Chapter set after A Scandal in Belgravia and before Reichenbach Falls. Story conceived before the release of Season 3, so you can view it as AU, or just a completely different take on the sort of Mary that John needs/gets.

Disclaimed. Poem by Cavafy. Cover art is from Ico, which is from the surrealist painter Giorgio de Chirico's The Nostalgia Of The Infinite.


Part I

Tell Me a Riddle

As you set out for Ithaka
hope the voyage is a long one,
full of adventure, full of discovery.


The first time that he talked her, it was at the shoddy pub that he frequented across the street from his clinic.

It wasn't the first time he had seen her, no, but it wasn't as if he ran into her all that often either. Actually, he had only ever seen her in this particular pub. Come to think of it, it was a little strange, seeing how she must work nearby, and after so many months of clinic work, he had yet to see her anywhere but at The Old Bell Pub.

Now, John was a man beginning to be very desperate for some sort—any sort—of action. Sarah had ended their relationship after the New Zealand doctorial conference last year, quirking her left eyebrow and being so logical about it that he couldn't hold a grudge against her. It was all downhill from there. A month after that he managed wheedle a date with the one with the spots (Emmy, he corrected himself), who had lasted all of six dates before she decided that she neither cared for crime fighting nor crime fighting stories. The one with the nose (Rosa, with the dog) dumped him after four dates, and he didn't even bother calling Jeannette the schoolteacher again after Christmas. That led to three months, one week and six days without shagging, without snogging, without anything.

That made him sound like some sex-crazy teenager, didn't it? Well it certainly did in his mind, but John was getting too old to be blasé about the whole dating game, to be frank. Even a man as charming and lovable as himself faced some trouble finding game, especially since all the news photos of him standing next Sherlock made him look like a hobbit.

He certainly had to cast a wide net in hopes of finding that one sparkling woman (she probably didn't exist, she had to exist) who would take him, all of him, so let his mind judge himself but he really needed to pay attention to every woman everywhere.

There were a couple of things that a woman had to be in order for her to be tolerant of John's certain … pastimes. A ridiculously good temper, for one; also understanding when he got called away by a short text message. She cannot tremble at the thought of murderers and death, and always attentive as to which arm John had bruised the night before in a mad chase across London. Ideally she should have a certain fascination with crimes, and also a fondness of cuddling on the couch in front of crap telly, but John knew when to stop asking. In fact, John knew that it was impractical to expect any woman to fit even half of the criterion that he listed, which was why despite being a functioning war veteran who radiated a nice-guy-to-settle-down-with aura for miles, he was still unattached. Nothing short of the Victorian ideal of the Angel in the House could ever deal with John, because to deal with John meant dealing with Sherlock, and so far the only person who could do that was John himself.

That grudging knowledge didn't stop him from trying though.

But it was not his desperation that led him to notice this particular woman. No, his attention was called because he had seen her a couple times here already, and she was always in a full suit, blazer and all, inside The Old Bell's, the pub that was known for two quid house stout and disgustingly oily burritos (although John was fond of their fried pork cracklings, and indulged himself every once in a while).

The woman didn't look like she'd eat anything but a salad, and certainly looked like she shouldn't be downing two quid anything. A year of scampering beside Sherlock had taught him a few things about observing, and as John patiently waited for Mike Stamford, he observed this interesting bunch.

She was with a co-worker again, judging by their similar state of being overdressed—a male one, close but not intimate from the distance between them. She was here with different men, but her body language was almost bordering but never crossing to flirty. And they were here pretty late alright; once John had seen her with two other blokes at midnight, nursing some sort of drink on the rocks. That was one of those nights that were not good—not exactly nightmares or insomnia, but just general sleeplessness, not helped by the burning violin noises from downstairs. He had come here in hopes of getting a few beers as a nightcap. The Old Bell was known for serving late, sometimes bypassing the law to close down in favor of late patrons who were generous (drunk) tippers.

Back to observing, John leashed his thoughts back as he waited for his pork cracklings and frothy beer.

She had laid down her blazer over the back of the chair, neatly folded— meticulous, very much practiced. The soldier in him admired the precision. The gray blazer was crisp and freshly ironed, but there were wrinkles at the elbow and along her skirt—a long day at work, and maybe dry cleaned last week? John wasn't too sure about the timeline; he didn't have Sherlock's eyes, but he was at least on track. The material looked heavy, almost too thick for the weather, and certainly much warmer than the breezy beige blouse she had on now. So her office was well-heated. It was an expensive suit, and her shoes looked new and designer, so it wasn't likely that she only had this one suit for the seasons. She got cold very easily then, possibly bad circulation from a sedentary lifestyle.

Boring lifestyle, he grinned as he thought about the late night chases and the new battlefield that he discovered, living with Sherlock.

None of her people belonged in the seedy, cheapskate pub, so she frequented this place for convenience in location then, and perhaps also the late hours. Just like him.

Well except he would never order a martini in a place like this, like her friend-co-worker person. Or a martini in general. It was too James-Bond-esque, and definitely bordered on trying too hard. He was willing to that bet it's a Vesper martini too.

Bankers, or lawyers, he decided as he bit into the slightly charred burger. The grease made up for the lack of attention in cooking though, so it didn't taste half bad. It was just what the stomach needed to prepare for booze.

Mike Stamford still hadn't come, and John texted him to ask if he was on his way.

His phone chimed very quickly in response, and Mike apologized overzealously for his tardiness. Said he would treat him to a pint, and John was alright with that. Besides, he owed everything to Mike, so he sat still and drummed his fingers on the table and went back to observing. If he went back to the apartment now, he would only find more holes in the wall, undoubtedly.

The other people weren't that interesting. There were a couple of sports fans who were as much a staple as the bartender himself, and a vaguely touristy couple. The woman had a pearl necklace, but their camera was a flimsy, cheap model, so it was probably a fake. The bloke had the tell-tale beer belly, and it wasn't surprising that he drank most of that pitcher of Miller Lite. The wife made him get Lite, in all likelihood. The bartender's hair was slicked back. Maybe he had a date later, or ended one before. In any case, he didn't scowl any less today, so it wasn't a very good looking bird that he landed.

Soon, John ran out of things to observe, and wished that Sherlock was here. No never mind that, scratch that, please, he started knocking on wood, please don't let Sherlock come here. He was going to have a good night catching up with an old friend, and that would not go according to plan if Sherlock was within five blocks of here.

A phone vibrated in the distance, remarkably loud for something meant to be discreet. He saw the suit-woman's companion pick his Blackberry up and start reading through something.

John couldn't tell what his expression was, but the woman seemed extremely composed, not at all upset at such rude behavior. In fact, she seemed to have almost been expecting it. The man turned to say something to her. She shook her head slightly, gripped her glass tighter—ah, he was asking if she wanted to leave then—and glanced at John.

John could feel his mind stop and blank out for a second. During which time, the man stood up, threw down a crisp bill from his leather wallet, and burst out of the room, leaving the woman there still sipping her drink.

John blinked and thought, Okay, a woman at a bar stays behind, unconsciously or consciously looks at a man at the bar—well that's pretty straightforward, isn't it? The woman just did a double take on him, discreetly but not entirely inconspicuously, not for his eyes.

John felt giddy at his own deduction, also emboldened to chat her up.

So he wiped his mouth carefully with the questionable napkins on the table, took his basket of pork cracklings and stout, and walked over.

"Mind another pint joining?" Alright, it wasn't his best pick up line, but he hadn't been on top of his game lately, so he deserved some slack.

She took a look at him, sharp, carefully drawn eyes giving him a once over with a sort of alarming efficiency. John all of a sudden became very aware of his attire. He was in his oatmeal-colored cable knit jumper that, of course, made him look pudgier than he actually was. It was his favorite jumper, being woolly and extraordinarily warm, but even he had to admit it wasn't his best look. And he was standing, which highlighted his ah, average height, unfortunately.

Just as he felt like the back of his ears started to burn, she smiled suddenly and said, "One should never deny potentially good company."

John thought that it was meant to be both a greeting and an approval. It was a wide smile, one that thinned her lips, moved her cheeks, and curved the ends of her eyes. He decided that she had a good face for spreading a smile—some girls were like that, nothing much in their features to recommend them until they smiled. This woman was not particularly pretty, not in the Irene Adler way—the kind that stopped hearts and never lifted them. No, despite a thin face, she had an extra padding along her cheeks that made her jaw look round: a small diet would have done her well. But she had that understated look that was easy on the eyes, and in her smile her eyes curled, the edges crinkling upwards just so, almost like a bold flick of the painter's wrist. Here was a face that made people feel at ease, without edges. She had dark hair and pale skin—from her office job undoubtedly—and when he sat down he found that he was a good two or three inches taller, which made him feel immediately better.

He is faintly pleased at passing her appraisal, in the way that he was inclined to care about the opinions of people who absolutely did not matter. In fact, he was more inclined nowadays, somehow feeling like he should care for two people, for both of them.

"The House special?" she asked flippantly once he set his pint down. Her accent wasn't from around here, but John had a hard time pinning it down to a geographical location—it sounded like one of those swashbuckler Hollywood movies. Her tone also wasn't what he expected. It was strangely disconcerting—John had anticipated a mellower person, judging from her looks, sweet and unobtrusive. But he supposed that all suits were rather sharp and flippant—it came with being on the job.

"I've the stout," John said agreeably, "but I'm good with anything." He wasn't a discerning drinker, and he was also becoming self-conscious again.

Up close, he could see the watch that adorned her wrist—classic bracelet, rose-gold plated, and if he couldn't recognize the subtle plaid pattern stamped on the sunray dial, it said 'Burberry' in friendly, capitalized letters. He couldn't tell what brand her handbag was, but he had seen enough of the same one in SoHo to know that it was only sold in places like Selfridge's—it even had one of those attached mirror thingamajigs. Her blouse was high quality silk, he could tell, and the seams held together so firmly that it could be only a few months old at most. Her phone on the table, however, was an inconspicuous Blackberry that was quite old, both in model and by usage.

"I approve of your taste. All of my co-workers are sworn off darker stouts, no heart amongst them," she pulled a slight face that was obviously meant to be a joke.

It didn't fit: the puzzle pieces didn't fit. She wasn't supposed to approve of him, and that was not his insecurity talking. Judging by everything so far, she should be at best politely acceptant of a plebeian, watered-down Guinness, and at worst wrinkle her little nose in disdain—but certainly not embrace the culture of being gauche.

But if anything, John Hamish Watson was an amicable chap who took being wrong very graciously, so he nodded a smile and replied, "I'd have to say their price makes a convincing case for it."

She bemused him more by throwing her head back and barking out a laugh. Her throat could not possibly store such a formidable sound. "A very convincing case, I agree. The guy you saw leave from over there," she made a vague gesture towards the space next to her, where her companion was sitting before, "only drinks PBR."

John had given up all endeavours to figure this woman out—it was a failed exertion, and this was why Sherlock Holmes was the only consulting detective in the world. "What's wrong with PBR?" he asked, not even knowing what this PBR was.

"I just can't begin to fathom why he only drinks Blue Ribbon of all things," she said with a fond exasperation, "I suppose it's the easier alternative to reading The Pale King to hipster-dom."

John found that if nothing, he could empathize with her fond exasperation very, very well. In fact, it was his chief emotion concerning Sherlock. Beyond that of admiration, pride, and infinite gratitude, of course.

She gave a sweeping glance at the wool scarf at his neck (he had grabbed Sherlock's on the way out), and puffed out a horrified little gasp, "Say, you're not one of those, are you?"

"One of what?" he asked both irritated and tired, fully aware of the answer.

He was waiting for it—the confirmed bachelor, the live-in colleague; even apart, Sherlock's shadow somehow eclipsed him. He was waiting for her dawning theory of him being a poof. Inevitable, really—even the receptionist at the clinic somehow got it into her pretty head. Either that or the horror stories that Sarah told, but he would like to think that Sarah was above all that water-cooler gossip of their attempt at a non-professional relationship.

"One of them damned hipsters, of course. You've a cheeky wool scarf. Although you don't don horn-rimmed glasses. Well," she continued, "at least your taste in beer is mildly redeeming. And it's a rather decent scarf."

Ah, he might have been too sensitive about the whole bachelor thing. Those tabloids were really getting to him. Nope, he should never be in the deducing business, John decided there and then. "No, no, this is my roommate's."

"The perks of rooming with hipsters—always a handy scarf, and cigarettes if you're good at bumming. They always play up their addiction to nicotine to play up their unconventional spirit."

"He's not exactly a hipster, as just," he searched momentarily for the right word, "eccentric," he decided finally.

Immediately she leaned forward toward him, eyes ablaze, "Eccentric? Byronic hero eccentric or Henry Jekyll eccentric? Be warned, if you say Silas Marner recluse eccentric, I'll be tempted to punch your face."

Her abrupt fervor threw John off for a moment, so he cleared his throat and summarized, "Just a strange bloke—likes to solve puzzles, plays violin at odd hours, doesn't eat or sleep most days, invented his own job." Ah, there it was, the familiar glow of pride whenever he talked about Sherlock.

"I do enjoy puzzles," the woman said, catching on the least important bit.

The wistfulness in her voice made John momentarily wonder if he had missed some calamity that had wiped out humanity's access to Sunday crosswords. Then he found his voice and introduced himself, "I don't think I've made a proper introduction, I'm John, John Watson."

Instead of offering her name in response, she gave an unattractive snort, "Proper introductions be damned! That's all we get in banking, you know, and I'm sick to the marrow of it. No one ever says anything important anyway." She sipped her drink and seemed to consider the rudeness of her previous words, and finding it too much, added: "In any case, hello John."

John wasn't sure if he was supposed to be offended. He decided against it on account of the slight purr she injected into his name, and continued with the casual, mundane introduction, "I work in the clinic across the street." A beat, "retired army doctor from Afghanistan," he added—the war hero bit always got the birds.

"Oh Yeezus, that sad little clinic over there?" she laughed good-naturedly, "But all clinics are kind of sad, aren't they? It's the disinfectant—kills your five senses."

"And most of the germs," he quibbled.

"Germs, dirt—a handful of dust."

He blinked at her.

"Never mind, bit morbid," she took the rest of her drink in one, long gulp, "I think I'll have another pint as well. You want to make it a pitcher?"

He thought about Mike and quickly said, "Sure, why not."

As she waved to the bartender, smiling her broad smile, he asked, "So what is it that you do?"

"Me?" she seemed genuinely surprised at his inquiry, "Oh I work by Christchurch Greyfriars Garden around the corner. One of those fanged, vampiric bankers without a soul, you know."

John blinked again. "You don't seem soulless—at least, soulless people don't allude to Evelyn Waugh."

"A pitcher of Guinness, on tab, thanks" she informed the bartender before turning back to him and smiled again, but this time even broader and the light of the smile burrowing all the way into the very core of her pupil and flushing her cheeks as well. "Oh! So you did get the reference! Oh I haven't talked to a person who's even heard of Waugh in ages!"

"Illiterate crowd much?" he made out before he realized how rude he sounded. He really wasn't on top of his game tonight, "God, sorry, I didn't mean—"

"It's alright. They're not so much illiterate as they just don't bloody care. Although on a bad day I do call them that. You're a right Renaissance man though."

"Oh no," John could feel the back of his ears sting again, "I read him for school. A-levels."

"That's the British high school to college ordeal, right? Brother in arms to the useless SATs in the States."

Ah, that's why her accent was so American—she was American. "Right, I think so. Real bothersome." He poured both of them a pint from the pitcher and was once again disappointed at the watery taste. He really ought to be used to it by now. "So you like stout?" he began conversationally.

"I guess you could say that. It's an exciting time to be drinking beer in London, isn't it," she drawled in an exaggeratedly bored voice, "Only seven breweries still functioning in London back in 2006, after decades and decades of decay, but the scenery's changing up again, bit of an explosion, if you will."

Explosions of beer were good, good—significantly better than explosions from Moriarty. John didn't know how to treat her sarcasm, so he just tried earnestness. "You're like a tour guide. I lived here before I shipped off to Afghanistan and I couldn't even tell you how many breweries there were."

She made a noncommittal humming sound.

Again, the distinct lack of interest or even polite inquiry about Afghanistan. John was a little peeved—it was by far the easiest and most reliable of his pickup techniques. "So did you memorize the London A to Z?"

She scoffed, "Way more important things to remember than stuff you can look up on the interweb in half a minute. No, no, I had to educate myself with the London beer scene for a recent deal."

"Are you in the brewing business then?" Fascinating, he'd never actually met anybody who made the piss drinks that he bought! "So uh, you buy beer breweries or something, your bank?"

Another little laugh, slightly sadder but more amicable, "I'm in capital markets, not private equity."

John tried to search his lesser 'mind palace', and failed to find anything relevant to what she just said.

"Oh sorry," she smiled without an ounce of apologetic emotion, "Haven't talked to anyone outside of the team for so long. I'm in convertible offerings, mostly just valuating convertible bonds and diagram their payoffs." She paused, and then laughed at herself, "That didn't make any sense to you, does it?"

John shook his head.

"Well it's actually really simple, just take the bond components' equity and credit risks, and plug them in the model. Sometimes you convert it to see what the value would be if it were in debt or equity form. Anybody can do it, we just make it sound woozy to make us feel smarter."

"I assure you, doctors list off the bones and nerves they can name for that very same purpose."

She threw her head back and laughed again. John was glad that he had the right response to that moment of self-deprecation; he decided that he liked her laugh. "Oh doesn't everybody want to feel like they're smarter than everybody else? We're all the same."

"Yes", John agreed, except for the extraordinary, self-branded high functioning sociopath that he lived with. He felt smug in this knowledge. "What's that got to do with beer?"

"Clients like their fucking beer and wine," she made a face, "And so I've to know that the Nightwatchman is a classic bitter that's lightly roasted and malty with fluffy head—that's what she said—and that Pinot Noir is not tannic, with black cherry aromas and pronounced spiciness, and great with mushroom dishes. We're all pretentious like that."

"Well you're not a bad sort," he complimented her before really thinking it through. She was abrasive. He kind of liked that.

"Thanks, I do try," she said as she picked up a pork crackling, "Oh is this pork rinds? Oh sweet virgin Goldie I love those!" She chuckled, as if she said something funny, but John didn't quite pick it up. "Hmmm," she sighed, "bacon-y, I'm liking this place more and more."

The Old Bell's pork cracklings were very good, although not for everybody. "Did you just come here recently?" Her accent hasn't been washed away too much.

"Half a year, I was in New York before. Best city in the world to develop claustrophobia."

"Why made you move?"

"Well, the only opening for equity capital markets was the London office, so I jumped, of course. I wanted better hours. Turns out convertible team is quite like typical banking, so I might actually get into equity origination or even syndication. They only do like what, eleven hours a day, the lucky bastards."

"Eleven hours," he deadpanned, caught between incredulity and amazement; he could barely bear his own nine-to-five.

"Yeah, on average. Forever on call though; never know when you'll need to haul your ass in."

John smiled a secret smile—he knew that feeling, but his vocation was one that rushed his blood and gave him purpose in life. He was sad for this woman, who had the opposite.

"Oh look at me, whining like I'm a teenager again. It does bring youth back like nothing else, though. How's your work? You enjoy being a doctor? You're not a surgeon, I don't think, your hands were shaking when you were sitting alone over there. Not a pediatrician either; children would cry looking at your frown lines."

John felt like he should be flattered that she had noticed him before he came over, but all of the things to notice, the tremor in his left hand, really? Just his luck. "It only shakes occasionally. I do very well under pressure."

"Oh PTSD, of course, you're definitely a high-functioning ex-military man. My roommate back in college made me watch all these god-awful documentaries with her," she grimaced, "And let me tell you I thought I was pretty fucked up."

He let out a laugh. It was nice to have somebody be so blunt about it, completely insensitive and borderline rude. God he hated pity, even if it worked in his favor when chatting up girls. Also his threshold for being offended kept rising and rising the longer he lived at 221B Baker Street.

"Not that PTSD is trivial, you know, but everything should be laughed at," she shrugged, and it was almost a justification for her insensitivity.

Or perhaps it came with being a banker, John thought. "Laughing about it is certainly better than some of the alternatives."

"I read this book once, about how this advertising agency's project was to make an ad that would made breast cancer patients laugh about breast cancer."

"That seems like a tall order."

"Damned impossible order, that's what. Of course they failed."

"Suppose the author couldn't come up with anything that fit the bill."

"Touché."

In the natural lull of conversation, they both took a long gulp of beer.

"So uh, you are a surgeon?" she started again.

"Surgical houseman—they call it something else now, but I can't remember. I do clinic work, mostly walk-in patients. I was actually trained at Barts—that's why I was an army doctor—but most people don't come into the clinic with gunshot wounds or gashing bleeding messes."

"Yeah, life never gets interesting enough for bleeding messes."

"You'd be surprised," he chuckled, thinking about their last homicide.

"Really?" Her eyes lit up, unusually interested in such a gory, macabre image. "I sense an interesting story?"

"Very! Our last case involved this serial killer who killed women and took a body part each time to assemble a whole person in an attempt to resurrect his old sweetheart."

Her eyes grew wider than a saucer, and John was momentarily afraid that he had scared her off. He didn't think he had even talked about the consulting detective bit to her yet, so he must have come off as a bit of a nutter too. Great. Thanks Sherlock, ruining yet another date, before it even got to be a date.

"Ooh, the Frankenstein Killer!" her tone betrayed no fear though, and in fact, she sounded as excited as Sherlock was when presented with a serial killer.

"That's what sensational news called him, yes," John nodded, relieved that she seemed far more intrigued than horrified. He must have forgotten telling her about Sherlock, he thought as he polished the bottom of his third beer.

"So what happened? How did you figure it out?" She was leaning forward in her seat and John was struck by how liquid and bright her eyes were.

"Well, Sherlock, my flatmate, noticed at the crime scene that this pair of skid marks that looked more like the kind of moving cart that—" But before he could get into telling the story, Mike Stamford came bustling in.

John waved to Mike, and Mike immediately came over.

"Didn't know you were bringing a lady friend," Mike said good-naturedly, "Would have brought the missus then." John liked Mike, really he did; it was just that Mike tended to miss social cues, despite his good nature.

"We're practically still strangers," the so-called lady friend smiled at Mike, less wide than the one she gave him when he came around, but definitely more deliberate and coy.

John was briefly annoyed that she gave Mike that smile and not him, but quickly realized that he couldn't really compare himself to Mike, else he'd completely lose his mind. Besides, Mike was happily married, and his ring shined with good care and frequent polishing.

Mike pulled out the chair next to John very naturally and sat down, beaming and not at all picking up on the slight glare that John was directing to him. "So, horrid day, eh? So much haze!"

John really, really didn't care about the weather.

"Absolutely horrid," she said emphatically, and John wondered if he was reading too much into her cheeky grin, or was she actually sharing an inside joke with him about how horrid Mike's entrance timing was.

"So, how's the clinic been?" Mike asked with his high-pitched laughter, "Oh John here is a doctor, did you know that?"

John wanted to slink away in a corner—Mike was not being the good wingman that he thought he was.

"Yes, we might have exchanged professions some time before you came in," she continued with her barely concealed sauciness.

John wanted to applaud her ruthlessness, but concluded that it might be a downward spiral for Sherlock if he encouraged rudeness. "Good, the clinic's been good; how's teaching at Bart's?"

Mike gave a small grimace, "Same as always, insufferably bright and innocent youths."

"Youth is inherently insufferable because," she drawled, "one never knows what to do with it until the mid-life crisis. John here was telling a story before you came in though, shall we let him finish?"

"Oh, of course, of course," Mike agreed easily.

"Right. So," he cleared his throat and continued, "So Sherlock noticed," here he saw Mike chuckle to himself, "Noticed that the skid marks were actually wheel marks, too close together for a suitcase though. We didn't figure out until later that it was from the sort of two-wheeled cart that old people use to carry heavy groceries home. At the time, he—"

Her Blackberry vibrated violently.

"Sorry," she apologized quickly, and pulled up the phone. "Hello? Uh-huh. Fuck, just now? Okay, okay, of course I'll be there, but make Jonathan call Sven, I don't want to be the one doing it two nights in a row. Alright, see you." She hung up and gave a rueful smile, "Sorry, got to run, fire drill."

"No problem," John said despite a small disappointment pooling in his stomach, "Let me get that then," he shifted left to reach for his wallet.

"No it's alright," she flipped her hand at him, "It's on company tab. Yes we have a company tab. If your clinic needs going public, think of us, ja?" She winked. "And here," she reached for her own plaid wallet and pulled out a card, "Call me to explain that gory mess of body parts, please, I'm literally dyingto know!"

John took her business card as she walked out, heels clicking the slightly sticky floor of The Old Bell quicker than the average woman in heels. He looked at the card in his hands—tastefully cream colored, heavy paper, her name printed in neat, professional blocks: "Marigold Morstan, CFA," he read.

And put it in his pocket and promptly forgot about it when a case came up the next day.


Author's Note: Hope you enjoyed Marigold/Mary as a character, and liked how Sherlock was everywhere, despite not being there at all. She's not the warm, clever-but-caring personality usually subscribed to hero-types.

Please review and leave your thoughts!