Chapter Twenty-seven: "There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact." ~ Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

The next morning is downright stormy, and the cool air is a welcome change from yesterday's almost tropical mugginess. It'll be great weather for a brisk run, if I can get myself out there before it starts pouring. I dally around, though, treating myself to breakfast in bed, lounging with my laptop propped on a pillow and getting lost in the internet.

Before I know it I've spent the entire morning online, mostly on the Agency escorts' forum. One of the girls recently picked up a regular client who appears to be a prominent MP with a taste for some outrageous kink, and her posts are incredibly entertaining. Everyone is enjoying it so much that an informal competition has kicked up to see who has had the most bizarre experience in their escorting career –– and the stories are VERY interesting. Educational, even.

It's pretty hard to tear myself away, and by the time I actually get out the door the skies are looming dark grey and the wind is whipping through the trees, although the threatening rain showers are only a heavy mist at the moment. The park is pretty much deserted; even the chess-players seem to have hidden indoors today, and it's just me and a few die-hard dog-walkers braving the weather. I kind of like the excitement of a good storm, although I wonder if Mycroft's flight had to be delayed.

He didn't exactly say so, but I am pretty sure that his trip has to do with Cobb's attempt to escape; Scuttled out from under the protector who was ruthlessly exploiting him was how he put it. I'm torn between being glad to be a part of the effort to nail that swine, and embarrassed at what a bumbling puppy I've been. And, I have to admit, I'm still more than a little cross about how casually Mycroft manipulated me into doing exactly what he wanted. It's not that I disagree with what he's trying to do, it's just...kind of insulting, I guess.

The hell of it is, I don't think he would care one whit if I told him I felt insulted; he'd probably think I was silly for expecting my sense of self-importance to be assuaged by him or anyone else. Maybe I am being silly. Anyway, he doesn't seem to care a whole lot how I feel about much of anything, really. I mean, he'd rather I were happy than unhappy, I think, but I don't get the idea that it matters to him terribly much. I wish I knew how he felt about me...

I realize that I'm starting to obsess about someone else's feelings for me, and that is about as pathetic as it gets. For god's sake, Angelica, you're not some dewy-eyed teenager! I take my mind off it by putting on a burst of speed, sprinting as fast as I can push myself, until I'm too winded to keep the pace any longer.

Slowing down to my normal lope, I round the bend and head toward home. I'm wet with misty rain rather than sweat today, and my fringe is plastered to my forehead; every now and then I can feel big, cold drips of water falling off the end of my high pony-tail and hitting the back of my neck. About a block from home, it starts to rain in earnest, fat drops plopping down all around, and the wind picks up as well. It feels like the edge of a real squall, and I instinctively hurry my pace to avoid being caught out in the downpour. Of course, I'm already so soaking wet it hardly matters, but a prickle still runs up my back, irrationally urging me to get under cover as quickly as possible.

I pound up the narrow cobbled mews, aiming myself straight for the blue door as I fumble in the pocket of my running shorts for the key. I wrest it open and fling myself inside just as the squall breaks outside, a wall of cold rain slashing down. Breathless, I laugh at myself for my mad flight, and laugh some more with relief at being inside my safe, snug harbour once more. Now, what I need most is a hot shower, a dry towel, and a cup of tea. I strip off my dripping wet shirt and thick running bra in one motion, dropping them in a sodden heap on the tiled floor, and hook my thumbs in the waistband of my shorts to strip them down as well, when I hear someone call "Hullo?" from the kitchen.

There are two jackets hung on the coat tree in front of me. Well, a jacket and a coat. Both still glistening with water droplets.

"Who's there?" I call out, fear clenching my gut. "Who's there?!"

John Watson comes out of my kitchen, and halts in the entryway. "Angelica! What are you doing here?" His eyes are wide as saucers, flicking down to take in my bare chest, then back up again to my face.

"John? What the bloody hell are YOU doing here!" I grab up my discarded shirt and fumble with the wet fabric, trying to find the bottom of it.

He looks at the stairs beside me, then back at me. "What are you doing here?" he repeats.

"Goddamn it, I live here!" I shout, fighting the soggy shirt over my head. "What the hell are you doing in my flat? How did you get in?"

"He came through the front door. With me." I hear Sherlock's voice as he comes pattering down the steps from the bedroom, and I get the shirt down over my torso in time to see him watching me from the bottom step with deep loathing on his fine features.

"What the bloody hell –" I begin, but John pushes past me to corner Sherlock at the foot of the steps.

"When we broke in here, Sherlock, you said this was essential to the case. You said, the tenant was away –"

"No-o, I said the renter was abroad. That being the one who pays the rent, and he is out of country at the moment, he left this mor –"

"GET OUT!" I shout, rounding on them. "Get out of here, right now, both of you! Get your jackets, and get out, or I'm calling the police NOW!" I pull my mobile out of its waterproof, holding it up in the air threateningly. "I mean it. Out!"

John holds out a staying hand, but Sherlock merely gives me a hard stare. "Do you really want the police involved? Really?" His eyes glitter at me coldly, his mouth is tight and hard. Why is he so angry? I'm the one who should be angry!

"I could care less if the police are involved. I've done nothing wrong, you're the ones who have broken into my flat!"

Sherlock's eyes narrow. "It's not your flat. It's my brother's."

John looks up at Sherlock, who is focused on me. "Wha–? This is, this is Mycroft's flat?" He looks at me for confirmation, but I'm busy staring down Sherlock.

"It doesn't matter whose name is on the lease; I'm the tenant, this is my residence, and you are trespassing. Get out, or I'll have you thrown out."

"Are you sure? Do you really want me to turn your little toys over to the police?" Sherlock comes down the last step, and opens his palm, holding it out toward me. There are several tiny black cubes laying there; I peer at them and, despite myself, feel a prick of curiosity.

"What are they?" I ask.

"As if you don't know," he says scornfully, but he's watching my face carefully.

I look from him to John. "No, I really don't know. What are they?"

John frowns at me. "Those are surveillance cameras. Wireless spy cameras. We found them all over this flat..."

"Spy cameras!" I look more closely, and can see that on one flat side of the cubes there is a tiny, convex glass lens. I suddenly have a horrible suspicion. "Could they be...could they be Mycroft's? I mean it's a little extreme, even for him, but..."

Sherlock slowly brushes past me and goes into the sitting room, commenting, "Mycoft always uses EU-49's, Swiss manufacture. These are Chinese, and obviously substandard. Shoddy, even. Mycroft wouldn't touch them." So they can't be his; I feel a wash of pure relief at that.

John clears his throat at me. "So, just to be clear, this is actually Mycroft's flat, then? And, you live here, Angelica?"

Eying Sherlock, I glance at John and admit, "Yes."

He frowns deeply. "You told me – well, you implied – that you and he weren't... that he wasn't..."

It's kind of embarrassing, but mainly because John is kind of embarrassed. "I lied. Sorry, but it was really none of your business, so I lied."

John looks away and shoves his hands in his pockets. "Right. Well. There you are." he mutters.

Sherlock abruptly returns to the small entryway. "Why are you disappointed in her, John? She's so obviously meretricious." He moves in on me until we are nearly nose to nose, and his voice is quietly venomous. "What else have you been lying about? Or, rather," he turns away and stalks back to the sitting room. "It might be easier to ask, what, if anything, have you told the truth about?"

"Why bother asking? You've obviously made up your mind," I snap. The warmth from my run is starting to wear off, and I shiver, wrapping my arms around myself. "Look, I'm soaked to the skin, and freezing. I'm going to go upstairs and dry off and change, and I'll be right back down. I'm not phoning the cops – but not because I'm afraid of anything! I want to find out what the hell is going on!"

Without waiting for a reply, I turn and bounce up the stairs. As I dry off and throw on some yoga pants and a t-shirt, I try to wrap my head around all this. Somebody––and I don't know who, how or why––bugged my flat. Sherlock and John broke in while I was out running, supposedly to further a case that they're on...and just happened to think of checking for spy cameras...uh-huh.

Sherlock could have planted them himself. I don't know why, but he could have. It makes as much sense as anyone else doing it.

I quickly towel-dry my hair and pad back downstairs. They are both in the sitting room now, John slouched back in an armchair and Sherlock standing by the window.

"Much better," I comment. The looks that I get from both of them are unreservedly hostile. No surprise about Sherlock, but I'm a little sad to see John looking so sulky and angry. I perch myself on an arm of the sofa, ready to bolt if I have to. "You've got to believe that those aren't my cameras, that I knew nothing about them. What would I gain from bugging my own flat? I'm not into home movies!" I wrinkle my nose in distaste.

Sherlock paces around the room and stops in front of me. "It's not what YOU would gain, it's what your employer would gain."

I'm confused. "Mycroft?"

Sherlock gives me a disdainful look. "Not your client, your employer," he snaps. "And no more lies, if you please. I'm quite aware of whom you work for."

I consider. "The Agency? Why would they bother?"

Sherlock moves in close to me again, looking down, so I stand up to keep on equal footing. I'm pleased to discover that, even barefoot, I can look him eye-to-eye. Still, his stare is intimidating.

"Can you really be that obtuse?" He sounds more like he's musing to himself than trying to insult me, but he's still plenty insulting. "It doesn't seem possible that he could tolerate it." His nose wrinkles and lip curls a little with revulsion. "It's rather like bestiality, really, isn't it –"

The crack of my hand across Sherlock's face surprises me as much as it does him; I didn't know I was going to do that until I feel my palm stinging afterwards. I tense myself for a fight, but he just bows his head mockingly and moves away, his pale cheeks splotched red on both sides, although the side with my hand-print is a little darker.

Sherlock stands with his back to me, looking out the window. "Who owns the Agency, Miss Talbot?"

"I don't know."

"You don't even know whom you work for?" he's openly derisive.

"No, and I don't blame them for keeping their identity a secret; the idiotic prostitution laws make it so that they're the ones bearing the risk, not me."

"So you work for a nameless, faceless Agency..." Sherlock pauses in front of Mycroft's cut-glass decanters on the sideboard, looking down with a sniff, then turns back to me. "Let me put a name on it for you: Charles Augustus Magnussun."

"Magnussun?" Now it's my turn to laugh derisively. "What the hell would a media tycoon want with an escort service? If he was going to diversify his business empire, I don't think it would be into that."

Hands behind his back, Sherlock roams back over toward me. "But really, isn't it the perfect business for a blackmailer?"

I consider. "It might be, if the escorts were willing to go along with it. But, I've never been approached about supplying information on any of my clients, ever! Actually, it's just the opposite. The Agency is fanatical about protecting client privacy. We escorts are even forbidden to talk to each other about clients." My legs are still tired and a little wobbly, so I park my bum back on the edge of the sofa. "So, you believe that Magnussun is a blackmailer, and that he runs the Agency I work for? What kind of proof do you have?"

John shifts forward in his chair. "Sherlock wouldn't say something like that unless he were certain." John glances up at Sherlock, and I catch an unspoken tag-line, –– or for some reason he needed you to think he was.

I do not trust either of these blokes as far as I could toss them. Sherlock obviously hates me, and there's no question whose side John is on. "Okay. Just for now, let's assume I take your word for this. Why would Magnussun bother bugging this flat? Mycroft isn't worried about being blackmailed by anyone! He told me so himself, that he has no public position that could be damaged by scandal; besides, there's nothing...irregular in our relations. Nothing that he could be threatened with." I'm trying very hard not to think about somebody secretly watching us having sex. It's a horrible, horrible feeling, and I'm angry for Mycroft as much as for myself. If I ever catch the bloody bastard responsible, there will be hell to pay!

"We only have your word for that. And we've seen what that's worth." Abruptly, dramatically, Sherlock flops himself on the sofa, lying stretched out with his hands behind his head, and his feet toward me. I glance down at his shoes on the upholstery; I hate when people do that. Sherlock follows my glance and gives me a tight little smile. The brat is going to rub it in that this isn't really my flat.

"Well then," Sherlock drawls, "Just for now, let's assume I take your word for this." He punctuates that with another little smile. "You had no knowledge of your employer's identity, and no idea that anyone had bugged this flat. You are merely an honest whore trying to make an honest living, if such a thing exists. Why is it, then," he sits up suddenly, feigning consternation, "Why is it that you were close friends with an extremely well-connected drug-runner and smuggler? Why have you been meeting with his criminal connections? Why are you now a member of their sales staff, so to speak? Or, are you just a customer?"

I open my mouth, and close it again. I never considered how recent events might look from the outside, I never thought I would have to. "I didn't know Steen was running drugs; I knew he was mixed up in some terrible things, but I didn't know what. As for the rest, well, it's a long story! But, Mycroft knows about everything that I've been doing, and if he's on board, why should you have a problem with it?"

Sherlock jumps off the sofa again, restless. "Because my brother and I often disagree in our methods. And, I suspect that his judgment might be impaired." He says the last bit reluctantly.

"That's harsh," I comment. From what I know of the two of them, that's about the harshest criticism Sherlock could make. "And completely untrue. I don't think there's anything wrong with his judgment at the moment ––"

"Well, obviously you wouldn't, would you?"

I throw up my hands. "Right. No matter what I tell you, you're not going to believe me, so I guess there's no point in further conversation, is there? And by the way, you're off the case, did you know that? Mycroft told me that he deduced who shot Steen, and who gave the order for it." Sherlock has no reaction to that at all, so I glance at John, but his face remains stony as well. He obviously told Sherlock already, but no big deal.

"The information hasn't been passed along to the police," Sherlock states flatly.

"No, Mycroft said he was going to see to the matter himself."

"And you trust him?" Sherlock's nose wrinkles up in disdain, his voice is mocking. "Why?"

I don't deign to answer that, instead popping up off the arm of the sofa toward the kitchen. "Well! It's certainly been delightful conversing with you gentlemen. I'm going to put the kettle on. Will you have a cup of tea before you leave, or are you leaving right now?"

Neither of them answer, so I shrug and go to hide in my kitchen for a few minutes, putting on the kettle and leaning against the far wall, out of view. Sherlock's hostility toward me is so maddening! He just won't give me the benefit of the doubt, not an inch, and there's no reason...

No reason, except that I'm a living, breathing testament to his big brother's human frailty. If Sherlock looks up to Mycroft at all –– and I suspect that he does –– then he's likely to resent the hell out of anything or anyone that reveals his brother's less admirable sides. The problem with idols is that they invariably turn out to have feet of clay.

I can hear them talking in low tones over there, and I'm hoping that John can talk some sense into Sherlock. Yeah, right; the blind leading the blind. When my tea is ready, I gather up my mug and pad back out to the sitting room.

"So, any more accusations to hurl at me? Any more sneering to be done?" I curl up in the vacant armchair. "Better get it in now, because I have a full afternoon planned of clandestine dealings with criminal characters and shooting up armfuls of quality smack, followed by as much lying and smuggling as I can find the time for. How about you?" I ask brightly.

Both men stare at me for a moment, Sherlock frowning fiercely. Finally he says, "You are are either innocent, or you are one of the best liars I have ever seen. And I have seen a few."

"Better than Mary?" John's mouth twists a little as he looks up at Sherlock.

"At least as good." Sherlock moves closer to my chair again, looking down at me like I'm an interesting specimen or something. I sip my tea, deciding that there's no point in standing up and being all confrontational, or even trying to convince him of anything. Nothing I can say is going to change what he thinks. He's a bit irrational where Mycroft is concerned.

Ha! Just as Mycroft is kind of irrational about things that concern Sherlock. That's pretty funny. I look up into Sherlock's eyes with a genuine smile.

His frown of concentration turns into an annoyed sneer. "Don't try to seduce me, Miss Talbot. It might work on John, but never on me."

"I'm not!" I object.

"I haven't been seduced by her!" objects John.

Sherlock doesn't take his eyes off my face. "That's not what Mrs. Hudson said."

"Well, Mrs. Hudson is wrong."

"Not about things like that. She knows her tarts."

I have to snort at that, remembering the evening when I went calling at Baker Street. "Takes one to know one!"

"I suppose it does." Sherlock folds his arms across his chest, still looking down at me.

I don't like him staring like that, so I verbally poke at him. "You know, I'm not convinced that those cameras aren't yours, Sherlock."

He looks disgusted and turns away. "Don't be revolting."

"Well, you had one of your homeless network people watching my comings and goings to pinpoint this place! Why is it such a stretch to think you would bug it as well?"

Sherlock rounds on me again. "I haven't had anyone watching you. I didn't need to. It was ridiculously easy to locate this flat," he says disdainfully.

I'm surprised. "So, Ferret Lady wasn't one of your spies?"

John laughs, "Ferret Lady? That's a new one."

"Not one of mine." Sherlock says firmly. "Why did you think this person was spying on you? She was probably just looking for a handout."

"Because she told me so! I struck up a conversation with her, and she admitted it, although she wouldn't tell me who was paying her. Mycroft said she was undoubtedly working for you, that it was an old game and I should pay it no mind..." I swear that Sherlock's ears flush a little pink at the edge; evidently it embarrasses him that I know about that. "But if you're sure she wasn't one of yours, then who was she working for?"

"Whom. No idea," Sherlock murmurs, and roams back to the window.

"Have you seen her recently?" John shifts around, and glances at my mug of tea. Well, I offered already; now he can just suffer.

"No, not since last week. And there haven't been any other obvious watchers, besides my usual security team..."

"You have a security detail?" John seems slightly incredulous.

Before I can answer, Sherlock cuts in languidly, "Yes, Mycroft does like to look after his things."

Things. I roll my eyes and sip my tea.

John turns his head toward Sherlock. "CCTV cameras outside as well?"

"Of course, although they would be on a private channel. He has his own security network."

"Hmm. So he knows we're here?"

"Undoubtedly."

"What's he going to do about it?"

"Absolutely nothing. Well, nothing directly. Rules of the game. He'll never mention it, neither will I, but he'll make an indirect response of some kind, eventually. When he thinks I'm not expecting it."

John and I exchange a look, and I know that he's thinking the same thing I am; Right, those two are something else!

I sigh, and finish the last of my tea, thinking furiously. So. Ferret Lady skulks around to pinpoint which flat is mine. Surveillance cameras are planted in here at some time, I'm not sure when. Same person responsible for both? Obviously Mycroft is the target, but why? Blackmail is unlikely to be the motive, so what is?

Sherlock comes back to the sofa, this time sitting down on it properly. "Who else has a key to this flat?"

"I don't know. Mycroft, of course. I don't know about the security people ––Oh! The cleaners. They come every Monday and Thursday."

"Have they been here when you're away?

"Every time! I absolutely hate being in a place when it's cleaned, so I always disappear for a few hours when they come."

John leans forward, elbows on knees. "Well, that sounds quite convenient for them. What cleaning company?"

I envision the cleaners pulling their kit out of the big, white van, with a splashy purple-and-green logo on it..."Thistle Domestics." I feel a surge of excitement. "That has to be it! The cleaners. They have to have been the ones planting the cameras, I gave them the perfect opportunity every time they came!"

"Yes," Sherlock says thoughtfully, "You gave them the perfect opportunity."

I reach down to put my empty mug on the floor. "Accidentally! I certainly wasn't intending to help them out."

"Of course not." I peer at Sherlock carefully, but his voice and face are so neutral that I can't tell if he's being sarcastic or not. I decide to assume he's being sincere.

"Right." I sigh and rearrange my long legs in the chair. "I just wish I knew why they were bothering with it." A thought strikes me. "What if it isn't Mycroft they're after? What if it's me? The Pigman, Doreshchenko, is pretty desperate to find a copy of the code-book to decipher the Torch document. He knows I had the Torch, maybe he thinks I have a code-book as well?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "There was definitely only one copy of the code-book, and the person who had it––"

"Has flown the coop, with Mycroft at his heels!"

"In a manner of speaking, although apprehending suspects isn't in Mycroft's current job description, you know. He's gone to negotiate for Mr. Cobb's extradition."

"Have they recovered the code book?"

Sherlock says blandly, "It's in safekeeping."

I have the feeling that it would be a display of too much interest to continue asking questions about this, so I close my mouth with a snap. I really hope that they've got all the lab notes and all the code books, though, and that the whole Torch business can be laid to rest. And that Mr. Cobb goes to prison for treason, at least, and a whole bunch of other things besides.

I realize that Sherlock is waiting to see if I'll ask more questions about the Torch. I just smile at him, and wait.

He leans back on the sofa, hands clasped behind his dark curls. Finally, he asks, "Have you ever considered, Miss Talbot, how many coincidences surround you? A flurry of coincidence. You happen to work for a vicious blackmailer, you happen to be close friends with the man who steals the Torch document, who happens to leave it with you for safekeeping, you happen to become acquainted with the one police detective who would bring it to me for examination, then you happen to attend a function where the man who has the Torch code-book happens to be meeting with his prospective buyers; all that, and you also just happen to be in Mycroft's employ as well. Surely even you can grasp that it's a strange series of 'coincidences?'"

I ignore the insult. "But there's something that you're not taking into account–– I'm not involved in any of this by my own design. I didn't choose Mycroft, he chose me. He had to have known about most of these connections, I can't imagine that he wouldn't know. Yet, he still chose me. Why?"

Tension ripples over Sherlock's face. "He might not know as much as you think. He's...not infallible. As for why he chose you ––" Sherlock jumps up from the sofa to roam around the room again. "There is a certain resemblance, especially with that hair-cut...and that also cannot be coincidence... Someone knew his weaknesses, and set you up to prey on them. You have obviously been calculated as bait!" He spits out the last word angrily, but he's not looking at me.

"Um, I beg to differ with you there," I say mildly. "Mycroft himself was the one who arranged for me to look like this –– on a whim, he said." I fluff my drying fringe a little. "I think it was more of a tribute than anything else, really." Sherlock stops prowling around and looks at me, his face unreadable. "The resemblance is actually very minor," I continue, "If you've seen one pretty blue-eyed blonde with great cheekbones, I think you've just about seen them all." I stand up and stretch, then lazily scoop up my mug from the floor.

Sherlock steps in front of me again, John rising to stand silently at his shoulder. "So you honestly believe that all of this is mere chance?"

"Nope. I definitely see the hand of a mastermind in it. Mycroft's hand, to be specific. No doubt there's another player or two in it as well, but I'm certain that it's Mycroft's show."

Sherlock narrows his eyes. "And you are content to let him run it? To run you? Do you enjoy being a pawn?"

"No!" The vehemence in my voice surprises me. "No, I don't like it at all, but I don't hate it enough to give up everything else. I LIKE being involved in this spy stuff! It's exciting, and I feel like I'm part of something important. I like that. So if the only way I get to play the game is as a pawn, well, then, a pawn it is." I shrug philosophically.

John points out, "Pawns are expendable, Angelica."

"So are queens," I tell him. "It all depends on your strategy."

"Every piece is expendable," Sherlock adds, "Except the king." He moves a half-step closer, daring me to stand my ground. "One last question, Miss Talbot. Tell me, what is my brother to you?"

The question takes me by surprise, and I fumble it for a few seconds. Sherlock jumps into the breach, mockingly helpful. "Is he your patron? Your client? Your pal?" His lip curls again with disdain, "Boyfriend? Lover? Sugar daddy?"

I repress a giggle at that last one, the term strikes me as ludicrous when applied to Mycroft –– but here I am again. Just what does a mistress call the man who engages her? For such a rich language, English has a few surprising bare spots. I could say, He told me I'm his mistress, but that's what I am to him, not what he is to me. What is he to me?

"He's Mycroft," I shrug helplessly. "What else can you say?"

Sherlock blinks. I don't think he was expecting that. He gives me one last measuring look, then whirls away to the entry and takes down his coat. "It's time we were going."

John hesitates before following suit. He presses his lips together for a moment, then admits to me, "I... think you are owed an apology for us breaking into your flat like this." He glances over at Sherlock, who is buttoning his coat against the rain. "But there's a lot at stake here. There is a lot more going on than you realize ––"

"If ignorance is bliss, then she is in ecstasy," Sherlock pronounces, flipping up his collar.

John gives him a Look, then turns back to me. "––and it's not all fun and games. You could wind up dead, like your friend. You really need to stay out of things you don't understand, okay? There are healthier ways for you to get some excitement."

"Thanks," I tell him as he goes to get his jacket. "And, John?" He turns, zipping it and fastening the collar tight. "I'm sorry I lied to you. I can tell that bothered you."

"Well, you were right. It was none of my business." He gives me a quick smile, and they're gone.

I turn the deadbolt after the door closes behind them, but it's just a gesture; my sense of security is now totally shattered. I go to make another cup of tea, then stare at the whistling kettle and turn it off, instead going to the the sideboard and pouring myself a strong drink. Damn, damn, damn. I want a smoke, too, so I grab my case and go sit by the opened bedroom window with my brandy and my cigarette.

The rain has settled into a steady light shower, whipping against the buildings as the wind tosses the tree branches around mercilessly; the dark clouds overhead are so thick that the day seems much later than it actually is.

I think I convinced Sherlock of my innocence; by the time he left, he was less hostile, and so was John. I wish that Sherlock would tell me why he thinks that the person who owns the Agency is involved in blackmail. I guess just because I haven't been approached about passing on information about clients, it doesn't mean that other escorts haven't –– and they might have been paid big money for the information. I mean, just some of the stuff that they've been talking about on the forum this morning, that would make for some juicy blackmail, if you could produce even a tiny smudge of proof...but of course you'd have to have proof, wouldn't you? Like those photos that the Russian, Mica, had of Cobb and Calypso...

I exhale my smoke out the window, breathing in the sharpness of wet grass and pavement. So, now what? I'd like to go after the cleaners and find out who (whom? damn Sherlock!) they are working for, but I gave my word to Mycroft that I would try to avoid getting into trouble until he gets back. Not that that will stop me, exactly, but I will try to behave. Besides, I reckon that Thistle Domestics was John and Sherlock's next stop, and I don't want to be scurrying around in their wake. What else is there?

Ferret Lady. I believe Sherlock when he said that she wasn't one of his –– so who does she work for? I wasn't very successful with getting information out of her before, but I didn't try all that hard, either. Now, I'm a lot more motivated.

And, to find her? Sara. Ferret Lady would have given Sara some sort of address when she took Edgar to the animal clinic, even if it was just the day centre that she frequents, or her hostel, if she's not sleeping rough. I stub out my cig in the little saucer that I brought up for an ashtray, and close the window to keep the wind and rain out before pulling out my phone. It's midday on a Tuesday, Sara's probably with a patient or something, but I can at least leave a message.

I'm in luck. My sister picks it up immediately, although it's probably because she's still worried about me; I can tell that she's with a patient, so the convo is brief and to the point. After I assure her that I am well and whole, Sara quickly pulls up Edgar's records and gives me the address of the homeless day centre listed as a contact. I jot it down, reassure Sara once more that I'm really quite well, and promise to phone her again later this evening for a proper chat.

Looking up the day centre's address on my phone, I discover that it's not too far away from here; only about ten minutes by tube, although walking to and from the stations and waiting for the train will take a lot longer. I'd best get started.

As I start to pull off my clothes, I pause for a moment and consider; is this avoiding "questionable associates?" I mean, I can't imagine that going to a homeless centre is a dangerous situation, and Mona herself is no more dangerous than that ferret she wears in her brassiere, but I can't in good conscience say that she's not questionable. Still, hard to see what harm could come of it.

It's no weather for miniskirts today, so I dig out my skinny jeans and add a few extra layers over my crop top, finishing with my brown leather jacket to keep the rain off, and my ankle boots to keep my feet dry. And, of course, my insanely cheerful umbrella.

I'm not too wild about the crowds on the tube at the best of times, but on a wet day, it simply reeks of damp humanity. Wet clothes, moist hair, ugh. I make the trip stoically, and by the time I'm walking along the block checking addresses, the rain is beginning to turn back to heavy mist, and the wind is calming down.

The day centre isn't hard to find, a big old brick storefront of some sort that's been facelifted with a bright and modern marquee. I contemplate the building for a moment...it's not very tall, very unlikely to have a lift of any sort in it that I would have to go near...

God, is this going to be how it is for me from now on, casing buildings to make sure they don't have lifts before I can enter? That's really mental.

I square up my shoulders, and go in. The place is more populated than I would have thought for a summer day, although the rain likely has something to do with it. This must be the main lounge area; there are maybe twenty tables of various shapes and sizes, with plastic chairs in cheerful primary colours. The people sitting at them are playing cards or chatting over a cup of tea, although some are just staring off into space. The far end has more occupied chairs, clustered around a blaring telly. I start to make a slow circuit of the room, looking for Mona the Ferret Lady.

Before long I feel a tap on my arm, and turn around to see that she's spotted me first. Her wrinkled face is creased in a smile, and for an awful moment I am sure that she's going to hug me, but then she manages to control herself.

"Well, now, if it in't you, little Angelica!" she says happily. "How 'ave you been?"

"Fine, thanks," I answer automatically. "How are you? How is Edgar? Are his eyes better?"

She smiles even more broadly, the wrinkle that is her mouth threatening to split her face wide open with delight. "You came to check on 'em! I knew it!" she crows.

I admit that one of my purposes here was indeed to check on Edgar, and Mona lays a finger on her lips, then crooks it at me to lean closer to her. I do, reluctantly, and she raises the other arm up were I can look down her sleeve –– and I see two beady eyes peering back at me. Edgar pokes his pink nose out a little, twitches a whisker, then pulls his head back in like a turtle into its shell.

"He looks fantastic!" I whisper to Mona, and she nods delightedly.

"Those eye drops worked a treat, an' fast, too! Your sister is such a dear, she checked 'im all over, gave 'im a proper examination. Edgar told me he really liked 'er." Mona grasps my elbow tightly. "C'mon, why don' you have a cuppa here with me? It's not very good, but it's free."

We settle in at one of the smaller tables with our disposable cups of watery tea, and I have my first-ever long chat with a homeless person. She's slightly mad, of course, but once you accept that, she's actually very pleasant conversation. As she's rambling out her life story to me, I listen to her train of thought jump oddly around and think, wow, classic mild schizophrenia. Lack of personal hygiene, rambling thought patterns, strangely slurred speech, paranoia, delusional perceptions... I ask her if she's taking any medications to help with "you know, things."

"They're always tryin' to poison me, if tha' whatcher mean," she grumbles. "Little white tablets, the little white tablets. Make my stomach hurt, from the poison."

That's classic, too, the paranoia interfering with treatment. I sigh. She could improve; what she needs is a minder, someone who cares enough to convince her to take her meds and other treatment, but I'm not volunteering for it. I feel a twinge of guilt about that; if I were a better person, I would try to help her.

She starts to go off on a wobbling tangent about the government using mobile phones for mind-control, and I gently interrupt her to get to what I came for.

"Mona, I really, really need to know who hired you to find out where I live, the bloke who thought Edgar was nasty. Can you please tell me? Please?"

Her eyes shift around guiltily. "I don' remember, I don' remember. Don' know 'is name, do I, Edgar?"

"Oh, please, you have to help me! I might be in terrible danger from this man, and I have to know who he is so I can defend myself! You have to help me, Mona."

Shrinking down into herself, Ferret Lady looks guilty and sad. "I'm sorry. So sorry. I don' feel half 'shamed of myself. I went that day an' told 'im. I told 'im, even though you was so very nice and all, I told 'im. 'Cuz I was afraid, you see? Not for the money. Well, not jus' the money." She reaches out a grimy hand and clasps it over mine resting on the table. "I'm sorry, a better person than me wouldna done it." She pats my hand, and lets it go.

I sigh. "Well, if it makes you feel any better, I understand. Really, I do. But, you can still make it up to me by telling me his name!"

Mona hesitates for a minute, then gets a gleam in her eye, and, reaching furtively up her sleeve, she coaxes Edgar out. The little ferret does look normal again; his eyes are clear and free from discharge, and he looks around like a ferret should, alert and curious. Shielding him from onlookers with her considerable bulk, Mona pets Edgar's head and leans over the little table toward me.

"That man said if I broke my promise 'n told anyone, he'd be killin' both me and Edgar, so I don' dare, you see? But Edgar can, 'cuz he didn't make no promises! So bend down close, here!"

I look at the ferret, and then at her. Oh, for god's sake. Well, let's see what I can do with this. I bend down over the table, leaning one ear over the ferret's head. I feel him sniff curiously at my ear, tickling whiskers brushing against my earlobe. I give it a moment, then straighten up and sadly shake my head.

"What's the matter?" Mona asks. "You heard that, dintja? I heard 'im say it, plain as day!"

I shake my head again, "Nope." But, I suddenly have an idea. "Well, I mean, I heard him, of course I heard him! But, Mona, I don't speak Ferret like you do! You'll have to translate for him."

"Whatcher mean? Edgar speaks English, clear as you!"

"Nope. Ferret. I think you hear it in English because you speak Ferret so well, but not all of us are that lucky. Please, will you translate for me?" I give her my most winning smile, and Mona the Ferret Lady doesn't know what to do. She converses in whispers with Edgar for a moment, but then a social worker comes near our table and Mona quickly stuffs Edgar back up her sleeve. I don't think she's supposed to have her pet here, but I can see that the social worker is perfectly aware of Edgar; the young woman smiles indulgently at Mona and deliberately turns her head away.

Mona motions me to lean forward to talk more privately, and the rank smell of her is almost painful. I really don't want to be this close, but I really do want to find out what she knows! I hold my breath and wait.

"Now, I'm only tellin' you what Edgar said, right? Nothin' of my own, only wha' he said. The man's name is McCutcheon. He's the one paid me to find you out, and you gotta be careful 'cuz he's mad. Hateful, and mad. Edgar says, be careful, right? Look sharp, and be careful."

McCutcheon! CIA-man-turned-drug dealer, the angry little man all in black? Why would he want to pinpoint which flat was mine? It doesn't make sense! Unless...well, unless he wanted to plant surveillance cameras in it...

That fucking bastard. I am so going to scorch him.