When I Was a Child (Chapter 1)

A/N: Hello, please blame the pandemic for Sherlock brainrot. I hope you enjoy this first chapter.

I don't know if you could call this one a case, not really. And if you did, it would be one of the longest cases Sherlock and I have ever had. Technically, it started before I had even met Sherlock and we did not end up solving it really. But I'm getting ahead of things. It all started around the time I moved back to London…

Three days. It had taken three whole days to move all of her boxes, bags, books, and furniture into 219 Baker St. Marylin Montgomery stood in the center of her sitting room, observing the chaotic swarm of things she had accumulated. It had not seemed like much when she was making her purchases – and packing everything up – but now that everything was strewn about the three-story terraced house Marylin was at a loss as to what to do with it all.

Thankfully, the movers had placed her furniture on the correct floors. She likely would not move the pieces around much unless it was necessary. At least not yet. It would take Marylin quite a while to decide what she wanted to do with it all. Yet, she had to start somewhere so, she began with the ground floor.

Hours later, Marylin lay across the carved, Victorian style sofa in her upstairs library surrounded by empty boxes and bags. From that morning, she had unpacked and organized most of the downstairs – which was just her kitchen, sitting room, and entryway– and had begun to unpack her things upstairs.

Within the first few minutes of unpacking, Marylin realized she had much more books than she had previously thought and was obligated to carry several boxes of them upstairs, a formidable task. Once she had done that, and cleared most of the ground floor, she forced herself back upstairs to the mountain of boxes that awaited her.

Crafting supplies ranging from yarn, handheld spindles, small weaving looms, and sewing machines were unearthed from boxes and bags, and then promptly thrown into the back room Marylin designated as her crafting space. The books, which were mostly left in boxes – or in piles on the floor – called to be tidied up, but after hours of work and little to no sleep, she wished to rest.

And so, she did. At least until a horrible racket started up in the house next door. At first Marylin thought it sounded like a wailing cat, or another animal, until she realized it was it was a stringed instrument.

"Likely a violin or fiddle…" She thought as she sat up, stretching the weariness from her body.

A large, grey, fluffy cat trotted his way toward her from down the hall crying out. Marylin picked him up and nuzzled her face into his fur.

"I'm sorry, Alexander," she sighed, scratching his tummy. "I had no idea we'd have noisy neighbors."

Alexander purred and wiggled in Marylin's arms; her apologies made no difference to him for he was a cat, and cats only wanted few things in life. Alexander "The Great" Fluffington I, for instance, wanted food. And food he was to get.

Marylin set the cat on his feet and made her way down the stairs to feed him.

In the kitchen, Alexander wound around Marylin's legs meowing and crying as she poured his dry food into his bowl, next to his water fountain. A loud screech caused Marylin to jump, knocking over the bag of dry cat food, much to Alexander's delight.

"Damn that instrument!" She cried, kneeling back down to clean up the mess she had made before Alexander ate himself into a stupor.

After the mess had been cleaned up, Marylin stormed back up the stairs to continue unpacking. It was Thursday the twenty-eighth of January and her job at the Mayfair Library did not start until February the second, but she wished to relax for a few days before she started work. Relaxation would be impossible for Marylin until she at least knew where she wanted everything to go.

The ground floor was nothing but a kitchen, small bathroom, and sitting room. Save for the kitchen and sitting room there was not much to be done with it. She would have to hang her wall art and tapestries later.

The first and second floors… those were another story. The large, open area, which Marylin dubbed her library, was the largest room in the house. It had an open floor plan which led into another room, that had also been lined with bookshelves and plush sitting areas. A few pieces of furniture would have to be moved around, and the books organized, then she had to tackle her craft room and the bathroom. The miniature grand piano she had ordered had yet to be delivered.

That did not even begin to cover the second floor. Marylin had the large master bedroom all to her lonesome, save Alexander, and had not even begun to unpack or decorate that room. She would probably be sleeping in the library on one of the many overstuffed sofas.

There was a guest room, but Marylin was to turn that room into a boudoir and dressing closet to fill with her many, many clothes which she also needed to unpack. The bathrooms, at least, would be easy.

Before she knew it, Marylin had filled one wall of bookshelves and the sun had begun to set. The neighbor from next door refrained from making noise, thankfully. She hoped it was a one-off thing.

A loud rumble broke the silence and Marylin realized she had gone the whole day without eating. Not unusual. Sighing, she stepped over piles of books and boxes to head down the stairs when the screech of the violin, or fiddle, sounded from next door.

Jumping backward, Marylin fell into a rather large pile of books, sending them crashing to the ground, and she fell along with them.

"Bloody hell!" She yelled, pushing herself to her feet.

Quickly, she checked over the fallen books to make sure they were not too damaged – they were not thankfully, just a few scuffs and bent pages – then ran down the stairs, barely pausing for shoes before storming out of the house.

Hand already balled into a fist, Marylin banged on the door to 221 Baker St, not stopping to say hello to the sweet landlady, Mrs. Hudson, who greeted her and stomped up the stairs. Again, she pounded on the door and waited. There was no answer, so she knocked again.

"Just go on in, dear!" The landlady called from downstairs.

Hesitating for only a moment, Marylin flung open the door with a bang. That had no effect on the tall figure who stood in front of the window, a violin cradled against his cheek.

"Would you please keep it down?" She demanded; hands clenched tightly at her sides.

Only then did the man turn towards her. He was beautiful, in an unusual sort of way. Brunet curls, so dark they were almost black, adorned his head. Pale skin and icy blue eyes created a striking contrast. High cheekbones sloped downwards to full lips which were slightly parted in what Marylin guessed was surprise.

"Hello," Marylin trilled in a less than friendly tone. "Would you mind to keep it down? I've nearly died three times today due to your playing."

"Unlikely." He said, his voice a rich baritone.

"Excuse me?"

"I said 'unlikely'. My playing would hardly have caused your death, unless you were to fall down a flight of stairs, which would be your own fault."

"Oh, so you're an arrogant sort then."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I do believe you heard me."

The man took a step toward her, clearly irritated. What had gotten into her? Storming into a strange man's flat, insulting him? That was a recipe for disaster.

Marylin crossed her arms over her chest and thrust her chin in the air. No, she would be fine. She had to be. While she detected irritation in the man's body language, she hardly read aggression or dangerous intent. And she could get out of there quickly if that were the case.

"Mid to late twenties going by your skin – which is relatively unlined, split ends and rough nails which indicate a lack of care about your appearance – or you've not had a chance to get to get them done in a while – but combined with your outfit," he looked her up and down, taking in her old sweatshirt, leggings, and trainers. "I'd say it's a lack of care. You have a cat, long haired and rather large from the height of its hair patterning on your… leggings. And you've recently had failed engagement by the way you've been fidgeting with your left ring finger.

"It's likely you broke off the engagement due to some sort of disagreement, or infidelity. Speaking of your hands, you have several types of small calluses which show you work with them, but they also appear soft, so not to the extent of your job. Probably crafting or playing an instrument, likely both. The red splotches on your skin and the damage around your fingernails hint at possible OCD, or tendencies overlapping from stress and anxiety.

"You speak with a slight accent, Irish to be exact, suggesting you have at least one parent of Irish descent. You're quick to anger, seeing as you've ran over here in a rage over a few off notes of my violin, and you often act without thinking. So, a recently single, neurotic, lonely, likely spoiled girl with only a cat for company. Did I get all of that?"

Marylin blinked a few times, surprised and angry. Just who did he think he was?

"No," she said finally. "You did not."

"What?" He asked, looking quite shocked.

"You're wrong."

"I'm never wrong. Off about one or two things, maybe, but never wrong."

Marylin laughed. It was a cold, hateful sound.

"Well, Mr. Whoever-you-are, this time you're quite wrong."

"Sherlock Holmes." He spoke.

"Mr. Holmes," Marylin stuck out her hand for him to shake, he crossed the room and took it in his own. "It's quite awful to meet you."

"Likewise," he murmured, staring deeply into her eyes. "Miss?"

"Montgomery. Marylin Montgomery."

With that, she turned on her heel and headed down the stairs. Before she descended, she paused noticing Sherlock staring after her.

"Do keep it down, Mr. Holmes." She said.

"What did I get wrong?" He asked.

"Ah," Marylin smiled. "That's for me to know and you to find out."

"But–"

"Good evening, Mr. Holmes."

And she was gone, leaving Sherlock quite perplexed.

Back in her home, Marylin was too angry to eat and opted for a bubble bath instead. She lacked candles among other things which would have created a relaxing atmosphere, but Alexander joined her on the lip of the tub, listening to her rant about her new neighbor.

"He's insufferably rude, Alexander dear!" Marylin exclaimed as he washed his paw empathetically.

"He did that thing… You know… My thing, except out loud."

Alexander mewed softly.

"Though," she said, rubbing the soapy water along her arms. "He was quite wrong about me. It appears my 'lonely girl' appearance fooled someone as clever as I."

Marylin lay back in the tub, letting the bubbles and water cover her up to her chin. If that were the case, then she was safe. At least for now.

The next day 219 Baker St. was a flurry of activity as Marylin had stayed up late into the night unpacking her library, organizing the books by subject, then by author until she passed out on one of the couches. She awoke late the next morning, feeling a little less than refreshed, and started off again. The harried process did not stop until Marylin remembered she had a hair appointment and flew out of the house, ignoring the pointed stare from the window next door.

When she returned, her hair freshly trimmed and nails manicured, the flat next door was all quiet. Marylin smiled smugly to herself, glad for at least a few hours of uninterrupted silence. Alexander greeted her as she entered her flat, and she patted his head.

Once she kicked off her shoes, Marylin headed back upstairs to work. She had accomplished more than she had initially thought in the wee hours of the morning, and in the short amount of time she had before her appointment. Instead of the library, she decided to get to work on her bedroom and dressing room.

Thankfully, the movers had set up her furniture in the areas she directed, so she would not have to move the heavy hardwood pieces.

In her room Marylin only had to make her opulent, carved rosewood bed; unpack her linens and put them in the matching armoire; vacuum the room and the couches; unpack all of her cosmetics and place them in her vanity; and finally, all the odds and ends she would place about the room.

Her dressing room, however, she had mountains of boxes and bags which were full to bursting with clothes, shoes, and undergarments. That room alone could take her days to set up.

"May as well start now." She thought, dusting her hands off on her trousers.

She was able to manage a large portion of her belongings in that room before Alexander began meowing irritably for his dinner.

"Yes, yes your Majesty," She fawned over him. "I'm at your beck and call. Your humble servant. I'll prepare your dinner post haste."

Alexander fixed her with a look and trounced down the stairs with his tail in the air. She followed, rolling her eyes.

"I do believe I've spoiled you, Alexander darling." Marylin teased as she fixed his dinner of wet food.

With a resounding meow, Alexander nudged her and stood up on his hind legs, paws against the cupboards. She smiled and set his bowl down in his spot next to the refrigerator.

Straightening up, she realized she had not heard a peep from next door. Though it likely had nothing to do with her tirade yesterday, Marylin was grateful for the silence. It often left her feeling… Well, bored. But she had many things to occupy her thoughts for now.

Again, she continued to set up her new home until the wee hours of the morning. This time, she fell into a deep sleep, Alexander curled next to her face on his own pillow.

When Marylin woke, her body ached all over. Two full days of unpacking and heavy lifting would do that to a person. Tempted to return to sleep, she kept her eyes closed, relishing in the fluffy warmth of her blankets and duvet. At least until Alexander jumped onto her chest, yelling quite pitifully.

With a sigh, Marylin turned to look at the clock on her bedside table. Four past seven, it read.

"Shit!" She cried, throwing back the covers.

Alexander, who was now buried under the blankets, meowed sorrowfully at his predicament. Before rushing out, Marylin flipped them off the poor creature and grabbed her dressing gown and slippers. He followed her down the stairs, while she pulled out her hairpins and combed her fingers through her hair as she went.

Her alarm had not gone off, and her piano would be delivered at any moment. The delivery company was already late.

"The delivery crew was supposed to be here at seven precisely!" She muttered, attempting not to trip on Alexander as she made her way to the front door.

Before the bell had even rung once, she had already wrenched open the door, revealing a small crew of men with the instrument.

"Mornin'!" One of them greeted her cheerily.

"Morning," she replied, opening the door wider for them. "It goes up that first flight of stairs there."

"Right'o," the same man said, motioning for the other men to help him lift the piano.

Marylin stepped out onto the street to give them room. As they hoisted the instrument into her house, Marylin looked up into the windows of 221 B Baker St to find Sherlock Holmes staring down at her.

She pursed her lips and gave him a dismissive wave, but he continued to stare at her much to her annoyance. Instead of allowing him to make her uncomfortable, she met his gaze head on, smiling sweetly at him when his brow furrowed.

Just what was he? He could read people as she did, apparently. He was arrogant, insufferable, and rude. He was well dressed, well educated – or at least smart, and played an instrument. Well off? Maybe. Definitely single.

The landlady expected comings and goings so that would mean friends? Perhaps. Maybe not though, because she was a stranger and was let in without a second thought. Sherlock Holmes did not seem the type for friends either.

It was likely he had some sort of business then, with clients coming into his home. Consultations? He had an odd assortment of things in his flat from what she could recall. They did not give much of a clue to what his profession was. Or maybe they did?

And there was the question of his name… It was a common enough name, Holmes. But Sherlock Holmes had that same cold, calculating light in his eyes that he had. It was more than likely a coincidence though. At least she hoped it was. She didn't want him meddling in her life any more than he already had.

Before she realized it, Sherlock Holmes had disappeared from the window. A wry smile crossed Marylin's mouth before she turned back to her home, watching as the movers struggled to lift her piano up the stairs. Soon enough, they managed to get it into the library without a scratch, leaving with a fat tip.

It would have to be later in the day she could play the instrument, though. She had places to be.

As Marylin returned home that evening she caught sight of a man staring up at the flat next door. He was on the shorter side, handsome, with a cane. She thought he looked rather sad. Lonely even.

Military style haircut, uneven tan, cane… Recently discharged?

Marylin shook her head. It was none of her business. But he looked as if he were waiting on someone. Maybe Mr. Holmes? Or the landlady… No. If he were waiting on her, he would be family and then he would already be inside, not waiting out on the sidewalk. Unless they were estranged? Unlikely.

Mr. Holmes it was then. A boyfriend perhaps? He did not seem the type for relationships though. He was unbearably rude.

"Ah," Marylin thought as a cab pulled up and the man she had been thinking of exited. "Speak of the devil…"

Sherlock Holmes' eyes cut to hers, studying her for a moment – taking in her newly tailored appearance, before settling on the other man and engaging him in conversation.

A roll of her eyes and she unlocked her door, kicking off her low-heeled shoes into the corner of the entryway. Before heading upstairs, she fed Alexander, who was yelling quite exuberantly about his snack.

Marylin had just sat down at her shiny new piano when a loud shout came from next door. She groaned in agitation, slamming her hands down on the keys loudly. The shouting, though not as loud, had not subsided.

She began to play, loud and angry, to cover up the sounds coming from next door. Thankfully, the music drowned out most of it and she let herself go. Let herself fall into the music, into her playing.

It had been so long since she had the opportunity to play, and the feeling was almost intoxicating. She was not even fazed when she played an off note here and there; she was so pleased to have the music back in her life. Almost more than she was to have a way to combat the noise that would likely continue to come from next door.

So pleased in fact, she played until the sun set and she realized she had not done any unpacking that day. With a sigh, Marylin closed the lid of the piano and set about organizing her dressing room yet again.

Through boxes of clothing, shoes, and jewelry she tore, hanging and folding anything that needed a place. She repeated this over and over until she had made a sizable dent in the boxes and bags which overtook the room. Soon, she came across a particular garment bag. Marylin unzipped it with glee. She had been looking forward to finding this particular bag for a while.

Inside was a custom peignoir set inspired by Jean Harlow. The nightgown was a creamy ivory silk, cut to fit close to the body and leave little to the imagination. The draping neckline plunged into a deep v with careful intent. The intent to entice. A heavily feathered, chiffon dressing gown in the same luxurious ivory color only added to the drama of the set.

Without a moment's hesitation, Marylin threw off her trousers and jumper, pulling on the magnificent garments with rapturous delight. Sliding her feet into feathered, heeled slippers, she gazed at herself in the full-length gilt mirror she had set up. Her skin was still troublesome, but it was nothing some gentle skincare wouldn't fix. Other than that, she found the young woman staring back at her enchanting. Enthralling even. Soft, blonde hair fell in gentle curls around her shoulders. Red lips curled into an alluring smile. Blue-grey eyes, heavy lidded and sultry. Marylin had become exactly who she intended to be.

No longer was she that timid, mousy girl with no backbone. Unlucky it had to happen that way, nevertheless she was happy with the woman who stared back at her. As happy as one such as her could be.

Abruptly, Marylin turned from her reflection and knelt to pick up her discarded clothing. Placing them in the hamper, she began to clean up the empty boxes strewn about the room, then set about putting away more of her belongings.

"They should not have gone through so much trouble…" Marylin said aloud with a sad smile. Alexander, who she had not realized was with her, meowed solemnly.

"Perhaps I do deserve it, Alexander dear. I should be grateful regardless." Her smile was a little less sad as she looked at the creature. He licked his mouth at her.

A small laugh escaped Marylin as she surveyed the room. While she had made a dent in her unpacked belongings, she was nowhere near finished. Unpacking had become a tedious chore and she nearly wished she had hired people to do it for her. But that would have been too dangerous. Hiring the movers, and the delivery crew for her piano, had been risk enough.

With a heavy sigh, Marylin headed down the stairs in the hopes of making tea and finding a book to read. At least until she got restless again. She ignored the beckoning door of her crafting room as she made her way down the stairs. There was no way she would be able to get that space organized. Ever.

Once settled in the library, she settled down on one of the large, plush couches with her tea and Carmilla by Sheridan LeFanu. With Alexander curled up at her side, Marylin began to read.

"In Styria, we, though by no means magnificent people, inhabit a castle, or schloss…"

Though she was in the gripping throes of Carmilla, once again Marylin's attention was brought to the loud sound of shouting and bustling from the flat next door.

Enraged, she snapped her old book shut and stood, sliding her feet into her heeled shoes. Her tea had been long since finished and she stormed down the staircase, setting the cup in the kitchen before slamming open the front door.

If Sherlock Holmes would not respond to a personal request, she would threaten him with a complaint to the law. Though it was likely he had no respect for such a thing, it might annoy him enough to get him to quiet down.

Dressing gown billowing behind her, Marylin strode for the door of 221 Baker St. for the second time that week. A taxi waited outside on the curb with no one to enter it.

"Strange…" She thought before continuing. Without bothering to knock, she opened the door and stalked up the stairs, the click of her heeled slippers softened by the carpeting.

To her surprise, the door was already wide open, Mrs. Hudson standing in it, a tearful expression on her face. Sweeping past her and into the flat, Marylin spoke. "I didn't take you for the partying sort Sherlock Holmes, but I must insist that it end soon, or I'll be filing a complaint to the police."

Sherlock gazed down at her with such exasperation Marylin almost turned around and walked out, but she wasn't that girl anymore. She would not let a man dictate her actions any longer. Steeling her spine, Marylin glared back at him before looking around the flat, at the now quiet people filling it. At the military man who was now standing without the aid of his cane. The salt-and-pepper haired man, the pretty but stern-faced woman, the snide looking man, and the cute freckle faced woman who looked as though she'd seen a ghost.

She noted the business casual attire, the gloves and swabs, the authoritative air they all tried to give off. They were the police. Someone must have beaten her to it. She grinned, her red painted lips parting to show white teeth.

"It seems someone got to it before me, Mr. Holmes." She said, crossing her arms underneath her chest.

"We're actually on a drugs bust," the snide looking man blurted.

"Anderson, would you please shut up?" Sherlock snapped.

"Yes, Anderson," the salt-and-pepper haired man said. Marylin surmised him to be in charge. "Would you not tell everyone who wanders in what we're doing?"

"Oh dear," Marylin muttered. Just what she needed, an addict for a neighbor. She noted the multiple nicotine patches on Sherlock's exposed arm. Then the pink suitcase that was sat on the coffee table behind him. That wouldn't belong to him, or the military man. Mostly because of the women's garments which were spilling out of it. Unless they had the habit of dressing in women's clothing.

"Can you please get back to what you were saying about Rachel, Lestrade?" Sherlock sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and thumb.

"Right…" Lestrade said with another long look at Marylin, who had moved to get a better look at the suitcase. "She's Jennifer Wilson's only daughter."

It was certainly a woman's suitcase. But why would Sherlock have it? She looked up, scanning the room for any sign of a feminine presence, but there was none. Not even from the landlady. Mrs. Hudson, Marylin reminded herself. The woman with the freckles was still staring at her… She looked familiar.

Sherlock frowned. "Her daughter? Why would she write her daughter's name? Why?"

"Never mind that," Anderson interjected, pointing in the direction of the case. "We found the case!"

Marylin's eyes flicked over to Sherlock, who stiffened. So, the case belonged to this "Jennifer Wilson". She was surprised that no one had kicked her out yet, but she quickly realized that this was no ordinary drugs bust and was much too interested to leave of her own volition.

"According to someone, the murderer has the case, and we found it in the hands of our favorite psychopath." Anderson looked very self-satisfied when he delivered that line, and Marylin could not help but roll her eyes.

Sherlock gave him a disparaging look. "I'm not a psychopath, Anderson. I'm a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research."

"You mean you have ASPD," Marylin scoffed. "Sociopathy is not a diagnosis."

All eyes snapped to her again and she instantly regretted speaking. Especially when Sherlock's cold blue gaze met hers.

"Well, it isn't." She insisted pretending to be unbothered by their stares.

"And who are you, Miss?" Lestrade asked, looking harried.

"She's a friend," Sherlock interjected, earning another scoff from Marylin. "You need to bring Rachel in. You need to question her. I need to question her."

"She's dead." Lestrade informed him.

It seemed Marylin was the only one not shocked by Sherlock's exclamation of delight at the news. Her new neighbor certainly was a strange man.

From across the room, the freckled woman was still staring, and now it appeared as if she were trying to catch Marylin's eye. She refused to meet the increasingly familiar woman's gaze and busied herself with inspecting the suitcase again.

"I didn't realize he had friends," came a voice from the left of her.

Startled, Marylin looked up to see the military man next to her. He held out his hand in greeting. "John Watson."

"Marylin Montgomery," she replied with a smile. "And we're not friends. I live next door. I'm not sure why he said that."

"Oh!" Exclaimed John. "I suppose that means we'll be neighbors. I'm Sherlock's new flatmate."

"I sincerely apologize on behalf of all the hours of sleep you'll be losing, living with him." She said, grinning now. John grinned back.

Sherlock cleared his throat and gave them both a pointed look.

"As I was saying… There has to be a connection."

"Well, I doubt it, since she's been dead for fourteen years," Lestrade said, troubled. "Technically she was never alive. Rachel was Jennifer Wilson's stillborn daughter, fourteen years ago."

Next to her, John grimaced but Sherlock merely looked confused. She could see the gears turning in his head. "No, that's... that's not right. How... Why would she do that? Why?"

"Am I to understand that we are discussing a dead woman?" Marylin, whispered to John. "Is it to do with those… 'Suicides'?"

John nodded at her solemnly.

"What is this, the fourth now?"

"Yeah…"

Sherlock and Anderson were bickering at each other, attracting their attention away from the grim conversation they were having.

"…It would have hurt." Sherlock said with finality, pacing back and forth across the room.

"You said that the victims all took the poison themselves, that he makes them take it." John said, trying to be helpful. "Well, maybe he... I don't know, talks to them? Maybe he used the death of her daughter somehow."

"Yeah, but that was ages ago. Why would she still be upset?" Sherlock asked, completely genuine.

Now even Marylin was shocked. Perhaps he was a sociopath after all.

"Not good?" He asked awkwardly.

Marylin had to stifle a giggle. She couldn't giggle, they were treating this flat as a crime scene. Giggling is prohibited at crime scenes.

"A bit, ah, insensitive Mr. Holmes." She said, John nodding in agreement, an expression of distaste coloring his mild features.

But Sherlock was not put off for long. He stepped closer to the two of them, gaze intense, slightly fervent. "Yeah, but if you were dying... if you'd been murdered: in your very last few seconds what would you say?"

Marylin was silent as John spoke. "Please, God, let me live."

"Oh, use your imagination!" Sherlock scoffed.

"I don't have to."

Ah. So that was what the cane was for. John Watson had been injured during his military tour, and it must have been bad.

Sherlock looked apologetic but turned to Marylin expectantly.

"If I go, I'm taking you down with me." She said without hesitation.

Snapping his fingers, Sherlock spun around and began to pace again. "That is exactly what I'm looking for! This woman was clever… With all those lovers… She's trying to tell us something, trying to 'take down' her killer!"

As he paced and muttered to himself, Marylin turned to John. "Are you going to be okay living with him?"

Shrugging, John smiled at her. "I've got nowhere else to go. And at least he's interesting."

"That's not the word I'd use," Marylin said, frowning slightly. "But alright. If you're sure."

"I am," he replied as Sherlock yelled out, "Mrs. Hudson!" and the landlady hurried down the stairs.

Marylin gave John a pointed look, to which he merely shrugged at.

"Oh." Sherlock said, his expression morphing into one of unparalleled delight. "Ah! She was clever, clever, yes!"

He strode toward the detectives, "She's cleverer than you lot and she's dead. Do you see, do you get it? She didn't lose her phone, she never lost it. She planted it on him. Wanted to take. Him. Down."

His eyes, brightened by his mania, flicked toward Marylin for a fraction of a second, acknowledging her contribution.

"When she got out of the car, she knew that she was going to her death. She left the phone in order to lead us to her killer."

"I assume this 'Rachel' has something to do with it?" She pressed.

"Scratched the name into the floor where she died." John explained helpfully.

"Yes, yes," Sherlock said, waving his hand in dismissal. "John, on the luggage, there's a label. E-mail address."

Marylin took a step to the side, allowing John to examine the suitcase. A smirk flickering across her painted lips when he tried not to look too closely at her low neckline as they leaned over the case.

"Er, .uk." He read aloud, flushing slightly.

Marylin grinned. What a gentleman.

"Oh, I've been too slow," Sherlock said, now sat at his table with his laptop. "She didn't have a laptop, which means she did her business on her phone, so it's a smartphone, it's e-mail enabled."

In a matter of seconds Sherlock had pulled up Jennifer Wilson's Mephone page and was attempting to log in.

"So, there was a website for her account. The username is her e-mail address... and all together now, the password is?" The eccentric man prompted as he logged into the account.

"Rachel," John said, moving to look over his shoulder.

The suitcase, likely hiding anymore clues, was no longer of interest and Marylin followed John over to look at Sherlock's laptop.

"So we can read her e-mails. So what?" Anderson sneered.

From her position behind him, Marylin could see the tension build in Sherlock's shoulders, muscles taut underneath the charcoal jacket. She wondered if he would be arrested should he choose to strike Anderson. Smiling at the thought, she leaned in closer to the laptop screen, feathers on her dressing gown brushing against Sherlock's cheek.

"Anderson, don't talk out loud," he demanded, ignoring her close proximity. "You lower the I.Q. of the whole street. We can do much more than just read her e-mails. It's a smartphone, it's got GPS, which means if you lose it, you can locate it online. She's leading us directly to the man who killed her."

"Unless he got rid of it." Lestrade said disparagingly.

"We know he didn't." John retorted without turning around. Marylin looked at both he and Sherlock in surprise. They smiled faintly. All of this had been going on while she was next door? How… exhilarating. A swift shiver of anticipation ran up her spine and Sherlock's eyes flashed to meet her own. Suddenly she was all too aware that they were too close.

In an attempt to put distance between them, Marylin turned her face back toward the laptop. But Sherlock had already seen something in her face. More than she intended him to or wanted him to. The itch… The fear. That girl she locked deep away inside of her. She knew he had caught only the barest of glimpses and that was enough for her.

Luckily Mrs. Hudson came bustling into the flat again. "Sherlock, dear. This taxi driver..."

Marylin took that as her cue to leave, the dead woman and her phone no longer able to hold her attention. He had seen too much. She had gotten too excited, too eager and that was dangerous. Gracefully, she turned, feathers and chiffon billowing around her, and strode away from the laptop.

Sherlock was out of his seat in a matter of seconds, following her. She could feel the stares of the detectives on her back as she began to descend the staircase. Distance. That was what she needed to put between her and her neighbor. Marylin had never intended to get close to him, especially after that first day. But she had been drawn in. It could not happen again.

"Mrs. Hudson, isn't it time for your evening soother?" Marylin heard Sherlock ask scathingly.

Why was he following her? She shook her head and continued down the stairs. When she made it to the front door, Sherlock's footsteps sounded on the staircase. Hastily, Marylin flung open the front door and rushed out.

The cool night air washed over her, a stark contrast to the stuffy inside of Sherlock Holmes' flat. But that was not what made Marylin shudder. When she stepped outside, she noticed the black taxi still sitting on the curb; although, the driver was now standing outside, leaning against his car. Staring directly at her.

"Oh," the driver said, voice sounding light and cheerful. "I'm not here for you. But I do know someone who wants to see you soon."

Marylin wanted to retort, to tell him she didn't know what he was talking about. But she did. She could feel the breath leaving her lungs and her heart sinking to her toes.

"He'll find you eventually, with or without my help." The cabbie said, grinning at her with his stained teeth.

So desperately, she wanted to run, but her feet were rooted to the spot. Fear was clawing up her throat, but she could not even bring herself to scream. Much less to discern who this man was and how he knew who he was.

She had been so careful. So, so careful. But soon, he would know where she was and now it was all ruined. She hadn't even finished unpacking yet.

The sudden sensation of a hand upon her shoulder made her jump backwards, knocking into a solid figure. Tilting her head back, Marylin looked up into the face of Sherlock Holmes. His gaze was not upon her though but directed at the cabbie.

"I believe he's here for me, Ms. Montgomery," he whispered into her ear, not taking his eyes off the other man. Then he spoke, "You're the cabbie. The one who stopped outside Northumberland Street."

Sherlock had still not released her shoulder. In fact, he was gripping it so tightly, Marylin feared she might bruise. So, she was forced to watch this exchange, pressed into his chest like a swooning noblewoman in a novel. If she were not so terrified, she would have found the situation entirely humorous.

"It was you, not your passenger." Sherlock said, astonished, as though he were surprised that he had not thought of it sooner.

"See? No one ever thinks about the cabbie," the man said, an undertone of exasperation in his voice. "It's like you're invisible. Just the back of an 'ead. Proper advantage for a serial killer."

The pride on his face belied his tone of voice. Marylin felt as though she would vomit. Sherlock's left hand rested upon her other shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. Was he offering her comfort?

"Is this a confession?" He asked, risking a quick glance up at the flat.

"Oh, yeah," the cabbie said, cheerful voice returning. "An' I'll tell you what else; if you call the coppers now, I won't run. I'll sit quiet and they can take me down, I promise."

"Why?" Sherlock asked suspiciously, the deep rumble of his voice reverberated in the cavity of Marylin's chest. She knew she should run, and though she desperately wanted to, she was held in place by Sherlock's strong hands.

"'Cause you're not gonna do that." The cabbie said matter-of-factly.

"Am I not?" That familiar arrogance began leaking into his voice again.

"I didn't kill those four people, Mr. 'olmes. I spoke to 'em... and they killed themselves. An' if you get the coppers now, I promise you one thing," the cabbie leaned forward, making Marylin recoil even closer to Sherlock. He gripped her arms, holding her in place. "I'll never tell you what I said."

The expression on Sherlock's face flickered, and Marylin understood. The itch, as she called it, the desire, no, need to understand anything and everything. The why, what, and how of it all. It was written in the lines of his face, the muscles of his clenched jaw, the fire in his eyes. He would not call for the police. Not for John.

Sherlock was going to go with this man, and there was a possibility he would go to his death. And she understood.

"No one else will die, though, and I believe they call that a result." He did not mean it.

The cabbie turned back toward them as he was entering his cab. "An' you won't ever understand how those people died. What kind of result do you care about?"

"If I wanted to understand, what would I do?" To the outside observer, Sherlock would appear cold, calculating, analytical. But Marylin knew better. Pressed against him as she was, she could feel his heart thundering in his chest, feel the tightly coiled muscles in his body.

Were she another woman, she would have swooned.

"Let me take you for a ride." The cabbie smiled. It was not a pleasant sight.

"So you can kill me too?" Sherlock snapped.

"Don't do it," Marylin begged in a whisper, though she knew her plea would fall on deaf ears.

"I don't wanna kill you, Mr. 'olmes. I'm gonna talk to ya... and then you're gonna kill yourself."

Instantly, Sherlock released Marylin and straightened from his almost protective stance around her. He stared at the cabbie for a few moments before gazing down at Marylin.

"Go home Ms. Montgomery," he commanded gently, softer than she had ever heard him. "I'll take care of this."

How much had he heard of the conversation she'd had with the cabbie? How much had he deduced from that interaction, and all the other times he had observed her?

Before she could plead with Sherlock once more not to go with that man, he had already entered the cab, the cabbie nodding to her with a smile as he pulled off.

She stood there for a moment, staring after them. She should go home, grab her cat, and leave the country. He would know where to find her soon enough and she needed to hide. To start over again.

But Marylin did not. Impulsively, she turned and barged into 221 Baker St. again, nearly knocking John Watson over in the process.

"John!" She exclaimed breathlessly. "You must hurry, he's gotten in that cab! That driver is your killer!"

"I know." John said grimly. "Are you okay? You look pale."

"I-I'm fine," Marylin stammered. "Mr. Holmes is in real danger though."

"I'll handle it." He assured her before hurrying out of the house and calling his own cab.

Marylin allowed her breathing to even before making her way home on unsteady feet. She would begin to pack everything back up tonight, and not stop until she passed out.

There was no way for her to have known these suicide killings were in any way connected to him. Besides, she had been promised safety, had she not? But she could not risk it. Not this time.

She would protect herself. Again. She would run, change her name, do whatever it took. He would not find her.

Marylin had barely pushed open her front door when a hand clamped around her wrist, another around her red painted mouth.

"Hello Margarete."

A/N: Hi, hello. Marylin is who I aspire to be as a human being. Sexy, smart, and only wears vintage inspired clothing. She is by no means an Irene Adler 2.0, I can promise you that.I hope you all enjoy. I'm going to batch update, which I'm likely to do with most of my fics now, since it will be more efficient and motivating.

Update: Have my playlist for this fic. playlist/1FV5C8nEAbC5xthyVwSmq2?si=3318a2a5ac284267

Credit to: Ariane DeVere for the transcript she so painstakingly created for fic writers. And to Ao3 User: PorcelainStorm for posting her own Sherlock fanfic in the year of our lord 2020 and inspiring me to post my own.