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? ;)

33. Chapter Thirty-three

Chapter Thirty-three: "Should I stay or should I go now?/If I go there will be trouble/An' if I stay it will be double/So come on and let me know . . ." ~ The Clash

Oh, god, my poor legs are so sore I don't even want to move. And my back, and shoulders. And my bum . . . Just rolling over is a trial –– ow! I guess it's going to take a while to get used to cycling. The bedside clock tells me that it's after nine o'clock, and my bladder tells me that it's time to get up.

Limping to the toilet is an effort, and while I'm in there I take a hot shower to try and ease my sorry muscles. It helps, but not enough. My left leg bloody hurts! I run my fingers gingerly across the wound on my thigh, tender pink flesh swelling around a jagged, dark puncture. Damn.

I didn't have the energy last night to clean the wound, much less dress it; I barely made it back to Whitechapel at all. I was so exhausted by the time I staggered into the flat that I simply locked the door, threw down the bike, peeled off my clothes, and literally crawled into bed.

Sitting now on the edge of the tousled bed, I take a closer look at my leg. The swollen area is about the size of my palm, but I don't see any evidence yet of the tell-tale red streaks that would mean blood poisoning; it's a rare childhood where somebody doesn't run into a nail or a splinter occasionally, and both Sara and I had had our share of incidents. I vividly remember the doctor lecturing Auntie about tending to puncture wounds like this promptly, and what can happen if you don't.

I hunt down some antiseptic and a big plaster in the bathroom cupboard to carefully patch up my thigh, and then turn my attention to making breakfast. In celebration of yet another brilliant escape, I decide to splurge and heat up a tin of beans AND a tin of spaghetti to go with my morning tea. Oh, decadence! I wish I'd lashed out for a loaf of bread as well as the milk; some toast would be very welcome right now, and some fresh fruit or veg. I'm bloody tired of just beans and spaghetti.

To be honest, I'm bloody tired of a lot of things. Like, being on the run. Not being able to access my bank accounts. Not knowing what the hell is really going on! Not understanding why I'm in this so deep . . . it's really like I've fallen down the rabbit hole, and probably the only reason I haven't lost my mind is that I wasn't too sane to begin with.

Everyone –– Mycroft, John, McCutcheon, everyone –– keeps vaguely hinting that there is SO much more going on than I am aware of . . . but they go merrily on keeping me in the dark all the same. I'm bloody tired of that, too.

After I finish my "feast" and drain the dregs from my mug, I put the washing-up in the sink and lean over the kitchen bench, suddenly weary. I run my fingers through my cropped hair, pushing the long fringe out of my eyes, and turn so I can look up into the sunshine spilling down through the filthy skylight directly overhead. I should feel proud of myself; I foiled McCutcheon's scheme to get the code book and sell it. I made sure that it got back into the right hands, and I avoided being captured by some of the best there is. For an average-Jane uni dropout, I'm not doing too badly here.

So why do I feel like a loser? I consider that while I wash up the few things from breakfast and put them away. Maybe it's because I'm not even slightly in control of my life right now. I'm reacting to situations, not creating them.

It doesn't help that I don't know what to think anymore. I was certain at first that Mycroft was out to dispose of me, but now . . . I'm not sure. Having his men use tranq darts instead of bullets, those texts practically begging me to cooperate . . . . Of course, that could all have been just him being clever, telling me what I want to hear. He's certainly capable of telling anyone anything, anything at all, so why on earth should I believe him? Even his own brother thought I was a fool for trusting Mycroft.

Sighing, I dry my hands and lower myself down on Barry's tattered loveseat, broken springs creaking under me. What are my options, realistically? I can take at face value what Mycroft has been saying, that I am in danger, but not from him, and go turn myself in so he can protect me.

Right. Because he cares so much, and only has my best interests at heart. If he even has one . . . .

. . . no point in going down that road again, Angelica. He is what he is.

Okay. Or, I can continue to doubt every word that comes out of his mouth, assume that he plans to kill me sooner rather than later, and stay on the run, building a life for myself somewhere away from here. That actually sounds like the safer of the two options, although it has the fairly enormous downside of requiring lots of ready cash, of which I have very little at the moment.

It also means that I very likely won't ever find out what's really been going on down here in the rabbit hole; the Torch thing, Steen, that business with Magnussun and the Agency . . . I'll have to live with never knowing for sure how any of it fits together, what really happened.

It's surprising how much that bothers me.

I roll off the loveseat to go excavate my dwindling packet of cigarettes, pulling one out to light as I limp restlessly around the small studio, thinking. Blindly trusting Mycroft is only an attractive option because it would be incredibly easy to let him continue to be in charge. All I have to do is lie back and close my eyes . . . No. Just, no. No more.

But running, that will take resources. Fake i.d.'s and plane tickets aren't cheap, and right now, I have –– I pull out my wallet to check –– I have just twenty-two pounds in cash, a transit pass that's nearly exhausted, and a bicycle that I don't want to ride very far at the moment because my leg hurts.

I could get out there and hustle, work the streets, do whatever I have to do to make enough money to get away and start over, but I'm really reluctant. I've only ever done escorting for the Agency, so I don't know anything about the business as an independent beyond what I've seen in the adverts on various websites . . . and from the adverts, it looks like kind of a desperate business, at least for lower-end sex workers. Working under the auspices of a regular escort service is right out; I don't doubt that they'd take me on, but they'd also quite reasonably insist on publishing my photos all over the internet. Not a good idea if you're trying to hide.

Well, aside from all that, honestly, the idea of settling for a lower class of clientele than I'm used to is completely revolting. Less money, less appealing, more dangerous; I suppose I'm rather spoiled, but I'd better start getting un-spoiled. I can't get a civilian job without showing my identification, so that doesn't leave me too many other options . . . Options!

I slam my fist against a wall in sudden frustration –– for fuck's sake, this shouldn't even be an issue! I have money in the bank already, more than enough! I shouldn't have to work my arse off all over again. It's maddening. And the more I think about my situation, the angrier I get. Scowling, I finish off my cig and toss the butt into the sink.

I want my life back. Mycroft Holmes has it, and I want it back. He wants me to cooperate? He wants me to trust him? Fine, then he's going to have to show me some cooperation first, and even then . . . .

I retrieve my discarded clothes from the floor and wrinkle my nose; all of it is filthy, reeking of sweat and dirt, the jeans torn and spotted with blood. I scrounge around some more in Barry's wardrobe and come up with a pair of very-worn black jeans, a black t-shirt with some abstract logos on it, and a tattered grey hoodie. The clothes are more ragged than I would like, but since artsy dole-scum is the look I'm aiming for –– nobody likes to see poverty, making poor people essentially invisible much of the time –– I decide to go with it anyway.

As I'm doing my hair, working product into the fringe so it will stay down and conceal as much of my face as much as possible, I notice that the screaming ginger colour is starting to fade to a calmer hue; not a bad thing, although I'll have to re-do the stain before it fades away to pink in another wash or two. Don't see too many blokes with pale pink hair.

The big question, now: Tube or bike? The bright sunlight flooding down from the skylights and high windows tells me it's probably a rare sunny day out there, so that's a plus for cycling. On the other hand, my legs are still a touch wobbly, and under the plaster my injury throbs faintly in tune with my pulse. But . . . I like the idea of not being tied to public transit. I don't seem to have been spotted yet on the CCTV feeds –– Mycroft would have me in custody by now if that were the case –– but every time I go through the turnstile on the tube or board a bus, I'm increasing my chances of being caught.

So bike it is, although I won't be able to go far. After a moment's thought, a place occurs to me that's only a couple of miles away, and it should be perfect: restful, quiet, and green. The perfect place for a little heart-to-heart chat. Adjusting the helmet as comfortably as I can, I wrangle the bike back out of the flat and onto the street. My legs hurt more than I want to admit, but it gets easier with each minute as my muscles warm up and the blood starts pumping.

I'm amazed at how quickly I'm able to move through the traffic that clogs the city even on a Saturday, smoothly weaving around traffic-slowed cars and wandering pedestrians. City cycling means you have to keep your wits about you to avoid getting flattened, but I even like that part; I have to admit that the danger even makes it a bit fun.

Less than fifteen minutes puts me at the elaborate iron gates of a derelict Victorian cemetery. A lovely old place, the whole thirty acres is kept untouched as an urban nature reserve, with birds and squirrels and who-knows-what rustling around in the woodland. Like most old cemeteries, it's really peaceful –– and just a bit creepy. More than just a bit, to be honest, but maybe I'm easily spooked today.

I pedal slowly down one of the the winding, shady dirt paths. There's not a soul in sight at the moment, save for an oldie in jorts who's either a professional dog-walker or has an animal-hoarding problem; his five little multicoloured mutts yap and twirl on their leads until I'm out of sight. Eventually I spy a worn wooden bench in a pool of sunlight, surrounded by huge shrubs and mossy granite memorials. Slinging my helmet over the bike handlebars, I settle in on the bench with a sigh, stretching out my poor, abused legs and shivering a little, feeling a chill despite the sunshine. Must be the damp.

I thumb on my little mobile, and, as an experiment, phone a branch of my bank that has Saturday hours. When I give the terribly nice clerk my account and PIN number and ask him to check the balance, I first hear clacking keystrokes, then a long silence. Finally he clears his throat a few times. "I'm afraid that I'll need to refer this to the accounts manager. May I tell her who is requesting this information?"

I ring off; there's no point in taking it any further. My accounts are probably flagged as criminally suspect or something. So, giving back the bloody code-book hasn't changed a bloody thing, has it? I know who to thank for that. As I sit and marshal my thoughts, I get a creeping feeling and shiver again –– it's sunny today, why isn't it warm? I tug my hoodie closer around me, resisting the urge to pull the rucksack off my back and dig out my last cigarette; I may need it worse later.

So I sit and bite my nails instead and, when I feel ready, I punch in Mycroft's number, waiting with butterflies in my stomach to see if he'll answer.

There's a faint click, then a long pause.

"Hey," I say, more softly than I meant to. "Hey."

"Angel," he replies just as quietly, then he drawls, more loudly, "You haven't travelled very far today. I do hope your leg isn't hurting you too much."

Damn him! How does he know? I consider for a split second; Mycroft would have examined the place where I escaped, looking for clues, and probably saw my blood on the cut fence wire. So, he knows I'm injured, and he knows me well enough to guess that I'll try to use the bike to get around anyway; hence, he knows I can't have come far from my bolt-hole. Great. That's just great. I should have thought of that.

I glance around me at the overgrown, wild terrain, wondering if I should get out of here...then I realise that if he really knew where I was, I would already be passed out with a tranq dart in my arse. Right. More Mycroft games.

"Mycroft, why are my accounts still frozen?" I cut right to the chase. "I haven't done anything wrong! You have no right!"

"I will do whatever it takes to get you to see reason. Your life is at stake."

"Yes it is, and that's why I'm staying away from you! Listen, if you want me to trust you at all, you need to show me some trust first. I want you to release my bank funds so I can access them."

He makes an exasperated noise. "You need to stop this foolishness, Angel! I can't help you if you insist on treating me like the enemy."

"Then stop acting like one! Prove to me that you're not!"

"I am trying to help you! I'm doing my best to put things right, but ––"

"Then put things right! Just, leave me alone. Let me have my money, and leave me alone. I'll be fine."

"No, you won't be fine. You need to come into protective custody."

"Give me my money and I'll think about it."

"There isn't time for negotiation, Angel! Listen to me! I need you to remain where you are, I have someone coming around for you now. Just, stay where you are. They'll take care you."

He has someone coming for me? A shock of adrenaline flares through me: I half-rise from my seat, ready to get the hell away from here . . . then slowly sit down again. Games. He's trying to provoke me into running. If I were to take off in a panic with my mobile still on, my movements would make it simple for him to triangulate and pinpoint my position. Nope, not doing it. But, the longer I stay on the line with him, the more pings they can run randomly from other towers, looking for a match. . . . He probably thinks he's got me nailed either way. I gotta wrap this up.

"Bollocks," I tell him. "I'm not falling for that. Get this through your head: I'm not even going to consider coming in unless you release my accounts, full stop. Do you thi––"

The sudden, loud noise to my left doesn't register as a gunshot right away, even though the slug opens a divot of dark earth in the path just beyond my outstretched feet; I stare open-mouthed at the little gouge as my brain grapples with the twin ideas of "bullet" and "gunshot." Then: Holy hell, someone's trying to kill me!

In a flood of rage and terror I scream into the phone, "You fucking bastard!" and throw it away as hard as I can, snatching up my bike to dash down the path and throw one leg over, pedalling helter-skelter toward the park gates. There are two more loud bangs from somewhere behind me, and the whine of a ricochet off of stone. I hunch over and give it my all, the cycle helmet thumping and rattling against the spokes of the front wheel as I ram the pedals down again and again, my breath tearing in deep gasps.

I have to get out of this bloody park! There are too many places for a shooter to hide, in bushes and behind monuments . . . and the place is nearly deserted; no witnesses . . . I really set myself up, didn't I? I couldn't have made it any easier if I had tried!

Up ahead I can see the park gate, and the busy street beyond; then I'm through it and out, dodging down side-streets and skidding around corners, darting a zig-zag course that I'm praying will be impossible to follow. I have no idea where I'm going, except that it's away from the park and as fast as I can go.

Eventually I have to slow down; my legs simply can't take any more, and even though my pulse is still pounding in my ears and I'm on the verge of panic, I have to sit down. I find a corner behind a stinking skip in a narrow, deserted alley, and sink down on the dirty pavement, putting my cycle in front of me like a barricade and leaning my head against the rough brick wall, chest heaving.

The stress must be getting to me, I don't feel at all well. I close my eyes, and just focus on getting my breath back. God, this must be what it's like to be a soldier; war must be literal hell. You'd either develop nerves of steel or fold up and crawl away. Or get killed, I suppose.

I myself plan to try for the nerves of steel option, although I'd just as soon not get shot at any more.

At least now I know for fucking sure that fucking Mycroft is out to kill me: "I have someone coming for you, they'll take care of you" he says, and next thing I know I'm up for target practice! Obviously, the only reason that he had his men use tranq darts yesterday was for the sake of appearances, because today, with no witnesses around, he sure as fuck wasn't having his sniper shoot darts. Those were bullets, and I'm more than lucky to be alive and unhurt.

Well, alive, not so sure about the unhurt. I swallow down a few sips of water, and try my legs to see if I can stand. Not easily, but leaning my back against the rough, crumbling brick wall for support, I force myself to rise all the way, closing my eyes against the prickle of tears welling at the deep, burning ache in my left leg; my mad flight has made it hurt much worse now, and I bloody hate pain! It's not fair that I should have gotten injured on top of everything else –– and there's not even anyone around to feel sorry for me. I've always been good at parlaying my hurts into tea and sympathy . . .

A chill ripples through me again, and I shiver hard. Damn this climate, it's the middle of August, can't we have even a little bit of summer? I lever my hands against the wall behind me to straighten up, and realise that the rough brick feels warm to my palms; it's not chilly today at all. I press a hand to my forehead; it's burning hot. I have a fever. Oh, that's just splendid, isn't it! How much more wonderful could things get? I have a psycho ex-client determined to kill me, AND a life-threatening infection. What the actual fuck.

My shoulders sag with the realisation of how much trouble I'm in. People die all the time from wounds that go septic. I need to find a doctor . . .and I'd be stupid to think that Mycroft won't anticipate that. He knows I have a deep puncture wound in my leg, and he was able to guess that I wouldn't ride very far on it today. He's probably got all the clinics and hospitals in London on the alert for a patient matching my general description and injury . . .

Okay, then, I'll just go to Sara. She's a veterinarian, she can get antibiotics, and I know she'll help me. Except that, first of all, I really, really don't want to drag her into this, and secondly, Mycroft will be expecting me to run to my sister. He'll be prepared for that. So –– what could I do that he might not anticipate?

I could rob a pharmacy for some antibiotics. Well, except I've got no weapon, and I'm no good at being menacing. Sneak into a hospital, pose as a porter or something and raid the drugs cabinet? Risky, and anyway I have no idea what medicine I should take. What I need is a doctor who's willing to work with me under the table, and who'll do it for nothing more than a smile and a promise. . . .

John Watson. He's a doctor, he was sympathetic to me, and he's already up to his ears in all this. The question is, would Mycroft anticipate that I'd go to John for help? Sherlock would have reported the bugs that he found in the Knightsbridge flat; no, not just reported, he would have gleefully rubbed it in, so Mycroft has to know that Sherlock despises me. Would he assume that John does as well? I feel that it's likely.

But can I trust John to not turn me in? And will he believe that Mycroft is trying to have me killed? From what I saw on Tuesday, he and Sherlock don't work for Mycroft, but they're not exactly working against him either. Sherlock was genuinely furious at the thought that I was helping someone spy on his brother. On the other hand, that mightn't have been personal at all; Sherlock might have been equally furious if it had been some other person in a position of power being set up for manipulation. I don't know him well enough to tell.

My head is spinning with trying to figure out what to do, and it's not getting me anywhere, so I give up on mental calculations and just go with what I know, from the gut.

I know that John probably won't believe me, but he'll help me, because turning away an innocent person who genuinely needs his help just wouldn't occur to him. And Sherlock won't turn me in, much as he loathes me, because knowing something that Mycroft doesn't will make him far too pleased with himself.

I also know that I can put up with Sherlock if I have to, in order to get John's help. Right. So, now I just need to get there. I slip out of the alley and walk my bike slowly along the pavement, looking for signs and landmarks that will tell me where I am, all the while keeping a sharp eye out for any hint that I'm being followed. So far nothing suspicious, but then I thought that the cemetery was safe, too.

Eventually I pause at a tiny food stall under a cheerful red-and-white awning to ask where I am, and how to get to Baker Street in Mayfair; I end up blowing a fiver on a hot salt beef sandwich with dill slaw because I am so hungry that the tantalising smell causes temporary insanity! The two geezers running the little place are friendly, though, and more than happy to give me cycling directions to Mayfair, as well as a review of the traffic situation along the way (horrible), the coming weather forecast (heavy rain on the way), predictions of the effect of motorway smog upon my healthy young lungs (dire), and a recommendation to take the tube instead if I don't want to die young.

I tell them that I'd lock the bike up and take the tube for sure if this city wasn't crawling with bloody bicycle thieves, although they probably wonder why I say it with a mirthless laugh. I wander over to a park bench to have a sit-down and eat. I feel a lot better after I finish the sandwich, and wonder if I really need antibiotics after all. Maybe I just need to rest and eat a bit better . . . then I run my hand over my forehead and feel how warm it is, and how cold my hands are, and I know that I need to do something. I reckon John is my best bet at this point, so I throw a leg over the bike and make my way slowly toward Mayfair.

I'm feeling worse again by the time I get to Baker Street, swaying as I knock at the door and try all three doorbells at 221. There's no answer, so I lean my bike against the iron railings and settle on the door step to wait in a sliver of sunshine, drawing up my knees under my chin and closing my eyes. I may have fallen asleep, because when a shadow falls against my face I jump nervously and look around, blinking.

It takes a moment for me to puzzle out the figure standing there, since the sun is bright behind them and my eyes are dazzled –– but it's neither John nor Sherlock looking down at me with a frown, it's the landlady, Mrs. Hudson. Great. Just what I need; I hope to hell she won't recognise me. Her frown deepens, then she makes a sudden, exasperated noise and gestures toward the door with her chin, and I realise that she's standing there with both arms overloaded with bags and parcels, and me sitting like a stump blocking her front door. I mutter an apology and pull myself up to step aside. She bustles toward the door, commenting, "Sherlock is out right now. If you have a message for him I can take it, but don't expect me to give you any money. You'll have to collect your wages from him later."

She stops and glares up at me, as if daring me to deny that I'm one of Sherlock's homeless network people; I just shrug awkwardly and look at my feet, trying to keep my features at least partly hidden as I quickly sidle away from those shrewd eyes. I hear the jangle of keys as she struggles to unlock the door, and she scolds, "Well, I could use a little help here, couldn't I?"

Damn my early training in manners! I turn to find her holding out several grocery bags with an expectant look; I can't help but reach out and take them. After I do, she gets the door open and steps in, holding it wide for me. "Thank you, dear. You may as well bring them inside, and come in yourself, if you please. It doesn't look good, you loitering about on the doorstep."

I shake my head, but she continues firmly. "I really have to insist! Either you come in, or I'll call to have you moved on. Your choice."

I should just turn and run, but I don't want to. I want to see John, but I don't want to get hauled off by the cops. Hesitating, I look over at the bike, and she follows my glance.

"Oh, go on and bring it inside. Park it over there, beside the stairs," she waves her hand in the general direction of the stairway. "But mind you don't dent the wallpaper! Lean it well away. And don't put it where anyone will trip over it."

I park the bike as directed, and meekly follow Mrs. Hudson into her flat. "Now, bring those in the kitchen for me, and have a seat to wait for Sherlock. I'll put the kettle on. I've made biscuits from a new recipe, and I'd like you to tell me if they're as awful as I think they are."

Sighing, I go to set the bags on the bench near the fridge. Why can't people just say what they mean? Why does everything have to be cloaked in pretence that they aren't doing what they are so obviously doing? I must really look worse than I think if she's decided that I need a cup of tea and some feeding, but I'm not going to argue against kindness; I'm too knackered to argue against anything.

"I'm not waiting for Sherlock, I actually need to see John," I admit quietly, shrugging off my rucksack and slowly lowering myself into a chair at the little kitchen table. "Do you know when he'll be home?"

Once again that shrewd look. "No, I don't know where they've gotten to. They were both gone before I got up this morning, but then, I slept late. My hip was just terrible last night, I had to use quite a bit of my herbal soother to get any sleep at all..." She natters on and on, clattering the tea things around, avoiding looking me in the eye until she settles the cozied tea pot on the table and sets a cup, saucer, and a plate of lumpy homemade biscuits in front of me, and finally sits down herself.

"Now," she says brightly, pouring from the teapot for both of us, and pushing the milk jug over toward me by way of invitation. "Exactly why do you need to see Dr. Watson?"

The question stalls into the quiet little kitchen; the only other sound is the ticking of the clock above the cooker. I fix my tea, and help myself to a biscuit, holding the other hand under my chin to catch the shower of dry crumbs. "Mmm. Scrummy!" I evade. "Two thumbs up."

Mrs. Hudson purses her lips and slowly stirs the sugar into her cup. "I know who you are, young lady," she says quietly. "I have a good eye for faces, no matter what ridiculous hair and clothes you are trying to hide behind. It would be a good idea for you to tell me what you're here for."

Shit. I do not need a nosy parker right now. "Why does it matter to you?" I try to keep my tone polite and neutral; there's no sense in purposefully making an enemy. "Not to be rude or anything, but I can't see that it's any of your business, m'am." The tea is hot and soothing, and I wrap my hands around the fragile cup gratefully.

She raises her eyebrows, but doesn't take umbrage. "It's my business because they're my boys, and I look after them. Somebody has to." Good lord, now she sounds like Mycroft!

"I'm not a danger to anyone, Mrs. Hudson," I sigh. "There's nothing for you to worry about."

"Well, I don't mean to say that I think you're an assassin or something." She blows across the top of her teacup before taking a sip. "Just because you don't mean any harm doesn't mean you won't create problems, though, and they've got enough trouble as it is! I'm not going to sit down here and let you entice . . . people away from their responsibilities. There's a baby involved, you know. Generally I don't meddle at all. Live and let live, I always say, but there comes a time when you have to stand up for what's decent!"

I take my time processing all that as I sip some tea, then I tentatively reframe it to make sure I heard right. "So, you think I'm trying to be . . . enticing? To John?"

She gives me a wry look. "Well, of course you are. He's a doctor, isn't he, barely married and already on the outs with his new wife –– a nice rebound catch for a clever working girl." She takes a biscuit from the plate and cautiously tastes it, making a face. "These aren't half dry. Maybe Mrs. Turner wrote the recipe down wrong."

"Good cooks rarely share all their secrets," I observe, literally biting my tongue over that first remark. 'A nice catch?' What a load of bollocks!

"Well, she isn't that good of a cook, really, but perhaps you're right." There's a lengthy pause, and the woman across the table narrows her eyes at me, measuring. Finally she breaks the silence. "You were flirting for all you're worth when I saw you here last time, all set to hook John and reel him in if you could. Now it looks like you're trying a different tactic, limping around like a sad little duckling to play on his sympathies. I'm here to tell you, that is not on. Not at all." She gives me a look that manages to combine gimlet eyes with an infuriatingly, genuinely sympathetic smile. "Oh, I know how it is, you're just trying to get by, but not on my watch, dear."

She is totally pissing me off right now, treating me like I'm some sort of wily man-eater looking for prey –– and it stings all the worse because it's not even true! "Look, Mrs. Hudson, I'm not here to try and hook up with John! I wasn't before, either, I was . . . well, I guess I was flirting with him a little, because I wanted information, and that's the best way to get it out of a bloke, isn't it? But, damn it, I'm not like that. I'm not a –– a predator."

"Of course not, dear." She still looks a bit skeptical.

I hesitate, but there doesn't seem to be any other way of getting past this watchdog dragon-lady. "I'm hurt," I admit. "I think it's pretty serious."

She frowns at me crossly. "Then why don't you go to the A&E, or a walk-in clinic? It's Saturday, but I'm certain you can find something open . . . ."

"I can't," I say simply, taking another biscuit; they really are quite dry, but free food is free food. I need to load up while I can.

"You can't because . . . ?" When I don't answer, Mrs. Hudson looks vexed, and covers it by pouring more tea. "Are you on the run?" she prods.

I nod, taking up the soothing cup again. Tea really is a miracle, I'm feeling a thousand percent better than when I sat down.

Mrs. Hudson cocks her head speculatively. "Don't you work for Mycroft? I should think he would protect . . . ."

All I have to do is glance up, once, quickly, and her eyes widen. "You can't possibly be on the run from him, child!" she bursts out. "You can't possibly. You'll never make it."

Her lack of confidence nettles me. "Oh. Really. Well, I'm still free, and it's been, what, four days? He hasn't caught up with me yet!"

She gives me a pitying look. "Then I'm sorry, my dear, I truly am, but you blew it by coming here. Mycroft has these flats under constant surveillance. You see, he keeps an eye on my boys, too."

I sit there in shock for a moment, feeling the blood drain from my face. How could I have been so stupid? What the hell is wrong with me? Of course he would have Sherlock's flat closely watched. I knew that about him, I knew it, and I came here anyway. Oh, god. I'm dead.

But not just yet. Damn it, I'm not dead yet. Not yet. I reach across the table and grab Mrs. Hudson's hands for emphasis. "You've got to help me!" I plead. "What surveillance is on this place right now?"

Mrs. Hudson is still sadly shaking her head when a man's voice answers my question from the doorway.

"None," Sherlock says, throwing his coat over the back of a vacant chair and sitting down. "There's no surveillance, because I've disabled it all. I'm being rather more particular about that right now. Mycroft's meddling is beginning to annoy me."

Mrs. Hudson looks over at him with a fond smile. "Sherlock! Would you like some tea? Maybe a biscuit or two?" He holds up a hand to refuse, but by then a cup has already been poured and put in front of him. He ignores it, instead leaning forward and narrowing his eyes at me.

"Four days, you said?" He sounds doubtful. "If true, that would be a surprising record."

"What would be a surprising record?" John pauses at the doorway to nod hello to Mrs. Hudson, rakes a curious glance over me, and then drags a chair in from the other room so he can join us. "Four days of what? By the way, Sherlock, I took the boxes upstairs. All of them. By myself. You're welcome." Glaring, he reaches over to take up the untouched cup and saucer in front of Sherlock. "And, thank you, Mrs. Hudson, might there be any more of those biscuits to be had? "

Sherlock and I both kind of ignore John's entrance. "Yes, it's true. Four days. What of it?" I ask.

"I've never heard of anyone eluding Mycroft for that long –– and in London, of all places. Well, except for me, but that's different." Sherlock hasn't moved his pale, disturbing eyes away from me yet; what does he see? "He can't really be trying."

"Oh, he's trying all right," I don't bother to keep the bitterness out of my voice. "He's trying to kill me. I was shot at this morning at the park, three times at least."

Sherlock's head shifts slightly, but his eyes don't move; I don't even think he's blinked. "Which park?"

"Tower Hamlets Cemetery."

Sherlock leans back, stretching his legs out carelessly. "Not Mycroft's people, then."

"Why not?"

"Because you're still alive."

I glare at him. "So you mean, nobody in Mycroft's employ would have missed? Listen, I've been around them a bit and I can tell you, they're not all that."

Sherlock scoffs, "In that place? With that much cover? They could practically get on top of you. It would take a near-sighted idiot with a completely inadequate weapon to miss."

I consider that. He's actually got a point. "The gunshots did sound very loud, like they were close . . . but they still missed me," I admit. "What do you mean by 'a completely inadequate weapon?'"

"A cheap and shoddy handgun, smuggled from eastern Europe. A blanks gun, retooled to fire live ammunition. An antique firearm pressed into modern service. Any of those would make a lot of noise, and be very difficult to shoot accurately. Its main use would be as intimidation."

"Angelica," John's carefully measured voice breaks in from the other side of the table; I guess he finally recognised me. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Apparently, that is Sherlock's cue. "Well, isn't it obvious, John? She's getting around on a stolen bicycle, attempting to disguise herself in stolen clothes, and squatting in the East End studio of an artist who is away on a birding holiday. Miss Talbot is looking for a new patron. You're sympathetic and attracted to her, and she has accurately judged your lack of marital satisfaction at the moment, although she's obviously overlooked your habitual lack of money." He casts John an arch look and adds as an aside, "I suggest you give it a pass; you can do better."

I'm so angry I'm not even curious how he knows that I've been staying in the East End; I'm so angry that I simply lash out in a fury. "What is it with you people!? I'm a sex worker, okay? I'm a whore! But where do you get off assuming that therefore I'm manipulative and greedy and –– and rotten! That is so fucking mediaeval! And you!" I point at Sherlock, "You may be able to tell exactly where I am staying, and how I sleep and –– and what I brush my teeth with, but you obviously don't know a bloody thing about who I really am, so why don't you keep your nasty, WRONG assumptions to yourself, okay?"

There is a stunned silence following my outburst, and Mrs. Hudson clears her throat as she stands and picks up the teapot. "Well, I think this could use a little warm-up, couldn't it?" Sherlock just sits, expressionless, observing me, then takes out his phone and begins to text.

John clears his throat. "So, Angelica," he says, with a long-suffering air of changing the subject. "What ––?"

"She says she's injured," Mrs. Hudson offers as she crackles open a packet of biscuits and arranges them on a plate.

"A bullet wound?" John's face morphs into professional concern. "I'm not going to be able to take care of something like that here, we need to get you to the nearest A&E."

"No, it's not a bullet wound! And I'm not going to hospital under any circumstances."

"She's on the run from Mycroft," Mrs. Hudson adds helpfully.

"On the run from –– What, did you two have a row or something?" John asks; he looks boggled at the thought.

I'm irritated with all of them now, even John. "Yeah, sure, that's what happened," I snap sarcastically. "A real domestic. So of course I had to run for my life, because Mycroft, right?" I push my fringe out of my eyes and reach for the milk jug as Mrs. Hudson sets the teapot back on the table.

I don't know whether to laugh or cry at the fact that nobody registers that as sarcastic. John just shakes his head, as if trying to dislodge the thought, and asks me, "Okay, where and how are you injured, then?" and I briefly describe for him the fence wire and the wound it made, and my fever and chills.

"That doesn't sound good at all," he agrees, frowning. "We'll have to take a look at it right away." He rises to wash his hands at the sink, and I quickly stand and slip my jeans over my hips, wriggling them down to my knees, and sit back down again. I think I hear Mrs. Hudson gasp, but I give no fucks. I could be dying, right now; I don't care who sees my knickers.

As he's washing, John continues, "Mrs. Hudson, could we use your sitting room for the examina ––" he turns around, and blinks several times. "Oh. All right, then. Ah." Something that might be a muffled snort comes from the side of the table where Sherlock is seated; John steadfastly avoids looking over there, although a dark flush spreads very briefly up his cheeks. "Which is it, then?"

I roll my hips slightly to make it easier peeling the plaster off the side of my left thigh. It looks worse than this morning: the inflammation has spread wider, and gone from dark pink to scarlet. John kneels down for a close look, frowning with concern and very gently palpating the area. "You're right to seek treatment, this has potential to get quite nasty." He pauses, looking up. "You've been cycling around like this? Today?"

I shrug. "Yes. Oughtn't I have?"

"Vigorous exercise can speed up the spread of infection in a deep wound. You should be on bed-rest, in hospital, now. Anything else is just being stupid."

"Well, then I guess I just can't help but be stupid, but thanks anyway. Any chance you could give me some antibiotics and save my life, even if I am stupid?" As I'm grumbling, John stands and does the pulse-breathing-feel-your-neck thing, then he steps back.

"Well, your pulse and respiration are nice and slow, your temperature appears close to normal at the moment, so the good news is that you're not presenting with sepsis; the infection doesn't seem to have spread into your bloodstream yet, or if it has, you've been able to fight it off so far. The bad news is, I can't do anything for you. You need to go to the hospital, Angelica! I don't keep a stash of intravenous antibiotics ––"

"Yes, you do," Sherlock interjects absently, engrossed in his phone. "For me, in case I suffer a sudden relapse."

The exasperated look John shoots him clearly says, Shut Up! but Sherlock doesn't notice. "Yes, okay, but I don't know what bacteria are causing her infection, and I absolutely don't have a pathology lab stashed away!"

Sherlock calmly looks up from his phone. "Give Miss Talbot an injection of the most broad-spectrum one in your kit, and if she doesn't respond, we'll take her to see Molly at Barts. She would work up a quick culture, no questions asked."

I eye Mycroft's brother suspiciously. "Why are you being helpful all of a sudden?" I trust him even less than I trust Mycroft. "What changed your mind?"

Sherlock's mobile chirps a text alert and he checks it immediately, his eyes skipping across the message and crinkling happily. "Because, Miss Talbot, Mycroft really is furiously trying to locate you, and that means that the game is most definitely on!" He busies himself with thumbing out a reply.

"You mean, you're going to help me just to torment Mycroft?" He's worse than I thought!

"No, not at all." Sherlock pockets his phone and stands up, reaching for his coat. "I'm going to help you because you can put me a step closer to solving an important case. Tormenting Mycroft is merely an added benefit." He turns to John. "Patch her up as best you can, will you? There might be some legwork to be done tonight."