bathroom, naked but dry, his hair already neatly combed. He spares me a glance, then sets to getting dressed. I watch him, smiling when I catch the way he appreciatively fingers the soft fabric of each piece before donning it.

"What are you grinning at?" he finally asks, irritated. He glares at me, buttoning his shirt front by feel.

"I'm thinking what a wondrous thing your clothes cupboard at home must be."

He pauses, then looks away to gather up his trousers. "I don't know about wondrous, but it's well-organized...and spacious, I suppose. 'Vestis virum facit,' you know."

I actually do know just enough Latin to be dangerous. "'Clothes make the man,'" I shrug. "I suppose so."

Settling in his braces, Mycroft raises a brow at my scornful tone. "You would do well to heed that yourself."

"I don't care to be a man, thank you," I answer tartly.

"You don't seem inclined that way," he observes, "However, I meant that you'd do well to consider how your clothing defines you and conveys information, far more than you imagine."

"To you, maybe."

"Well, yes, I might notice more than most, but even the untrained eye perceives. For example, you don't take yourself seriously, and your attire reflects that." Sitting on the side of the bed, he pulls on his socks, adjusting the garters to perfect tension before putting on his shoes.

"I happen to think fashion should be fun, Mycroft. I don't like boring clothes."

He fastens on his gold cuff-links before taking up his tie from the wooden rack. "Frivolity is the badge of immaturity, Angel. At some point, one must assume the responsibility of being taken seriously in the world." He stands in front of the mirror on the door of the wardrobe, expertly tying and snugging up the striped silk. "Your penchant for historical dress goes beyond eclectic, you know, and into the realm of affectation. And bad taste."

Grrrr. "I happen to like 60's retro, it works for me. And there's nothing wrong with my taste."

"Do you think so?" he says casually, smoothing down his tie and taking up his waistcoat.

"Yes. I do." I run a hand through my fringed bob, the haircut he had arranged for me to have. "Lucky thing, too, or else I wouldn't have agreed to have this hairstyle, you know." I pause, remembering something that John Watson had mentioned, and decide to toss it out there – why not? "Speaking of that, just who is Miriam, anyway?"

Mycroft's fingers pause in threading the fine gold watch-chain through the buttonhole of his waistcoat, and he glances at me briefly. "The most beautiful woman in the world," he confesses, ever so slightly abashed, and makes a show of fastening the chain and checking his watch.

The most beautiful woman in the world. And then I know, I just know, and it's not a big deal after all. It's not nasty or gross; it's actually kind of sweet. A child's love is pure, until the world teaches him there such a thing as impurity. Maybe Mycroft was lucky and missed that particular teaching, or it maybe it just didn't stick.

"Is your mum still the most beautiful woman in the world?" I ask with a smile.

He takes up his suit jacket, flicking invisible bits of lint off the back of it. "Yes. Always," he says simply.

"Then, I'm flattered."

Mycroft casts on his jacket and settles his cuffs and collar, then gives me a searching look. "The resemblance was superficial. To be honest, I don't even see it any more."

"What do you see now?"

His mouth twists sardonically. "Angelica Elizabeth Talbot, aged twenty-three."

I don't answer; there isn't any need to.

He turns toward the mirror to fold and fluff his pocket square, openly admiring the effect. Fully suited and serene, Mycroft is suddenly all business.

He puts his hands in his pockets, and regards me with a frown. "Now then," he says gravely, "The recent change in circumstances require that I go abroad for the next three days, possibly longer. My plane departs early tomorrow morning. You will still have a security detail assigned to you, of course. Although it would be my preference that you stay indoors –"

"Mycroft, I can't be on house arrest every time things get a little sticky for you! I can't, and I won't."

He weathers my outburst patiently, then continues. "It would be my preference, but I won't ask it. However, I do think it reasonable to ask that you avoid any questionable associates and potentially dangerous situations." He looks at me with dramatized suffering. "Please?"

I can't help but laugh. "All right! I promise to be as boring as your granny until you give me the all-clear, okay?"

"Good lord, don't do that," he says with genuine horror. "My grandmother was thoroughly disreputable. Just...stay out of trouble, Angel. I need to concentrate my energies on matters at hand." With one last glance at himself in the mirror, Mycroft flips out his pocket-watch to check the time, gives me a nod, then is out the door and gone before I can even frame another question.

I sigh as I hear the door downstairs close. It would be nice if he could do fond farewells instead of abrupt exits, but I suppose I have to pick my battles. I put away the tethers, and head for the bathroom to take a shower myself, mulling things over. There's a lot to mull.

A thoroughly disreputable granny? Just what kind of family does he come from, anyway?