Part IV

Rampant Expectations

Better if it lasts for years,
so you are old by the time you reach the island,
wealthy with all you have gained on the way,
not expecting Ithaka to make you rich.

It turned out that fate—or love, or just sex—only took one more date.

Granted, their second date was almost two months later, before the two of them could both commit to a time. However, in the meantime, they had many interactions. Marigold had bailed John out once—when Greg got absolutely livid when he found out that John had stolen his Browning pistol back from the police station, locked the both of them up, and John had no option but to resort to shame-facedly call Marigold up. Marigold had thought it a high old joke, laughing about it for weeks. And there was that time that they ran into each other at the coffee shop, where they were meeting a client who refused to set outside of the public eye, and she was, well, getting coffee. That was when John and Marigold realized that coffee was actually the best occasion to meet up, and then did a few of those, even sneaking into the back door of a small local museum for a fifteen minutes break, gazing at a replica of the Polish Rider with soft intensity.

The date went fine—nothing extraordinary. John did not feel the same overwhelming, irrational sense of fate, but he attributed that to the lack of a full bar at this particular oyster bar. He was not a fan of the slimy bites—although he wasn't not a fan either—but Marigold seemed to have a soft spot for them, and he had a soft spot for the way her eyes alighted at the mention of oysters.

They had a few beers, and when the time came and he sent her home in a cab, she had—almost shyly—asked if he wanted a cup of coffee. The euphemism was not lost upon John, and he gladly took up her offer, despite having ordered two cups of tea at the restaurant already.

It did not take them long to discard conversation and take up to discarding each other's clothes. He had some trouble with her bra, and she clumsily stabbed her hand with the clasp of his belt. Something about the way she looked like she was holding in laughter—not a cruel laughter, but one that realized the comic nature of trying to peel underwear off while looking appropriately passionate—made his heart jump. It was almost the glee that he felt when his date laughed at a line in a movie that he thought was particularly funny but nobody else seemed to.

There was a timidity to the urgency, small moments where he or she were uncomfortable in their skin, aware of the flabbiness in their abdomen or thighs, before momentarily forgetting their own ugliness in each other's kisses, feeling younger, more wholesome, and even beautiful in certain moments, when there was clear admiration and desire in each other's faces. In a way, sex was like chasing a criminal with Sherlock—or a case with Sherlock was like sex. He was too caught up in—ah—feeling and being felt to really think about why that thought felt strange, and soon the main supply of his blood abandoned his brain.

But more than anything, he liked the languid, post-coital haze, completely satisfied, at once slightly hungry and so full, thirsty too but his throat rasping in a good way, and his thoughts turning so heavily, like limbs in thick water.

A clear chime cut through the moment of cuddling, and she dug out his phone from underneath her back and tossed it onto his chest.

He wiped a finger against the sweat-moistened surface and checked his messages. Two unopened texts, both from Sherlock, obviously. Nothing urgent, just a general observation of 'Out of milk' and then a seemingly innocent 'It was the valet, if you must know.' John knew that he had meant 'Where are you' somewhere along the line, but did not feel that it was right to type up a message with Marigold peering right at him.

"Another one solved?" she asked, as languid as he felt.

"Genius likes audience," he shrugged.

She raised herself slowly on one elbow and looked at him.

Damn, he slipped again. Not only was it bad to be talking about another person in the post-sex cuddle, but to be talking about Sherlock, a man who was menace to his relationship-building endeavors.

"Children," she said slowly, "run up to their parents to show handiwork for their audience, yes, but also the surety of their audience."

It took John a moment to fully absorb all the insinuations jammed in that short sentence, and afterwards, he said thoughtfully: "You know, you're the first woman I've dated who hasn't declared him devil spawn."

Marigold collapsed back into the crook of his arm and he felt her shrug against him. "And that's why they are in the past tense."

He laughed at her easy confident before growing somber as he realized just how true it was.

That perhaps was the first bell, but in truth, he should have seen it a long time before that.

-.-.-

"So how's the dating scene been?" Sarah asked, tossing the question seemingly offhandedly as she pressed the button on the coffee machine, and a stream of spluttering hot coffee shot into her Styrofoam cup.

John gave her a tired smile. He hadn't told any of them of his newfound relationship with Marigold. It didn't seem like a good idea, given the overly gossipy nature of the group—it was understandable, really, what did these people have in their lives but general banality?

The pervading smell of vanilla and coffee was invigorating though, and John answered carefully, "Oh, much of the same," before quickly taking a cup as well to busy his hands. He looked down at the cup, as if there was something fascinating about the white, bubbly foam, but he could feel Sarah's gently prying eyes on him still.

"You've been going out on dates less," Sarah remarked.

He shrugged. His cup was done now, and the two of them made their way back to the break room, where the rest of his colleagues were chattering on about other banalities. It was Friday, so they were extending their morning break by an extra ten minutes. Fridays were always the best days, because the impeding weekend brought on a sense of urgency in the morning, and a justification to procrastinate in the afternoon. Also, the vending machine in the back of the kitchenette had the highest frequency of breaking down on Friday—John was pretty sure Henry had made a pie chart or something about it—and that always meant free pop along with the free doughnuts.

But of course all the doughnuts were gone by the time they returned with coffee, with the exception of one single, sad plain old-fashioned, sitting there crumbly and smeared with various icings.

Sarah put a hand on his elbow and brought his attention back. "One of my friends from uni is visiting this weekend," Sarah began in the same offhanded way that she inquired about his relationship status, and John could see where this was heading.

Ruby, the leggy receptionist, was in the middle of telling everybody about this new restaurant that was remodeled and reopened, and how the bouillabaisse was just the most delectable thing in the world—except she was pronouncing it like bowl-la-base. Even then, her eyes flicked to John the moment Sarah mentioned her uni friend, and John wondered if Ruby was not secretly the smartest person in the room, able to carry out several trains of thought simultaneously.

He was trying to come up with some sort of excuse to not see Sarah's friend—not that he didn't like spending time with Sarah, but the last time she tried to set a blind date, the woman had talked about the minimum price of wedding rings within half an hour—when his phone suddenly vibrated.

And it vibrated again, and again, until he realized that it wasn't a text.

Confused, he pulled out the phone, smiling a little apologetically at the group. Sherlock never called—even when his life was in danger he took the time to find all the little keys to text. Mycroft never called him, preferring to take him by surprise. Harry never called, because she knew he wouldn't pick up. Marigold never called during the day because she was too busy. There really wasn't that many people in his life, was there?

As it turned out, it was Marigold. Her personal number flashed on the screen.

Even more confused, he answered it. "Marigold? Is something wrong?"

Great, Ruby face lit up at a girl's name. John knew he couldn't escape the water cooler torture now.

"John," her voice sounded distracted as always when she was working, "You're on coffee break, right?"

"That's right," of course Marigold would remember his break schedule.

"Are you busy today? Do you have time around noon?"

"Sure, I have time," it was a day of average patient flow, but surely anything was more exciting than the slow surge of daily headaches and the common flu. Besides, Marigold rarely asked, preferring to backhandedly demand—so this must be a big ask.

"Oh good," she breathed in relief then went silent for a minute, and he could make out a string of curses under her breath and patiently waited for her to finish that email. "John?"

"Still here," he answered.

"Right, a total firedrill blew up this morning, do you mind picking up somebody at the airport? You can take my car, of course, if you want." By now John was versed enough in her lingo to know that 'blowing up' with Marigold meant a completely different thing than it did with Sherlock.

"Sure," he could have lunch off, maybe grab a sandwich to go. Hell, he'd have a day's leave to drive her car. Yes, it was that beautiful.

"Flight UA334 from New York, 12:35 arrival. His name is Logan, five eleven, kind of scrawny, probably mismatched clothes. Can't tell you what color his hair will be. Thanks a ton, I'll take both of you to dinner! Okay, got to go, bye!"

Click.

Before Ruby could make out a stream of questions, John stood up and said, "Coffee break over, I better get to the next patient. If anything comes up during lunch, could you cover for me, Sarah?" He hated asking her for favors, but she was the only person who didn't try to dig up everything in his life.

As soon as she nodded with a strained smile, he dashed out.

He almost skipped out when the clock struck eleven thirty. Never mind that it was unbecoming for a man his age to skip, and blast whatever Ella would say about his psychosomatic limp.

He spotted the straight away in the car park. Marigold's car was a beast: an absolutely gorgeous dark metallic blue Porsche with a matching convertible top, appropriately youthful with two-toned orange leather interior, the wheels coated in matte platinum. A young-ish bloke in a crisp but cheap suit was waiting by it, tossing a set of keys up in the air and snatching it repeatedly.

John walked up to him. Twenty, if that, with a tie far more expensive than his suit, probably out of his means and a gift. Hair in a tapered Ivy League cut, side-parted with pomade, past its peak with perhaps ten weeks' worth of growth. John delighted in trying to figure out people with Sherlock's methods, and he didn't particularly care if he was right: the act itself was fun was all.

"John Watson?" the bloke asked him uncertainly with a slight frown, as if disapproving of his appearance.

John frowned back. He was wearing his Haversack coat, and he looked spiffy, if he did say so himself. It was a rather expensive jacket, no less so than the bloke's tie, and if it was a bit tattered from years of wear and strenuous physical activity in the recent year, it was still well cared for. While his denim jeans didn't exactly fit in with the immediate environment, he wasn't working here. "Those keys are for Marigold's Porsche right?"

"Yes, Doctor Watson?"

John nodded.

"ID please?"

John dug into his pocket to get his wallet, and flapped it open to show the bloke his clinic card.

"Ah, sorry, Doctor, can't be too cautious these days," the bloke extended his hand and John plucked the keys out of them quickly. He kept his hand extended however, and John realized that he wanted a handshake. "Archie."

"John Watson," he said, not too offended by youth. In fact it was rather good sense. Marigold's firm hired kids with good heads.

"Right. She mentioned something about having a friend fly in, and I offered to get one of the trading interns to go get him for her—God knows that they would welcome a job like that compared to getting everybody's lunch orders. Trading internships." He smiled at John as if he expected John to share the joke, so John smiled back politely. "Anyway, Marigold said that she already took care of it."

Well, an unusually chatty one.

"Just be careful, mate, alright? This is Marigold's baby, and Jove help me if it gets scratched and she's in a mood."

John was getting slightly irritated, because this Archie was keeping John from driving and what, he thought John didn't know that this was Marigold's baby? He was a bit presumptuous; John took back the bit about good heads. "I know, I will," he said politely, despite his irritation.

"Ah, okay." The boy was somehow reluctant to leave, and they both turned to look at the waiting car.

The sun broke and shone on the metallic sheen, as if alighting it in an aureole halo. A wave of giddiness hit John as he thought of actually being able to drive this beauty—normally Marigold drew the line at driving him to the grocers to get milk, which she did only in apology after she stood him up for dates.

"Right then," he cleared his throat, "I should get going."

"Right," the bloke echoed him, "I'll just see you off."

John pulled open the door and sank into the sports seat. He blinked.

Oh, right, the left side was the driver seat. Marigold imported it from America when she came over. Something about not being able to afford another Porsche. John would have thought it all bull a month ago, but apparently banking was not as lucrative as the masses believed—or at least not at her level.

He climbed out and into the other side, careful to not look at the bloke's face.

Driving on the wrong side was surprisingly easy, and thankfully he did not crash into anything, making to the airport safe and sound. He stood by the arrival's gate, holding a piece of paper on which he wrote 'Logan' in large, blocky letters. He felt very foolish in his sweater, next to all the suited chauffeurs carrying printout nametags, but held his ground like any respectable soldier.

A couple people starting trickling out. Some young woman jumped a young man as soon as he came out. A middle-aged man gave the next woman who came out a large bouquet, somewhat embarrassed and awkward. About a dozen other people came and went until somebody who fitted Marigold's description came out, eyes scanning the crowd.

Okay, John thought, pink, okay.

The man—just easing into his thirties, same age as Marigold, pink hair, in a woolly cardigan with elbow patches, glasses that were so painfully unfashionable that they might be fashion forward, pink hair, a few hairs on his chin where he missed shaving, and did John mention pink hair?

To be fair, it was not the shocking hot pink like the pink lady from A Study in Pink, but a rather faded, reddish color, but it was still pink for god's sake. He had not known Marigold associated with artiste types like this one here.

The man—Logan, presumably—saw his sign and came over, clearly as confused as John was when Marigold called.

"Logan?" he ventured to guess.

"Yes?" he answered questioningly, "Did Goldie send you?"

Why did all of her friends call her Goldie, John thought irritably. It made him feel so formal and detached to call her Marigold, but he couldn't fall into calling her 'Goldie' either, the nickname clearly coming from a time when he wasn't in her life. "Yes, Marigold couldn't come. Work, you know."

Logan rolled his eyes and grunted, "Of course. This is New York all over again. Well at least I'll be getting a round of free shots tonight." He reached out his hand, "Logan."

"John, John Watson," he drew in closer to him and gripped his outstretched hand tightly. He was annoyed to find that he seemed even shorter next to the gangly man. Logan wasn't nearly as tall as Sherlock, but they had the same build that made them appear taller than they were.

The drive back was awkward. John had tried to make small talk—is this your first time in London? Did you know Marigold from school? The weather's just turned nice today—but Logan only rewarded him with one syllable answers—no, yes, hm. Soon even John gave up, and they drove in a thick silence.

"This is Marigold's car." suddenly Logan remarked, fingering the pine-shape car freshener that hung from the car ceiling between them.

John was a little startled, to be honest, and he nearly stepped on the gas a bit more than he should have. "Yes, she lent me so that I could pick you up."

Logan turned right to look at him with a sidelong, funny glance. It was a very careful and judging glance. "She let you drive her car?"

"Yes," John didn't like how Logan seemed so surprised by it.

Logan turned forward again, giving a humming mumble, tugging more at the watermelon scented pine-shape.

"Why?" John pressed, unwilling for the silence to return, also curious as to why Logan seemed so baffled.

"She didn't even let me use her laptop back in the day. Got freaked out like a snarling cat whenever I tried to show her anything on YouTube."

Marigold did have control problems when it came to other people touching her laptop or other personal electronics, he had noticed. He also thought about how Sherlock took his personal laptop and hacked the passwords within five seconds. Of course, 'getoutyousoddinggit' was not the most secure password. "She still doesn't like people handling her laptop," he offered.

"Yet, car," he deadpanned.

"Yes, well, boyfriends get special privileges."

Logan's head snapped toward him, and John could tell from his peripheral vision that his eyes had grown wide as saucers. "You? She's dating you?"

"Yes," now John was really beginning to get irritated by this American.

"Sorry, no offence, just that," Logan paused, "she normally does the blond, blocky type."

John preferred to not take that comment literally.

"Taller, usually," Logan added.

John hit the brakes at the next red light a little too abruptly and Logan squirmed against the seat belt. Once John gave up on talking, they immediately fell back into silence, even thicker this time due to that exchange.

John wasn't sure what to do with this man, so he pulled up to his clinic and let both of them out. He sent a quick text to Marigold, letting her know that her car was just as flawless as before, and asked how to deal with Logan.

Within half a minute her reply came: 'Please adopt him until 5, will come find you.'

John groaned audibly, and Logan shot him a dirty look. Great. Logan already didn't like him for some reason, so of course he had to make it worse. Just bloody fantastic. John put on as believable a smile as he could muster and asked the pink haired man, "Would you like to see the hospital that I work at?"

The man gave him a disinterested shrug, as if to say 'what choice do I have'?

So for the dull hours of between one and five, John's patient room had an extra piece of furniture. Well, a moving piece of furniture, who wanted to touch everything with a curiosity that went along well with the under-ten-years-of-age patients. They had nothing much to say to one another, and as Logan didn't seem interested in small talk, John was happy to work in relative silence.

Five thirty rolled in as slowly as it always did on Fridays, and it was the ninth time that John was looking at the clock in the last five minutes.

"I thought she said five," Logan finally asked, a deepness to his voice that prevented him from sounding too whiny.

John smiled apologetically, "Well, she's usually very bad with keeping time. Busy."

"And you're okay with that?" Logan asked, head unconsciously to one side. The way he was looking at him, John felt like a Rubik's cube that Logan was itching to manhandle.

"Why shouldn't I be okay," John asked back, "it's not like she's willfully late."

Logan gave a noncommittal hum and went back to his phone.

Another ten minutes later, John's phone buzzed. It was Sherlock, remarking on the dearth of milk in their fridge. Also asking for a whole (and if possible, healthy) liver. As he was sending back a response, his phone buzzed again, and this time it was Marigold.

'Terroirs in half', was the succinct message. Not two seconds later, followed by: 'I feel like I should apologize on Logan's behalf, for whatever he has or hasn't done.'

John chuckled, because what else could he do?

Terroirs was a modest, softly lit tapas bar that was surprisingly not that crowded. They, of course, arrived first, and Logan had already ordered a martini when Marigold hurried walk in, her heels clicking with rhythm.

"Goldie!" Logan threw himself at her, completely engulfing her and putting too much of his weight on her. Marigold stumbled and seemed on the verge of collapsing, but she was laughing.

"You got a boyfriend!" he accused the moment they peeled away from each other.

"Why are you surprised, after all the time you've known me?" she said as she sat down and took a look at the menu.

"You didn't say anything!"

"Course not, I didn't want you to scare him away."

"I'm right here," John piped up.

"He's certainly different," Logan said meaningfully.

"Considering how the previous ones didn't work, it shows that I'm thinking."

"I agree that Finn was dumb, but short doesn't mean smart either! Besides, he had an island."

"I'm right here you know," John offered again, "Hasn't gone away, or disappeared."

"It was a boring island. Nothing but cows there. And John's not boring at least."

"Yeah? You better tell me how."

"I refuse. You'll just use it for blackmailing later," Marigold lifted a hand to flag down a waiter.

"Oh when have I ever successfully blackmailed you?"

"Not for a lack of trying, certainly."

"Nor a lack of material: there was frat-boy Finn, academic Alan, tiny Timothy, WASP-y Will, and let's not forget lilting Liam."

Well that was a rather impressive list, John thought, although he was being hypocritical.

"Oh god you bloody alliterated!" Marigold said in horror.

"In any case, you have to tell me the story, because there is one," Logan said, surreptitiously glancing at John.

John was very, very brassed off now. "Stop this gallivanting right now," he growled out, his voice low but cutting through their chatter like a hot knife through flesh. John rarely blew up—at anybody besides Sherlock, in any case—but when he did, he was a scary person, he knew. His stance was straight and soldierly, his gaze steely and commanding, and he wore his captain's title without the actual badge.

Indeed, both of them stopped and stared at him, Logan surprised and Marigold just a little turned on.

Immediately, he regretted his outburst, because really, hadn't he himself wondered the same thing? A portion of the John Watson who was acutely aware of his height and the wrinkles on his face and maybe the pulling threads in his shirt too—that John Watson could not quite believe that Marigold was here for him. Not that he considered Marigold out of his league (he'd had fitter women, although in his toned, military youth), but he would like to hear Marigold say that.

Damn Sherlock and planting ideas into his head. But once the idea was there, he could not help but notice the little things.

Sherlock antagonized her, in a way that was surprising. Usually, Sherlock treated his girlfriends as inconveniences of a lesser mind (like he did everybody else), whose existence he chose to ignore or to upset, depending on his mood. Sherlock usually offended the women without trying to—but with Marigold, he was trying. And failing.

Because despite Sherlock's sour words, Marigold liked Sherlock, in a way that John seldom saw in people. As a rule, John rarely saw anything but a deep (and usually deepening) dislike. Her fondness of the genius wasn't even the suffering tolerance that Greg exhibited, or a puzzled if amused indifference that Mike took on. No, she was genuinely interested in his opinions and quirks. Her eyes would light up whenever John told her about the cases, and often she tried her hand at deduction (although she was really piss poor at it—she didn't even notice when an entire sofa moved one time).

He hadn't introduced her formally to Greg yet, but there was a time when her boss left unexpectedly early, and she surprised him at the crime scene. She made friends with Anderson—or as much as anybody could make friends with the miserable, grouchy man—and gave a fake little laugh at his joke. John had felt just a little annoyed at her for it, but then at dinner she made a scathing remark about Anderson's lack of intelligence and envy of Sherlock, a proud edge to her condescension that John hummed in resonance with.

There was this one case where they were investigating a series of murders, linked together by the ripped pages of a book. Each of the victims were killed in a different fashion—asphyxiation, fire, blunt force trauma, blood loss, poison, etc.—but all of them had the chapter page of an old, out of print version of Silas Marner next to them. They had been allowed inside the bathtub of the latest victim, a woman lying naked and drowned, soap sods caked on the part of her legs raised above water. John had to peel his arm away from Marigold's clutch in order to examine the rigor of the body, but when he looked back, her eyes were wide not with just fear (although there was plenty of that, Sherlock scoffed later), but also a pure excitement. (She even laughed a little, with a graceful self-deprecation, later, when Sherlock scoffed.) Sherlock proclaimed the dead woman to be the serial killer—at which point Donovan scoffed and Anderson left the room. It was simple (according to Sherlock), and actually quite ingenious (also Sherlock's choice of diction). The first murder had been a suicide, but this bathtub woman—interior designer, two dogs and a parakeet, moved around quite a bit—had encountered it before anybody had discovered the body, and promptly made it look like a murder scene with the insertion of the ripped page and a message. Then she carefully killed the drunk driver who had ploughed through her parents, laying out another page. Since she had a waterproof alibi for the first 'murder', this cleared her. Caught in the invincibility she thought she possessed, she continued her killing spree, crossing off the woman engaged to an ex-boyfriend, the boss from ten years ago who got promoted on her work product, and eventually menial offenders such as the landlord who refused to turn up the heat. Her real genius was her method of laying out the pages. Her lesser-known uni minor was in chemistry, and by manipulating the bodies and inverting the order of the chapters, she successfully misled the police into believing a different time frame for the deaths, further solidifying her alibi. However, she failed to realize that a friend of hers had noticed her disposal of the poison—and the said friend, with the same vintage Silas Marner that they bought together, in the fresh graduation of their sorority rush back in the day, murdered her, leaving behind the next chapter of the same book.

When Sherlock left the scene, Marigold was silent and motionless. John was beginning to be worried, when Marigold suddenly looked up and told him that this was the best 7am she had ever had.

And there was a day when they ran into Harry on the street—at Selfridges of all places, but thankfully Harry didn't buy anything she couldn't afford there. Harry had made some offhand and inappropriate remark about his relationship with Sherlock ('he's always been commitment-phobic, like all men, except to the man that he lives with; this is why I'm a lesbian'). Marigold had laughed, and he could tell it was a genuine one, full of amused surprise. That was fine—it was fantastic that she wasn't offended by his batshite-insane sister—but well, oughtn't she be just a little peeved that he was so focused on Sherlock?

In any case, he flagged down their waiter again and they placed their order with tense brevity.

The arrival of the charcuterie platter saved the atmosphere (there was little that could occupy Marigold's mind when she was eating speck), and the tapas plates came quickly enough that there was not much room for idle discussion. The cod—John refused to even think of the French names—was good, and Logan stuffed his big mouth with black pudding, while Marigold chomped down on the pig's head.

Afterwards, they polished off a bottle of amontillado sherry, Marigold and Logan engaged feverishly in some talk about Edgar Allen Poe, and the conversation ceased to make sense to John.

Marigold did not invite him to her home that night, instead kissing him tenderly when she dropped him off.

In fact, the kiss was so tender and placating that John spent the better half of the night turning in his own bed (to the background music of Paganini's Cantabile 17).

At the turning point of this day to the next, he gave up and took out his phone, pounding the keyboard vehemently.

In fifteen minutes, he was at Marigold's.

Logan was snoring steadily in the living room, on the large, moss-colored sofa that he had helped Marigold pick up. The sound rumbled through the flat and John wondered if everybody had some sort of background music, and if he should be grateful that his was a masterful violin.

It would be juvenile to take advantage of a sleeping person, John told himself firmly as he slipped into Marigold's bedroom. She was sprawled on her bed, cocooned in her massive quilt. She shifted over with a displeased groan to make room for him on the bed. He walked over, sat on the edge, and was silent until Marigold looked at him in confusion.

In a spinning moment of self-doubt, he asked her, "Are you with me to be close to Sherlock?"

She seemed taken back—he couldn't tell if it was a good taken back or a bad kind. But quickly she overcame herself and started chuckling. "What gave you that idea?"

Sherlock, of course, who amplified all his insecurities. "Just a floating thought," he gave vaguely, "It's apparent that you're very drawn towards him though."

She looked at him as if she thought he was feverish, before responding very reasonably, "Well he's an attractive figure, I suppose, but no, not really. I mean, have you talked to the guy?" Then she laughed, because of course he of all people knew how hard it was to get along with Sherlock. If it could even be called 'getting along'. "You want a drink?" she asked as she pulled a bottle of whisky and another of amaretto out of her night drawer.

"I don't see why not," John answered.

She passed him a glass, taking a long drink from her own before he even touched it. She was still feeling the effects of the night's earlier drinks, John could tell, a sort of cheery carelessness to her. Her silk pyjama top was buttoned incorrectly and skewed, but she was completely without self-consciousness, and although her movements were chunky, she carried them out with a grace she only put on when she was drunk. Marigold was a very different drunk than Harry, which was why John felt like he wasn't looking at a problem.

"Logan had polished off the last of the gin," Marigold said, swirling her drink in one hand, "but you like whisky anyway."

John could always appreciate a good Talisker—the finer points of Island whiskys introduced to him by Marigold, who couldn't tell the difference between most of the ones she recommended—but he was more eager to get back on track. "It's just that, well, you seem to be very interested in what he does," John replied as offhandedly as he could. "I mean, what Sherlock does."

"Oh I am, but it's also what you do, no?"

John shrugged. It was, but it was also undeniable that Sherlock was the heart of the matter.

"What's wrong with me taking an interest in what you do then?" she asked.

He thought she might have been teasing, because this was exactly what was wrong—that he was scared she was more interested in what he did than him. But that sounded like a pathetic high-schooler even in his head, so John wisely said instead, "You'd known him before you met me." It wasn't a question.

She shrugged now, "I'd seen his name in the papers, but I don't read the headlines not pertinent to finance. Besides, I recognized you, when we first met."

Ah, the mystery of the younger, successful woman checking him out in a bar.

When it became clear to her that he was waiting for an elaboration, she dragged herself up and continued. "We were in a bake-off for some stupid newspaper company. I started picking up a copy of this company's paper, just to make my Managing Director's life easier. It happened, on that particular day, that your case made the headlines, the journalist featured a quick profile for you two, and most importantly, my MD's phone conference dragged out a whole half hour longer than anticipated. These circumstances led to me idly typing .uk into my phone's browser. Your blog (probably due to lower traffic) came up quickly, and so I looked at your profile picture and had even read half of the Speckled Blonde entry before I was called into my boss's decidedly more spacious office. That night, I went to the pub with my co-worker, and I recognized your face."

"Just happened to."

"Yup."

"Of all the—"

"If you quote Casablanca, I'll hit you."

"I wasn't." Not word for word anyway. "And so you thought, 'hey, why don't I finish the rest of the Speckled Blonde story'?"

She shrugged, "Basically."

John wasn't sure if this made it better. "So essentially you were looking for Sherlock."

"No," she snapped, "if I wanted Sherlock I would have killed somebody."

That would be more successful in gaining his attention, although it would have to be a clever kill. "Well, know more about him then."

"I wanted you to tell me a story," Marigold said impatiently, "isn't that what you chat up women for? To tell them about yourself?"

"Yes," technically, but that wasn't the point.

"So we both have what we want. What's the problem?"

"It's not a problem; I just want to understand you better."

She scoffed and turned away.

John thought she was upset and so started, "Look—"

She cut him off, "You want another?"

He hadn't finished it yet, but he passed his glass to her anyway so she could top it off. "I'm not accusing you of anything."

"You better not be," she scoffed.

"No need to get antagonistic."

"I'm not antagonistic."

In any case, John was willing to rest the case for now. He thought Marigold was actually just antagonistic enough—not too much to be contrived and too little to be guilty—to make her story believable.

However, she shot her drink down and after licking her lips, she said, "I wouldn't like Sherlock, John. I'm not another Molly."

She was definitely not Molly, John thought, almost amused.

"She," Marigold went on, "is an altogether very hopeful sort of person, but I learned that contented heroines are not feminist, and that happy endings are not literature. That god is dead and we have to become gods in order to cleanse our murder of him. That the dog Fido, lost in the first chapter, fails to turn up happily barking in the last. That eggs are feminine fertility and whenever I eat one I am devouring myself. That good men are hard to find. That being skinny is no longer what other people want out of me, but what I want for myself, and nothing will taste as good as being thin. That death knows no forgiveness, and sometimes suicide is an act that is unconditionally beautiful. That hell is other people and also because I believe I am in hell. That Greece is just a dirty shithole and not the shimmering thrones of Aphrodite. That even my most vivid experiences will be transient, and the rest of my life will be forever trying to recreate that. That high school never ends. That love is chemical. That everybody lies. That real life picks up where the Jane Austen novel ends. That the rich is miserable, but it is better to be rich and miserable than poor and miserable."

At some point, she had come closer and looped her arms around his waist. John had been distracted by the bombardment of cultural allusions in her little tirade, and was anxious that he was missing the point in there somewhere. "Hm," he hummed, but Marigold didn't seem to be waiting for a response, so instead he just reciprocated her gesture. Her speech didn't make sense, in or out of context, but he couldn't deny that it felt intimate, like a confession. It made him immediately feel like he understood Marigold, and in return she understood him.

And so what else was left, when that was established, but to love each other?