Work Text:
The streets of London slide smoothly past the tinted windows, the city night lights reflecting in the glass.
It is a nice car. A very nice car. It is the personal favourite of the woman being chauffeur driven across London inside it.
It doesn't belong to her, but it is the only car her employer owns that isn't stereotypically black and therefore far more conspicuous than she wants to be. After all, everyone looks out for expensive black cars when they are being followed, don't they?
She isn't actually following anyone at this precise moment, but the car had been the easiest to call when she had received a rather urgent message from her employer.
Kate is on her way to meet Miss Adler. It just so happens that Miss Adler is a dominatrix, one of the cleverest women of her age, and one who is about to bring Britain to its knees. And Kate is, according to her title, her personal assistant. If, however, she is quite honest with herself, the title does not fully cover her job description.
The chauffeur had shut the partition when she climbed gracefully into the back of the large silver Mercedes. Despite that, she has caught him 'making eyes' at her no less than four times in the entire duration of the journey. Kate contemplates informing Miss Adler via text, but decides against it. The rewards for her would be greatly satisfactory - Miss Adler's jealousy is seldom inspired and a terror to behold - but she is not certain that it would be at all appreciated at this precise moment in time.
Kate is not delusional. She is very aware that Miss Adler is not in love with her. She is also aware that the feeling she has for her employer, whilst inspiring her to go above and beyond the call of service, are almost purely sexual. Thankfully, they do each hold some friendly affection for the other, which means that the sex is never awkward and always completely and literally breathtaking. They are both highly trained in the art of seduction, after all. No, she is not delusional. She is aware that Irene has fallen in love with Sherlock Holmes. But she is also aware that Miss Adler is a professional, and that she will always come back to Kate if her assistance is required.
Kate smiles, her delicately shaped brow arching upwards mischievously. Yes, Miss Adler is not the average employer. But Kate is hardly an average employee either.
Even so, she is aware that the dynamics of their relationship have been put under strain by this latest endeavour. Perhaps getting involved with the infamous Moriarty was not business venture that, as a personal choice, Kate would have undertaken. She would never doubt her employer's word, however, and she would never go against it. Miss Adler is ambitious, but she is also very capable. Kate trusted her judgement, and it has paid off. However, Kate is still uncomfortable, and even if she has not specifically mentioned it to Irene, she does not like being kept away from the contract. Normally she handles all Irene's clientele paperwork. It is suspicious in the extreme. Besides, 'Moriarty' is a name followed by whispers and telling glances in all the underground circles within which she works. He is powerful, and clever. Too much so, if the tales told by the criminals who have dealt with him are to be believed. With Moriarty, there is no such thing as a working partnership. No, there is the spider and the fly. Kate has never been entirely sure if Irene is caught in his web or not.
So yes, she hasn't been enjoying her job as much as usual in the past few months, and yes, Irene is aware of her discontent.
The sedan rolls to a stop outside a large city house. The street is practically deserted, bar the few flash Jaguars and Rolls-Royce's and even a Morgan parked along the pavements, each predictably immaculate black vehicle standing stark against the white marble fronts of the Georgian houses. She almost feels at home here. Mr Mycroft Holmes' house is surprisingly similar to Miss Adler's. What a wonderful irony.
Checking her hair and make-up quickly in her compact hand mirror, Kate slips her eight-inch heeled boots back onto her stocking-clad feet. Her hair is newly-dyed, professionally done, a mousy brown that doesn't suit the outline of her face, but that she already prefers to the light auburn that had been her natural shade. It makes her almost unrecognisable, for a start. She is already learning to play it off, matching it with darker shades of dress and showy make-up, letting her blend into the background. The deep blood-red lipstick that Irene gifted her after she was able to return has yet to be christened. As soon as this is over, when Miss Adler emerges triumphant, (her words, not Kate's) then she will rethink her wardrobe. Until then, she must be beautiful and forgettable as best she can. It shouldn't be too hard.
She does not wait for the chauffeur to open the door for her. Alighting gracefully from the car without assistance, she wraps her long cashmere coat around her shoulders, the thick ermine trim collar a solid barrier against the biting winter air. It is not designer, and Miss Adler would not approve, but it is beautifully made and warm. Thankfully, the doorman lets her in unquestioningly, which she should be suspicious about, but instead she files it away for further study. Preferably, when she is inside and out of the cold. The winter months have never been her favourite time of year.
Only once the door shuts behind her does she think twice. It blocks out the bitter wind and the frost, and yet the simple gesture makes her irrationally uncomfortable. She does not show it. Her trainer taught her better than that. Even so, when the servant silently gestures for her to remove her coat, she surreptitiously feels for the weight of both her sheathed knife and her taser as she removes the garment. The slight weight of the tailored holster shifts comfortably against her inner thigh, and she is comforted.
The man - old, tired, well-paid, Kate notes - leads her silently down a thick carpeted hallway.
The house is big, far bigger than she expected it to be, and the high walls lined with busts and portraits of fierce-looking Holmes ancestors do not intimidate her because she recognises that their design in being placed there is to do exactly that.
That is not to say that their glares which follow her down the hallway are not disturbing her slightly. In retaliation, Kate lifts her head and straightens her back, falling back to her 'notice me' posture. It helps with her self-confidence. She has a feeling she will need it. So she thinks of the taser concealed beneath her black knee-length leather skirt, of the knife tucked into the curve of her hip beneath the fuzzy jumper fitted for her after a Vogue photo shoot during Miss Adler's absence, and she walks tall and proud.
The man pauses by the door, and turns. His crooked back clicks as he looks upwards to meet her eyes. She tries not to wince in sympathy. It would be unbecoming. He opens the dark oak panelled door for her, and then begins his slow retreat to the safety of the porch without waving her through.
Kate doesn't notice. She is surveying the room.
It appears to be designed for keeping people waiting. The wooden panelling of the door is continued around the bottom half of the walls, but set off by cream wallpaper further up. There is no main light, only four tall lamps, each placed in the corner of the room and giving off a dull yellow aura in lieu of what should have been actual light. The upholstery is dark too, and the overall effect is gloomy. It isn't pleasant. There are no windows. Kate steels herself. If she plays her cards right, this night could be the making of her.
The only furnishings of the room are the aforementioned lamps, a crumbling bookshelf that reaches up to the ceiling and takes up the whole of one wall, and two deep, dark leather sofas, one of which is already occupied.
The woman is dark-skinned, though not noticeably so at first in the dim light of the room. Her hair is dark too, such a dark brown as to be almost black, long and thick, settled in graceful waves over her shoulders. Her features are delicate, carefully accentuated by her makeup. Her head is tilted downwards, ever so slightly, her attention focused on a small BlackBerry mobile held carefully in shapely fingers and dark painted nails. Her dress is black, figure-hugging, her breasts pushed up and her curves pulled in. One black-denier-tighted leg is crossed neatly over the other, and her feet are clad in tidy, smart, sensible Mary Jane heels. She is almost entirely focused on the screen of the little black phone, and does not seem to have noticed Kate's appearance. Her thumbs fly over the keys, her dark eyes flashing back and forth as she types.
Kate finds herself wishing she had taken more care with her appearance. It would have been throwing caution to the wind, and expressly going against Miss Adler's orders, but for this woman? She would do it.
Kate would have liked to stand and observe the strange woman for a while.
Fate has other ideas.
Her phone, forgotten since she last thought of texting her employer, pings its acquisition of a new message.
Kate sighs. So much for stealth.
She deftly flicks the newest model of iPhone out of her pocket and into her hand, steadfastly ignoring the gaze she has drawn from the woman in the corner.
The message is a trivial one from one of the lackeys, confirming something that she was already aware of and should not have been reported to her anyway. She sighs, and reels off a reply almost without thinking that will give the poor man nightmares for weeks to come. She doesn't actually have any intention of informing Miss Adler of the slip, but he doesn't need to know that. Anyway, it will persuade him to be more stringent following orders in the future.
She tucks the phone back into her pocket, and looks up, to find that the mysterious woman's gaze has already dropped back to the screen of her phone. Kate is suddenly intensely aware of the silence in the room.
She wonders if she should take a seat, or whether she is expected to remain standing. She takes a quick glance at her heels, and decides that today is not the day to practice leaning seductively in doorways, though it does take the weight off her feet for a while.
She pushes off the doorframe and moves into the room itself, towards the woman with the phone and the minimal attention span. The other sofa is unoccupied and sits at a tangent to the first. It is a dark, distressed leather vintage sofa, the uncomfortable kind with the stuffing falling out and the buttons in the backboard keeping the stuffing pulled tight and hard. Classy but uncomfortable. Rather like having too much posh wine. It settles in your stomach with a warm fuzziness that isn't entirely pleasant. Kate disapproves of things that are stylish and uncomfortable. The whole point of fashion is to be confident in your own body, and how can you do that in a dress that itches or heels that rub?
Kate's phone goes off a second time just as she delicately lowers herself onto the rock-hard seat of the sofa. She takes it from her pocket silently, though it takes concentration to repress her sigh.
To her great surprise, the message is from an unknown number.
That shouldn't be possible. Her phone number is privy to a sum total of about twenty people, all of whom have strict instructions not to share it and occasions which they report to her and only her. It is supposed to be protected against unknown numbers. Actually, the technology had cost Irene a small fortune.
Kate is wary as she taps the screen and the message opens under her thumb.
(20:20)
Hello.
Nothing more, nothing less. Just that one word.
It seems harmless enough, though perhaps a little sinister. An invitation, perhaps. Someone must have gone to some trouble to send this message.
There is no signature, no indication of the sender or any motive they could have for wanting to get into contact with her.
Except…
Kate tears her eyes away from the screen of her phone and looks up, across the room.
The woman is staring at her. One eyebrow raised as if in challenge. Her thumbs are still, the screen of the BlackBerry blank.
Kate smirks, allowing one corner of her mouth to twitch up just the slightest degree, a measure of acknowledging the skill of a foe in their plan of attack.
(20:21)
Hello.
She types back. Nothing more, nothing less.
Carefully avoiding the trap, she does not look up when the woman's fingers resume their dance across the keys.
The reply arrives only seconds later.
(20:21)
I am pleased to meet you. My name is Eirene.
Kate seriously doubts that.
However, the implications of the statement make her nervous.
Eirene - The original Greek form of 'Irene'.
Who the hell is this woman?
(20:21)
The pleasure is all mine. Kate, at your service.
Pleasantries are simply a waste of time unless you use them to take a measure of whoever it is you've just been introduced to.
The exchange is almost damningly polite so far. The air in the room is tense and strained, silent except for the alternating sound of thumbs tapping on phones.
(20:21)
How long have you been in the employ of Miss Adler, Kate?
Well. That is quick. To the point. Kate likes this woman's style, and though she doesn't appreciate it much, she has to admire the approach.
(20:22)
It will be six years this March. Why do you ask?
(20:22)
And how long have you and Miss Adler been engaged in a relationship?
Kate is already halfway through starting to type an answer (I'm sorry, I'm afraid I'm not free do divulge such information) before she stops, and curses herself for almost falling for it.
(20:22)
Impressive. That's a good trick.
(20:22)
Perhaps not as impressive as I had hoped.
The reply is swift and… unexpected.
Interesting, Kate thinks. The woman is willing to concede defeat. Perhaps she has some ulterior motive. It is more than likely.
Still, she is intrigued.
(20:22)
Oh, I don't know. It probably would have worked on anyone else.
(20:23)
Modest, aren't we?
(20:23)
If you were looking for modest, you should have hacked somebody else's phone. What's your real name?
The whole exchange takes less than five minutes, and most of the time is spent waiting for the sent messages to arrive. The two women tap at screens at impossible speed, arranging individual letters into cohorts of words spiked with politeness, each constructed with careful planning, like battle tactics.
Before the other woman's reply can arrive, the old footman appears at the door again. Both women look up from their phones, just in time to see Mycroft enter behind his servant.
The other woman immediately stands, her phone tucked back into her pocket.
"Sir," she says, and Kate is surprised by how perfectly her voice actually suits her. It is not something she is used to occurring, speaking as a PA who normally talks to people on the phone well before she meets them in the flesh.
Actually, the woman's whole attitude is surprising. She has gone from lazily mocking and slightly flirtatious to straight-talking and… well, obedient in less than half a second flat.
Mycroft acknowledges her with a slight nod of the head accompanied by a smile, and then turns to Kate. The woman, far from taking offence, almost visibly relaxes. Her phone reappears in her hand.
Now, Mycroft is looking at her.
"I am led to understand that you are Miss Adler's PA… among other things?"
Kate's phone goes off again, and she almost winces at the terrible timing. Mycroft just smiles.
"I think it would be wise for you to answer that, Miss…" He turns to his assistant, who finished the sentence for him.
"Kate." He raises an eyebrow.
He's probably thinking how informal that is, Kate thinks.
"…Kate," Mycroft repeats, turning his attention back to her. Somehow, he manages to make it sound vaguely sinister, though she wouldn't be able to quite put her finger on it.
For a minute, she almost tells him that it can wait, but while a lack of manners is a trademark of Miss Adler's, it has never been something she had encouraged in Kate. So she takes the phone into her hand.
She doesn't even need to unlock it to read the message flashed up on the screen.
Irene (20:25)
Change of plan.
Kate freezes.
Shit.
Only once before has Irene ever sent her this signal, and last time she had had to fake her own death in order to escape and go into hiding, less than six months ago, and she only just returned.
She looks up. Mycroft is smiling at her, a knowing sort of smile that says he knows exactly what is going on and has everything in perfect control.
Later, much, much later, Kate receives one more text:
(02:12)
It depends on the day of the week.
______
It takes just three measly little days for everything to fall apart.
Kate is not stupid, and she has so many fail safe alternate options that she sometimes struggles to keep track of them all, but she never truly expected everything to happen like this.
Six months ago, when Irene vanished, Kate knew that it was only temporary. She had run the business in her employer's absence under the front of having inherited everything in Irene's will. It had been enjoyable, for a given definition, but the house was empty and quiet and the business which had thrived under Irene and she was impossible under single leadership. She struggled under the weight of it, and had been grateful for Irene's return.
Now? Now nothing. There is no business anymore. The scandal is in all the papers, and while not nearly the whole story, it has done some considerable damage. Their client list is expired, their bank accounts are empty. The cars have been sold off, the staff dismissed, the company collapsed, most of their belongings repossessed, and they have been evicted from a privately owned house by an unforgiving landlord - Mycroft Holmes.
There is nothing left in her to be angry about it anymore.
Kate stands in the hallway of what used to be their home, staring blankly up at the balcony. In the usual circumstances of leaving a safe house, she would do a sweep to check that nothing had been left. Today, she doesn't bother because it has already been done for her with much a greater degree of professionalism. She can practically feel the suffocating vacuum that used to be their home.
It is funny, she thinks, that even with the imminent death of her employer, dare she say friend, and the complete disintegration of life as she knows it, the thing she is most upset about is the house.
Well, she has had six months to practise at Irene being dead.
The house doesn't even smell like them anymore.
For a while, Kate does little more than stand there, waiting for the next thought to occur. Her mind is blank, barren of any form of introspection or emotion. It is surprisingly calming.
Eventually, she turns, and makes her way out into the street. The rain pours from the sky in an unforgivable deluge. Water cascades down the road, sluices and streams from drains and rooftops converging into grey lakes in-between the cracks of the pavement and under the steps of the front porch.
Kate locks the door and steps out into the January storm.
______
Several months later, things aren't heading anywhere good.
Kate had spent the first few months with another employer, a similar job but lower down in the system, not much more than a housekeeper or a servant. She had put up with it until the fat old man that she had been working for died, and the smarmy young banker son who inherited it had tried to molest her. She would have taken it to the police, but she didn't have the funds to win a case against a rich kid like he had been, especially when she was actually on record with the police for several sex-related offences. The police would be unlikely to understand her case of sexual offence, as it would be presented by someone they had reason to believe was a common prostitute.
After that, there hadn't been much. Sporadic jobs, something like the stuff she used to do before Miss Adler picked her up, running a little business as a 'dominatrix', but she didn't have the heart for it anymore. Besides, many of the types of clients she would be looking for were still 'hiding out' after the recent scandal. Then there had been the gradual slip, when after two weeks of living in a hotel, she had been kicked out because of the guests and the alcohol. All she had been able to do was look for a job in one of the higher-class clubs, but she was running low on funds, and nobody wanted a dancer who was unhealthily thin, however much make-up she wore.
Every now and then, there was a modelling opportunity, but after what she thought might have been a big break in Vogue the demand run dry. Her cheeks are sallow. Her hair is limp. Her clothes are cheaper and mainstream and her boots are rubbing. She has taken to counting pennies and eating two meals a day. There is no longer alcohol on Friday nights, no television license or laptop. Her phone does for everything, an expensive model that is now a few months old, but she can't afford to replace. Her contract is running out soon, but she no longer has any frequent contacts anyway. Many nights she passes with a tattered book from the hotel bookshelf.
Despite everything, Kate has some dignity left. She doesn't go home. Some nights, she thinks that decision is brave, and other nights, she thinks it is a prideful decision she cannot afford to make. It would be easier to go back, she thinks, if she didn't still wake up silently crying, in a cold sweat, the sheets wrapped slopingly tight around her legs.
One night, Kate bound her breasts and wandered the streets dangerously close to home, but the overturned bins, smashed in windows and loosely chained dogs drove her away again.
She resorts to looking for odd jobs in newspaper ads, but finds little. There are courses she could go on, but she has reached the point where she might have to forgo another few meals every week if she wants to pay for it.
For the first time since she was eighteen, she is living on benefits, but it is a sorry existence.
It has been almost ten months since Irene vanished when Kate receives conformation that she had been captured and executed by an overseas organisation that Kate doesn't even remember the name of. All she remembers is that it was six bloody months ago, and she had gone so far off the chart that nobody had thought to tell her until now.
The rest of that week's benefits go on a bottle of red wine that is too bitter, not enough to get her properly drunk, and a room for the night in some run-down area of London that she hasn't been to for years. The owner doesn't recognise her, thank goodness.
Kate wakes the next morning in the cheap hotel room, the cotton sheets irritating her sensitive skin, the mattress hard and her whole body trembling with cold because the heating is inadequate and the duvet is too thin.
Rolling over to squint at the digital clock on the bedside table, she discovers that the blasted thing is flashing midnight at her repeatedly. The power must have been shut off at some point. Sure enough, when she reaches for the switch on the bedside lamp, it flickers at her once, twice, before the bulb blows, leaving her in the dark. Sighing with irritation, she pulls the sheet closer around her and reaches towards the floor, where she carefully placed her phone the night before. She fumbles against the carpet for a good few minutes before giving up, and stepping out from underneath the covers.
She shivers as the cold nips cruelly at her pale skin, and decides that she will have to get over herself a bit. It is simply through choice that she doesn't sleep in pyjamas of any kind, disliking the restriction if she wakes during a nightmare, but it looks like she is going to have to habituate. She can't afford to be picky any longer. The little cold-enduced goosebumps all over her skin will attest to that.
There is a lighter around here somewhere. She found it earlier when looking through the drawers. It must have belonged to a previous inhabitant of the room. It would certainly explain why the place smelt vaguely of smoke, and also possibly why she was able to find space at such late notice.
After several minutes of scrabbling blindly in the dark, she finally feels the cracked plastic casing between her fingers, and flicks it with her thumb. She gets the placement slightly wrong and burns the pad of her thumb. A second attempt is more successful, though the brief flickering flame doesn't light much more than a few feet in front of her, so she crouches and tries again, closer to the edge of the bed where she left her phone.
It is not there.
Kate sits back on her heels and breathes for a minute, brutally shoving down the welling panic and desperation that seems to be a constant companion now. It retaliates viciously, rising far above its usual dull ache in her stomach.
Shit. Shit.
"Looking for this?" The voice is from a darkened corner, and Kate immediately swings towards it. Smooth, calm, confident, and definitely sinister. It is almost deliberately seductive, but it drives Kate to irrationality.
She just has time to realise that the voice is in some way familiar before the figure switches on a torch and Kate recognises the woman without a name from Mycroft Holmes' house.
Kate is not one to hold grudges, but this is too much. Her entire lifestyle, everything she had built for herself, had come crashing down around her feet because of this woman's employer. Someone who was, for just a few scant minutes, an equal.
She rises slowly, suddenly uncomfortably aware of her nakedness. The beam of the torch settles just to the left of her face, high enough to make sure that her head is the focus, but not so direct as to blind her.
The nameless woman isn't smiling. Neither is she frowning. Her face is a perfect mask of void expression, giving nothing away. In one hand, she holds the torch aloft. In the other rests Kate's phone.
"How long have you been here?" she asks quietly, resisting the urge to shout. Angry expletives will only get her thrown out of this place at an unknown time of night, and she has a horrible feeling that they won't allow her time to get dressed first.
It is not the first question that she wants to ask, but 'how the hell did you find me' and 'who sent you and why' are unlikely to get answers from a woman in a game like this. She is not going to waste her breath asking.
The woman smiles, then, and flicks the phone up in the air. Kate watches it with baited breath, waiting for it to fall. It does a single flip, and she watches it as if in slow motion, right up to the moment where it lands in an outstretched waiting hand.
"Not long," is the reply.
She blinks away the moment, turning her head to glare at the woman.
To her credit, Mycroft's assistant doesn't flinch. She just moves forward a few steps, bringing the phone within reaching distance. Kate doesn't move to reach for it. All her instincts are screaming that this is a trick.
Neither of them moves. Eventually, the other woman smiles, and tucks Kate's phone back into her pocket.
"Well done," she says, and Kate immediately realises that it was a test, though what its purpose was she cannot even begin to guess. The fact that this woman felt the need to test her at all is somewhat insulting.
"What for?" she asks immediately, but isn't surprised when she gets little more than a glance for her trouble.
"I really couldn't tell you that."
"No, I suppose you couldn't." It is an entirely passive sentence, but on Kate's sharp tongue she rolls it into an almost accusatory one. The other woman finally meets her eyes, and for the first time, Kate feels like she has this woman's full attention. The fact that she is being scrutinised whilst standing naked in the middle of a hotel room isn't really improving her situation. She crosses her arms across her chest, and glares. The other woman raises an eyebrow in lieu of a reply, and Kate swears the corner of her mouth twitches in slight resemblance of a smile.
"What can you tell me then?" she asks, the words sharp as knives and sounding just as deadly.
"Not much. A little."
"And?" Kate is quickly tiring of this game. She is cold, tired, and her finger needs running under a cold tap.
"My employer is aware of your skill set, although until recently, he was not aware of your situation." Kate knows what is coming. She is not sure whether the warmth that comes from inside is hope or anger. "He feels that your remarkable talents are going to waste, and if there is one thing that my employer hates, then it is a considerable talent being wasted."
Kate doesn't know whether to be offended or flattered.
"That's rather rich, don't you think? Your employer is the reason that I'm here in the first place."
The woman shrugs one shoulder, indifferently.
"That could be one point of view, certainly."
"But not yours?"
"It is not my job to have opinions, Kate." She wields the name like a weapon. It certainly comes as a hasty reminder that Mr Holmes is a very powerful man.
Kate isn't enjoying this conversation very much. It feels too much like dancing on thin ice. She has no control, no footing on which to stand, and if this woman isn't going to offer any more information then she will be damned if she is expected to complain about this. No. Roundabout now is the time when Kate starts looking for weaknesses in the defence.
"This isn't how one goes about seducing a woman," she says. Her tone of voice is very slightly engineered, if she must admit, to put a little bit of an edge on the usual softness she would use when saying that line. It is, after all, one of her favourites. The woman raises an eyebrow.
"Really? I wouldn't know."
"I wouldn't believe that for a second."
"You should."
"Such a shame. You're missing out, you know."
"I'm sure."
"I could teach you a few tricks myself."
"Is that an invitation?"
"If you want it to be."
There is a pause. She seems to contemplate that for a minute, before looking back at Kate, a false smile plastered across her face.
"No."
Kate has had this too many times to be properly offended. It requires time and deviousness to play some people out.
She leans back against the doorway to what could dubiously be called the en-suite, slightly arching her back. The movement is barely perceptible in reality, but Kate has learnt that the slightest differences can have the best effects.
The woman looks her over, letting her eyes stray from Kate's face to roam appreciatively the whole way down her long body.
"You're giving mixed signals here," Kate protests, almost mockingly.
"Isn't that my job?" The woman is coming closer now, just a few steps, and she is right in front of Kate. The torch is lowered, shining at the base of the wall, near the floor. Thankfully, Kate's eyes have adjusted well enough to the darkness so that she can still see the other woman's face.
"Don't you ever stop being a PA for one minute and be human?" Kate asks playfully, though she can guess the answer. It is supposed to be a disarming question, but she has a feeling it will take more than that to get under this woman's skin.
"Not with company. Why, do you?"
"Of course not. I thought you came here to offer me a job."
"No. I came to offer you a job on behalf of my employer."
Hmm. Perhaps time for a change of tactics.
"What's your name?"
The woman doesn't even blink. Oh, she is good. Kate is beginning to enjoy this now.
"Today? What's the date?"
Kate smirks.
"Who knows? Friday the thirteenth? A day of daring when you might just stop being a woman and take time out to be a person?"
The woman regards her, head on one side. Her dark curls are just as Kate remembers them, hanging loosely over one shoulder. Her mouth, though impossible to tell the colour of in this light, is twisted slightly in a look that suggests a certain complacency, or perhaps she is contemplating something.
"What is a name?" she asks quietly. Instantly, the whole mode changes. Kate's posture relaxes into something more soft, less curved and sexual, more natural. "It's just a label, a tag, a way of remembering who you are. I am not supposed to be remembered."
Kate wonders how she manages it. She broke this woman's barriers, and yet still, she gives nothing away.
Suddenly, Kate finds that she wants to know this woman's story. She wants to know how she came to be here, in this position, and what makes her who she is. She wants to bare her own story, to help this woman understand that it is okay to be a little broken. Sometimes, it makes you a better person. It definitely makes you who you are.
"For tonight then," she says, matching the pitch of the woman's voice. Low, quiet, intimate.
"Tonight?"
"Yes."
"You can call me Anthea. But only for tonight."
Anthea. It suits her, in an odd sort of way. Kate knows that it isn't her real name, yet she already knows that it is going to be the one that sticks.
"Alright then, Anthea. Just for tonight."
The woman smiles, an acquisition more than anything, and Kate leans forwards to steal the first kiss.
It is slow, and leisurely, and at first gentle. Kate doesn't push too far, wary that 'Anthea' openly admitted no experience in this area. Well, men and women aren't that different, but it had taken Kate a while to realise that. The fact that she might teach someone else comes as a bit of a surprise. She pulls back quickly, though leaves her hand where it drifted to Anthea's hip. The original intention is to ask her if she is alright with this, but she doesn't get a chance before Anthea is pulling her back in, one hand curled around her back, just beside her chest, in the warmth under her arms. Kate allows the woman to explore for a minute before she reciprocates, pulling slightly on her bottom lip with her teeth. A second hand finds its way to rest on her hip, and within minutes, their bodies are pressed flush against each other. Kate's hand has migrated to Anthea's collarbone, resting flat against the warmth of skin bleeding through the thin material of her shirt.
Kate isn't used to things being this way round. Normally, she is the one fully clothed while the other is naked. It makes them feel open and vulnerable, but to Kate, it is just another state of dress. However, she is glad of the cold, because it means that her nipples were already hardened, and it does't betray just quite how aroused she is already.
She slips her hand lower, towards Anthea's chest.
______
Early one morning, Mycroft Holmes receives a text.
(04:56)
Target located. Confirmed.
Just two minutes later, the phone bleeps again. The same number flashes up on the screen.
(04:58)
Retrieval will begin imminently.
It is followed by a short code. Mycroft knows exactly what to do with it.
Ten minutes later, he is watching the scene unfold on his personal laptop.
His fingers are steepled under his chin.
A young woman, someone he knows only by name, and his personal assistant.
He tears his eyes away from the screen, where the two women are talking, saying things he cannot hear. The woman's file is next to him, on top of the little pile of paperwork. He picks it up, and begins to read, keeping an eye on the monitor in the corner.
He has just got past the basics of the woman's criminal convictions when things begin to take a turn he would not have predicted. Of course, he is a professional. He doesn't even blink. Turning back to the file, he continues his reading.
______
(09:00)
The Beefsteak Club, 9 Irving Street, London. 7pm.
Kate dresses carefully for her meeting. Her hair is dyed again, a richer shade of brunette that she has curled at the base, and then pinned back from her face in the 40's style that Miss Adler always loved on her. Serum covers the effects of the dye on her split ends, and she carefully sprays it into place, framing her cheekbones and her grey-blue eyes.
Her shirt is white and thin, almost see-through apart from where the material is doubled up across the buttons. A high white collar accentuates her long, pale neck, and she sets it off with a close-hugging suede dress worn over the top, the silver-and-bronze zip up the middle stopping just a little lower than it should be, showing just enough cleavage to be interesting, though not too much to be off-putting. She decides to wear her black and white patent leather brogues. She has already worn them, of course, but they set off her skin tone, and they are much more comfortable to walk long distances in than her high black boots.
It takes her almost an hour to do her make-up, being almost as careful with it as she used to be with Miss Adler's. Finally choosing to christen Irene's gift, she carefully shapes her dark red lips to match the application of a little black eyeliner, just slightly thicker at the very edge of her eye.
Finally, she steps back and surveys herself in the mirror. She has to bend down a little to study herself fully, but the overall effect is pleasing.
She does look young, much younger than she thought she would be able to engineer, but there is no turning back now. Besides, if Anthea is right, then it will be to her advantage.
Kate straightens and turns to her small, cramped table. The whole room is smaller than she has been accustomed to. Gone are the days of high, white walls and beautiful decor, thick embroidered eiderdowns and fine silks. Miss Adler's taste in fashion and design was impeccable. Kate allows herself a moment of reflection, perhaps a little melancholy, before moving on. There is no point in mourning what is lost. Walk-in wardrobes and floor to ceiling mirrors are a thing of the past. Even so, she misses her old bedroom. She had only ever had the one chance to go back, after the hospital had released her when there had been the fiasco with the Americans.
Just for a second, Kate closes her eyes and allows her mind to wander back to that room, the spacious carved wooden bed with the thick eiderdowns and quilts, the beautiful en-suite with the traditional-style bath and underfloor heating, the glass dresser where she would sometimes do Miss Adler's make-up in the mornings, perhaps if they shared a bath.
That was one of the common misconceptions about a Dominatrix. Yes, a lot of it was sexual, but very rarely did Irene ever actually engage with her clients in that respect. Many of them preferred to receive, but did not require Miss Adler to give, anything more than whips and chains. It was all whips and chains and personal satisfaction. Kate had never really understood why Irene enjoyed it so much, she returned so often unsatisfied. It was, however, a very well-paid job, and one that allowed Miss Adler into some very influential households. Some of the stories (and occasionally tricks) she returned with had been absolutely fascinating.
Kate breathes in deeply, trying to capture the fading memory of the room and the scenes that had unfolded within it, but it is gone.
She packs all the little bottles and cases away into her bag one by one. Unaccustomed to harsher times, she forgets to count them in, and almost sighs to herself as she removes them all only to start over again. This time, the dresser is nearly clear before she stops. All that remains is a single bottle of her favourite Hermes perfume, almost empty. Of course, the Dior waiting in the bathroom is more than suitable, and she should be saving the Hermes for less formal occasions. Should be.
She spritzes a single splash of it on each of her wrists anyway, and revels in the familiarity the scent brings. After that, she feels almost obliged to settle the little bronze and silver crown of barbed wire around her neck as if to symbolise her little transgression. The choker actually makes her look even younger, especially loosened and tucked under her (too much space) high white collar, and she smiles at her reflection in the dusty little mirror. She knows she looks beautiful - but now she feels it too.
Retrieving the make-up bag from the dresser, she tucks it in the little space left in her suitcase lying open on the bed. She fetches the untouched Dior and her shampoo from the bathroom too, finding one last space amongst the clothes packed tight in her suitcase. The tools of the trade, her own personal weapons of mass destruction.
The black cashmere coat with the ermine trim is hanging from the hook on the back of the door. It is soft, and warm, but it is raining outside and Kate no longer has the surreptitious silver Mercedes at her beck and call.
She checks her phone again, just to make sure the message is still there. It is.
Right. Well, here goes.
There may not be a silver Mercedes, but Kate isn't above calling for a cab if she has to. Sometimes, personal pride has to be sacrificed in the face of sanity. In this case, turning up soaked through to a job interview that might just put her life back on track is not a smart move.
______
(05:47)
Target acquired.
Mycroft reads the message without blinking.
About half an hour later, when his PA returns, he gives her a cursory glance. The tale of the night's exploits are written clearly all over her. Her face, however, is blank, an impenetrable facade. It is one of the things Mycroft employed her for, but he finds it frustrating that he cannot read her emotional wellbeing. He likes his staff to be efficient. He wonders if there will be other tells he should keep an eye out for, or whether it would be better to send her to a councillor anyway just to be sure.
She stops at his desk as she passes, and places a small, handwritten report on it. The stark white stands at bright contrast with the deep, varnished wood.
"Bella," he acknowledges. She looks up, sharply, at the use of her name.
"Sir."
He studies her carefully, looking for any signal that she might be in some discomfort. There is none.
Eventually, he dismisses her with a quick nod.
She goes quietly.