I Heard Voices (Chapter 2)
A/N: The night of January 30, Marylin meets a someone who was supposed to be a ghost. Or was it her, who was supposed to be the specter?
DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. The characters in this fic may do things that are dangerous, toxic, and otherwise unkind/unhealthy. As the author, I do not agree with or condone these actions
That night was a strange one for sure. Just remembering it puts me in mind for a drink. She had barged into the flat like she owned the place, looking every bit the Hollywood starlet. Sherlock reacted to her presence almost immediately, but more like he was studying her than admiring her. And it wasn't until much later that I would learn why…
Marylin's words to Sherlock in his flat an hour before flashed in her mind, "If I go, I'm taking you down with me."
That had not been entirely true. Not the first time. Then, Marylin had been terrified, scared and in pain. She had not been clever or calculating in that moment, only afraid. The ghosts of those feelings slithered up her spine, making her sick. She was not that girl anymore. That girl had died. And she would fight just as hard this time as the last.
With all the force she could muster, Marylin slammed her head back into her captor's face with a sickening crack. She had not broken bone, but the blow would have caused enough pain for the grip on her mouth and wrist to be loosened.
Whipping around, Marylin broke free of the person who held her and readied herself to scream. But a shock of short, nut-brown hair and freckles caused the scream to die in her throat before it could be leased.
"Dammit Margarete," the woman said, voice lilted with a slightly French accent, as she held her nose. "You sure haven't forgotten how to fight. You know… Since you're supposed to be dead."
"What do you want?" Marylin hissed. "Why did you grab me?"
"To talk. I needed to know it was you," she said, rubbing her nose gingerly. "You're obviously not dead, and I think as your cousin, I deserve to know why."
It was all coming together. The staring in Sherlock Holmes' flat, the ghostly pale of the woman's face, her shock. This was her cousin… the only person she regretted leaving behind.
"Pénelope," Marylin breathed, but was cut off.
"I go by Roux now, Margarete. I always hated Pénelope."
"Okay, Roux then, come inside," Marylin conceded begrudgingly. "But you must call me Marylin. Margarete Beechwood is dead and should remain in her grave."
"Okay… Okay. I can deal with that, but please tell me what's going on." Roux begged, attempting to grab at Marylin's hand again.
She snatched it away from her cousin but pushed open the door and ushered her inside. Once both of them had entered, Marylin shut the door and bolted it behind them.
"Tea?" She trilled, heading to the kitchen regardless of what Roux wanted.
"Since you're headed that way, yeah." Her cousin agreed.
They were quiet as Marylin set about making tea and laying out snacks. Alexander was not though. He was demanding to know who the intruder in his home was, if guests meant extra dinner, and if she would like to pet him. Which Roux did, and Alexander decided he liked her very much indeed.
"What were you doing at Mr. Holmes residence?" Marylin inquired over Roux's cooing noises she was making to Alexander.
"Oh, the D.I. wanted to make sure he wasn't holding anything out on the investigation of those suicide killings, so we used a drugs bust as an excuse. He was a user in the not-so-distant past apparently." Roux shrugged, scratching Alexander's soft tummy. "I volunteered. He's fun to mess with."
"So, you're with Scotland Yard?" Marylin asked.
"Yep. Have been for a while now," Roux said coolly. "You'd know that if you ever bothered to write. Or call. Or text. My number hasn't changed."
"Well," Marylin smiled wryly. "I have been out of the loop for a while. Being dead and all."
Roux did not look amused. She stood, leaning her hip against the counter and crossed her arms, anger brimming in her brown eyes. She had always been slender and petite, but she had gained an air of confidence Marylin had not seen in her before. It made her seem bigger than she was, more intimidating.
"Why'd you do it?" She asked, voice shaking. "Mamá and I were devastated when we got the news."
Marylin was silent for a few moments, pulling the steaming kettle off the stove then steeping the tea. She placed the pot on the table, gesturing for her cousin to sit. How does one explain to a beloved family member, things one cannot even discuss with oneself? She had to though… Roux deserved an explanation more than anyone else.
"After the… incident," Marylin began, forcing herself to meet her cousin's eyes. "I was a mess. The court case… It took too much out of me. Mother and father did everything to keep my face out of the media, to protect me, but someone found out who I was."
"I don't recall seeing any sensational media articles about the trial…" Roux interrupted, confused.
"Oh, no, none of that," Marylin snipped, pouring them both a mug of tea. "Sugar? Milk?"
"Both."
Marylin set a sugar pot before her cousin and a carton of milk. "I never add them, so help yourself."
Once Roux fixed her tea, she gestured to Marylin to finish her account. With a sigh, she began again.
"Well, the engagement was over, obviously, and the trial was overturned… Fitz' family wanted the ring back, they wanted to sue. Their suit against me was thrown out of course. Father's lawyers assured that outcome. But the Chamberlains... They were so angry, they wanted revenge for the 'damage' I caused them."
Marylin scoffed, picking up her yelling cat, and he squirmed in her lap. Roux looked at her with pity in her eyes. That made her angry; she did not want her cousin's pity. She did not want anyone's pity. But that part of her life had affected everyone around her. Even if Roux was abroad during that time, she still knew how Marylin was suffering.
"Don't look at me like that," she snapped, pulling the wriggling Alexander closer to her chest, and ignored the hurt that flashed over her cousin's face. "I'm doing much better. I haven't even touched anything I've not been prescribed in over a year. Anyway, Fitz' father, through his many connections, contacted someone. Someone dangerous who promised he would 'take care' of me…"
It was a cool night and Margarete had popped out to her father's lawyer's office for a short discussion about a possible non-molestation order against the Chamberlains because of their constant harassment. When it happened… she had not been expecting it. Oh, she expected something eventually, but not then. Often, she thought she would have been able to anticipate the attack had her parents and Fitz not insisted she act like a "normal" person. Had she not been forced to halt her jiu-jitsu and self-defense classes.
But it happened. Margarete had been grabbed from behind, a sweet-smelling cloth pressed against her mouth and nose. She barely had time to struggle before she blacked out. When she came to, she was tied to a chair in a dimly lit, damp smelling room.
She was afraid. Very afraid. Not so afraid as she had been that night… but enough. Her heart pounded in her ears, thundered in her chest. Eyes, wide and searching. Looking for any means of escape. Tugging against her bonds until her skin chafed and bruised.
"That's a hopeless endeavor," a man said from the shadows.
Her head whipped around, looking in the direction the voice came from, her head swimming from the effects of what she suspected was chloroform. But Margarete could not see him. The room was dark… and from the sound of footsteps behind her…
A hand clamped down on her shoulder, vicious and cruel, squeezing hard enough to bruise. "Hello, Margarete!"
Shaking, she turned her head to meet the gaze of the man. She was almost surprised at his appearance, a handsome, almost boyish face and impossibly dark eyes, and impeccably tailored suit.
"Surprised?" He asked, grinning excitedly at her.
But… Margarete knew that gruff, rugged man were as much psychopaths as handsome and well-dressed ones. In spite of this, she nodded, hoping to keep him from harming her outright.
"He thought you would be." Said the man, giving her shoulder another squeeze before he released her and moved to stand before her. "Said he wanted you completely taken off guard."
Though she was not entirely surprised, Margarete trembled in fear, her eyes locked on the man in front of her.
"But…" He murmured, studying her face carefully. "I don't think you are. I think you expected this, am I right?"
Steeling her spine, Margarete found her voice. "I didn't expect the suit."
The man laughed, loud and riotous, throwing his head back before stopping abruptly a wicked light gleaming in his black eyes.
"They never do."
He was close to her now, his hand gripping her jaw painfully, twisting her face this way and that.
"You're a bit different though… a bit interesting if I may be so bold. I'm glad I chose to do this myself; I wouldn't have been able to go on had I let you slip through my fingers."
He smelled like pipe tobacco, which wasn't unpleasant in and of itself, but the smell of the damp, mildewy room and the spinning in Margarete's head as he moved her face made it unbearable.
"Most people don't do what you do… Or should I say can't?" He murmured, eyes intent on the tears of pain streaming down her face. "They can't get out of their boring little heads long enough to see the bigger picture. And they almost squashed it out of you."
"What?" Margarete whispered.
"Oh, don't be coy!"
"I'm not, I swear, I don't know what you mean."
He frowned at that, releasing her jaw, and stood up straight, gazing down at her with those impossibly dark, dangerous eyes.
"Lying to a liar, how original! Oh, I love it. Someone get. The. Press."
As he spoke those eyes danced and glittered, but his face was a mask of fury.
"Listen here Ms. Beechwood, there is no way you're getting out of here alive, so just cut the simpleton act and we'll all be the better for it, eh?"
She swallowed, eyes never leaving him, and nodded. "Okay."
"Okay?" He repeated.
"Yes. You probably wouldn't have been able to get a good hold on me had I been…" She paused, hoping to entertain him instead of anger him, to figure a way out of this situation. "Functioning properly. I'm nearly as tall as you, and you can't weigh too much against me, coupled with the fact that you're wearing a Westwood to kill me, I can't say you would have wanted to rumple such a fine suit dragging me here."
"Good, good!" He crowed. "But I'm not the one who brought you here, just the one who gave the orders… though I'm sure you were getting to that."
"I was. You would have noticed I could probably take you in a physical altercation, even in my altered state, so you had someone else do it, knowing I would be distracted tonight… and high."
Artificial pity flashed across his face. "Ah, so they've driven you to that, have they? Most of us dabble in it sooner lor later for the stimulation."
She wasn't high any longer, the cocaine having worn off during the time she was unconscious, and she longed for the feeling of the drug. The confidence it gave her. That would certainly help in this situation, this man seemingly entertained by bravado, false or otherwise.
Alas, she was no longer under the influence.
"Yes, well, since your employer," she sneered the word. "And his poisonous offspring wished me so badly to be quiet and 'normal', I had to do something, didn't I?"
His face darkened, but he made no move toward her. "I don't consider myself in the employ of anyone, much less that boring sod."
"Well, he's paying you for this isn't he? Why don't we get it over with then? Dragging it out is becoming tedious."
In a flash the man was looming over her, his arms bracing the arms of the chair, caging her in.
"In such a hurry to die then, Miss Beechwood? Somewhere to be? I'm sorry to waste even a moment of your precious time!"
With that his hand cracked across her face. So hard was the blow that the chair she was bound to screeched backwards slightly.
"Listen…" He whispered into her ear, his hot breath making her shudder in spite of herself, cheek smarting. "Listen Miss Beechwood, Margarete, can I call you Margarete? I don't intend on killing you, oh no, not yet at least. You see, coming across someone like you… It's very rare that one of our kind survives such mundanity."
He was too close. Too Close. It was like that night all over again. Fitz' breath in her ear. Trapping her beneath him, trying to posses her. Except this time, she could not escape, could not defend herself.
"I'll keep you alive for a little while." He said, leaning back to smile at her. It transformed his handsome face into something monstrous. "You and I are going to have so much fun!"
As Marylin recounted her tale, Roux's face gradually drained of color, making the freckles on her face stand out like a spray of blood.
"You don't mean…" She whispered hoarsely.
Her father, Martin Giroux, had been murdered viciously years before, and the man responsible had gotten off scot-free despite the overwhelming evidence against him. Marylin was positive his death was orchestrated by the man who abducted her.
"I do." Marylin replied, face grim.
The sounds of cars passing on the street were the only sounds the two could hear for they had fallen silent. One in horror, one in pensiveness.
"He likes to talk…" Marylin said, breaking the silence. "I think he likes the sound of his own voice. He… kept me there. Showed me things. He hurt me, Roux."
Roux's hand reached out across the table, once again seeking comfort, and offering it just the same. Marylin's eyes prickled with tears, but she blinked them away, refusing to let this have a hold on her. She gripped her cousin's hand tightly in her own before continuing.
"He talked about Fitz… about that night. He knew every detail, as though he were there himself. It turns out he gained access to the court documents and the psych reports and used it against me. He used it to frighten me, all the while breaking into psychotic tirades.
"Roux, he hurt me. Badly. I cannot even begin to describe to you what he did, for I can't remember half of it, and the half that I can… It's too difficult to voice. He hurt me in the most terrible ways, but I just… I shut down, like I did that night. So, he grew bored. He likes the reactions of his victims, the fear, their terror. When I stopped reacting, whenever I stopped reacting, I would be left by myself, alone in that room. That was almost worse."
A squeeze to her hand brought her back to the present. Roux face was a mask of horror, cheeks tracked with tears. "Marylin…"
"I'm not done," she interjected harshly, voice cracking. "When I stopped fighting, they stopped tying me up. They thought my mind had finally cracked. They didn't realize it, but I was just biding my time. His men were not as clever as him, and thought me a sniveling girl. And when I escaped, I used whatever I could as a weapon and killed at least two of them before I ran. I was able to get home without incident. My parents were horrified of course, and Father could only offer me so much protection.
"Eventually, he turned to a friend in the government who owed him a favor. Apparently, he runs the whole thing singlehandedly, and after meeting him, that rumor doesn't surprise me in the least. He suggested I go into hiding, find a new place to live, change everything about who I was. After we did that, we staged my death… and he offered to keep me under surveillance until he was caught. Said he was not only a danger to the public, but a national security threat."
Abruptly, Roux stood from her seat, jostling the table, and threw her arms about Marylin. The sudden rush of affection startled her, having not had another person touch her in such a way in many months. A few heartbeats later though, she found herself slipping her arms around her cousin.
"Marylin, I'm so, so sorry!" Roux cried. "I had no idea you were in so much danger. What can I do to help?"
"Nothing…" Marylin sighed, pulling herself from Roux's arms, and stood. "I have to start packing tonight and having you here any longer would put you in danger too. I know for a fact he doesn't like his victims to see his face and live."
"At least let me help you get started. I haven't seen you in so long."
Marylin shook her head as she began clearing up their tea things.
"I can't let you do that." She said with finality in her voice. There was no changing her mind once she had made it.
"But-!" Roux was cut off by the shrill ring of a cell phone. Her own cell phone. She quickly pulled it from her pocket and checked the caller ID.
"Dammit, I have to take this," she huffed, then glared pointedly at Marylin. "We're not done here."
Marylin busied herself with the cleanup while Roux answered the phone call. Though, she felt as though she shouldn't have bothered, as she would need to leave as soon as she could.
"What do you mean he's dead!?" Roux exclaimed, running a hand through her very short hair. "A sharpshooter, really? Who came up with that one? No, no, let me guess, Anderson?"
The blood in Marylin's veins froze at her words. Who was dead? Sherlock Holmes? Had she not warned John in enough time? She had been sure he would be able to prevent Mr. Holmes from coming to harm. John seemed a resilient and reliable man, if a little slow on the uptake.
When Roux ended the call and returned to help her, Marylin realized her hands had stilled in the running water, skin turning pink against the heat.
"Hey, are you okay?" Roux asked, taking the dishes from her and shooing her away.
"Who died?" Marylin asked, drying her hands on a tea towel.
"Oh, sorry, the serial killer. That was the D.I. Sherlock was right, as usual."
Marylin's look was imploring, almost pleading with her cousin.
"Right, apparently Sherlock got into a cab, the killer was driving – which was how he got away with it for so long, no one's going to want to take a cab now! – and he tried to get Sherlock to kill himself. The killer was shot before Sherlock had a chance to do anything."
Roux brow furrowed. Marylin could read it in her face: how could it be that he was shot right before Sherlock was to kill himself? Who killed him? Why? But Marylin, suspecting that John Watson was more than just a good soldier, knew the answers to those unspoken questions.
And if the cabbie was dead… He would not have had time to convey to him Marylin's whereabouts. At least she hoped. She may be safe after all. Could she wait a few days? She could. And if anything suspicious happened she would be out of there within a few hours.
Her mind reeled with this information, her plans circulating round and round she found herself dizzy. She wanted to ask Roux if she knew if the cabbie had made mention of him before he died, but was too afraid.
Instead, she asked, "You have the D.I.'s personal phone number?"
Roux colored instantly, glaring at her. "It isn't like that! He's married anyway."
"Yes, unhappily from the looks of it."
"How did you…" Roux paused her drying of the mugs. "You know what, I almost forgot you could do that 'thing'. Never mind. But it isn't like that, we all have his number, except Anderson. He's the weaselly looking man, in case you didn't notice from earlier."
"Yes, I'm sure the exceedingly handsome and unhappily married detective inspector has no motives by giving my pretty and unattached cousin his personal number." Marylin smiled wryly.
"He doesn't!" Roux protested, setting down the now dry mugs. "And who said I'm unattached? Or did you figure that out too?"
Marylin laughed. "You did, dearest, just now."
"Oh… You!" Roux threw the damp tea towel at her.
Marylin caught it before it could dampen her nightclothes and placed it flat on the countertop to dry.
"Careful now, cousin. This is silk." She admonished lightly.
"I forgot how persnickety you were about your clothes." Roux grumbled, wrinkling her nose.
They both caught each other's eyes and stared at each other in silence for a moment before bursting into laughter.
"I am so happy to have found you again," Roux said once they had calmed, reaching for Marylin's hands.
"I am too," Marylin agreed, gripping back tightly. "Though you can't let anyone know we are cousins or that you know… Who I was. Even if I am to leave."
"Don't you mean who you are?"
"No. I've reinvented myself, darling. I have no intention of being Margarete Beechwood any longer."
Roux nodded in understanding, and pulled Marylin in close, kissing her on both cheeks.
"Are you sure you have to leave?" Her cousin asked, brows creased in worry, her eyes sorrowful.
Marylin was about to reply, but her voice stuck in her throat. The cabbie… he was smart… clever even. Perhaps as clever as Holmes. As her. And clever people are always distracted by whatever captures their particular interest at the time. The cabbie happened to be preoccupied with murder, and the prospect of outsmarting one such as Sherlock Holmes… it was very possible that he would not have thought to inform him of her whereabouts. She would have to wait and see.
Slowly, Marylin shook her head. "No, I don't suppose I have to leave quite yet…"
"It's very late," Roux said, releasing her with a beaming smile. "May I visit? Later? And often?"
Marylin thought it over. It couldn't do much harm to let Roux visit her, especially if she kept her mouth shut about their history. They could pretend to be childhood friends if anyone asked. That was true enough.
"I suppose, but you must be careful." She warned gravely. "You absolutely cannot tell anyone anything about who I was."
A familiar, mischievous light sparkled in Roux's eyes. "Not a word."
Moments later, Roux was out the door with the promise to call later and Marylin was bounding up the stairs to watch her leave from the upstairs window. From her darkened library, Marylin looked out at the street below, the pale moonlight illuminating the outside world.
Roux stood at the edge of the street, hailing a cab, then turned back to the window and waved cheekily at Marylin. She waved back, haltingly as two men exited the cab Roux had hailed. It was an exuberant looking Sherlock Holmes and a worse for wear, but mirthful John Watson.
They, well John, exchanged pleasantries with her cousin for a moment before she entered the taxi and it drove off toward the direction of her home. Before Marylin turned away from the window – to no doubt sit in her dark bedroom unable to sleep – she noticed Sherlock Holmes staring up at her from the sidewalk.
Forgetting her resolve to distance herself from him, Marylin gave him a small wave, then jerked her hand down in remembrance. He had the audacity to smirk at her before returning her wave. That caught John's attention and he looked up into her window as well, breaking into a smile when he caught sight of her.
She timidly waved at him as well, brows furrowing in trepidation. It would not do to be friendly with them. Marylin knew it would bring only heartache to herself, especially if Sherlock was able to wheedle her secrets out of her eventually.
Alexander, the sweet boy that he was, hopped into the window and meowed at her, drawing her attention away from the men on the sidewalk. Without a word, or another glance, she picked up her cat and shut the curtains, turning to the staircase so she could get a good night's unrest.
A/N: Thank you for reading! I hope you will enjoy the next chapter.
I am constantly updating my Lullaby Playlist: playlist/1FV5C8nEAbC5xthyVwSmq2?si=595494eb7a8a4fa0
It sets the tone and atmosphere for the characters and the fic, so I encourage you to have a listen while you read.