Summary:

The "itch" becomes unbearable as Marylin's life becomes increasingly mundane. She makes some decisions which put her secrets at risk, just for a little relief.

A/N: Howdy! I've been excited to publish these, but I'm a perfectionist, what ho. I hope you enjoy!

Thanks for the comments, bookmarks, and follows!

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.

She began to… irritate Sherlock. He couldn't figure her out. I couldn't either for that matter; one moment she would be friendly and neighborly, the next she would be cold and calculating. Much like Sherlock himself. It was as though she wore a mask… Multiple masks, and switched them so often we couldn't figure out which was her true face.

Monday. It was just another Monday and Marylin was already fed up with the week. Mycroft had been true to his word and had a new, higher tech security system installed, plus stationed extra cameras on each street corner from her home to work. It was a bit of an annoyance, but who was she to argue? If it ensured her safety, then she was happy.

But by now, Marylin was annoyed with the feeling of being watched. Annoyed with Mycroft and his stupid warnings. Annoyed with the mundane routine of work, classes, and home that she wished for some distraction. Something to take away the itch.

"'My life is dreary, dreary, dreary, Would God that I was dead!'" She grumbled as she stepped out of her door that dreadfully cold Monday afternoon, on her way to a bookshop or café. Anything to get her mind off of how absolutely boring her life had become.

"Marylin, wasn't it?" A voice came from her left.

Suppressing the urge to jump away, Marylin turned toward the voice, and her eyes met with a soft blue-green pair, accompanied by laugh-lines and a sweet smile.

"Yes," she grinned, stepping down the stairs to shake hands with the man. "John Watson."

The smile widened as he took her hand in his. "You remembered."

"It was lovely to meet you the other night," Marylin said, wishing it had been under better circumstances. "I never forget a name."

"What a lucky ability."

"A curse, really. I've had to delete quite a few to make room for new ones."

Though she said it as a joke, a grimace flashed across John's face for a fraction of a second before disappearing. Curious. Perhaps his roommate had said something similar. He was the type to say those sorts of things, and mean them.

"Anyway," John said, smiling again. "I've not been very neighborly; job hunting has been taking up a lot of my time."

"Oh, that's quite alright," Marylin interjected, remembering her painstaking attempts to avoid both men from 221b Baker St. "I'm sure transitioning back to civilian life can be difficult."

"Pardon?" He asked, the grimace returning slightly.

Marylin instantly knew her mistake. Neither John or Sherlock Holmes had mentioned his veteran status while she was at the flat. Nor had she wanted to divulge that particular aspect about herself to John.

"You were in the army, right?" She asked, smiling as though nothing was amiss. "You must have mentioned it while I was over a few weeks ago."

Confusion clouded John's eyes for a moment, no doubt attempting to remember when that fact could have been mentioned. Marylin hoped her lie would be enough to convince him. After all, many people say things they don't remember, and it was a rather hectic night.

"I must have," he agreed after a moment, still looking rather skeptical. She hardly blamed him for it was not a well-crafted lie.

"Anyhow," Marylin said after a moment of awkward pause. "I've not been very neighborly either. I'm not very friendly."

"I'm sure that's not true," John insisted.

"Oh, I assure you it is. Your roommate, Mr. Holmes, and I do not get on at all." She said, tucking her burgundy colored, wool scarf into her thick winter coat.

"I don't imagine he gets on well with anyone."

"I'll raise a pint to that."

John studied her for a moment. Marylin knew she created a striking portrait with her soft, pin-curled blonde hair tucked into a black felt cloche hat. Her nose and pale cheeks flushed with cold and the wine red of her lipstick contrasting with the calm blue-grey of her eyes.

"Would you?" He asked, almost sheepishly.

"Well Mr. Watson–" She began.

"Doctor," he corrected gently, with a smile.

"Dr. Watson," she amended, returning his smile. "I'd say noon is a bit too early for me to have a pint, but I wouldn't say no to you inviting me up for tea."

John looked hesitant for a moment and she instantly regretted her bold words, not only because she promised herself that she wouldn't interact with her neighbors. But the itch… it was becoming unbearable.

"Were you on your way out? I don't mean to trouble you." She blurted, readying herself to exit the conversation at a moment's notice.

"No," he said reassuringly. "I'd just come back myself when you opened your door. It's just… wouldn't you rather go somewhere?"

Well, that was nice. At least she hadn't put him out. Perhaps he was afraid of upsetting his volatile roommate. All the more reason for her to head up then. Roux would be done proud.

"Oh, well… I've not been in London long enough to know any good places for tea," she confessed, attempting to look just a bit sheepish herself. "I'm sure you could make a cuppa about as good as anyone else."

"I do think I make a nice cuppa," John agreed with a laugh.

"Well then?" Marylin implored, fluttering her lashes ridiculously just to get him to laugh again. He did.

"Shall we?" John said, offering her his arm.

"We shall," She laughed and took it, allowing him to lead her into the belly of 221b Baker St. The very den of vipers she swore not to enter. But the itch was too great. And it had won.

A feminine laugh trickled down the stairs as Sherlock entered 221b Baker St. after a long, sleepless week of case working. He was exhausted and, since the case had been solved, was looking forward to finally sleeping. Not that he needed to sleep really, but the fragile human body he was cursed with did. Now, however, he was intrigued.

Bounding up the stairs two at a time, Sherlock burst into his flat, starling John out of his chair at the dining table. Although, the woman seated there did not so much flinch as he entered.

"Mr. Holmes, you've scared the daylights out of poor John here." Marylin said, smiling with that well-shaped, painted mouth of hers.

But that wasn't quite right. Her mouth, while having an attractively shaped cupid's bow, was rather uneven. The bottom lip was full and out of balance with the top, which was by no means nonexistent, but noticeably smaller. And her smile was infuriatingly crooked, flashing dimples with nearly each movement of her lips.

So why did he think it was well-shaped? Was it the color? It was garish, but not out of character for the 1930's, which her dress – with its ridiculous v-neck and puffed sleeves – seemed to jump straight out from.

"I think we've made him angry, John." Marylin giggled, taking a dainty sip from the mug of tea which sat before her. That deep red lipstick stained the edge as it came away from her mouth.

"God, Sherlock," John said, returning to his seat. "You scared me nearly to death."

"I heard noises," Sherlock said, as though the statement explained him bursting through the door like a madman.

"We're having tea," Marylin said, grinning. "That would make noise."

"I see that."

"Do you?"

"Yes."

Now it was her eyes. Set deeply in her heart-shaped face, framed by long, thick lashes and blue-grey like an autumn sky. Underneath was dark and slightly puffy, as though she didn't sleep much. But that didn't stop them from sparkling mischievously as the curve of her ridiculously painted mouth widened, showing those prominent dimples.

She was teasing him. Nobody teased him. Not even Mycroft. He bullied, tried to bait him, rile him. Never teased. Why would she tease him?

Why was Marylin even here for that matter? She had made it perfectly clear she wanted nothing to do with him – not that it would stop him investigating her – and had made every effort to avoid both him and John in the previous weeks.

Intelligent. She was clever, calculating, but also impulsive. She was hotheaded, irritable, sensation seeking most likely. And hiding something behind that carefully tailored exterior. Which he was loath to admit he was wrong about. Marylin Montgomery truly was very careful about her appearance.

"Something on my face, Detective?" She smirked, sipping her tea again.

What was she doing here? Why John? He wasn't sure John really had a "type" as many people called it, but Marylin was rather eccentric. Playing piano at all hours of the night, cooking at odd hours, often he thought he heard a sewing machine running well past midnight. The woman dressed as though she were from a different time period every day and did her makeup and hair to match.

And when he had broken into her home, her library was floor to ceiling with all genre of books and essays. And it was the expanse of his entire living area and kitchen! Her record collection – which was unsurprisingly extensive – ranged across the musical timeline and spectrum. Even her makeup was from brands which specifically created cosmetics for vintage and antique eras.

He'd not had time to search the whole house due to that monster she called a cat, which he supposed was friendly enough. Even with his extensively cataloguing mind. Her tastes were varied and eclectic, and she had so many things, though it seemed she preferred old fashioned things.

But there was nothing to indicate attachment. No family photos. Nothing that looked like gifts from friends or family who didn't know her tastes well. No letters, he couldn't get into her laptop to check her emails. No important documents lying around where he could easily access them.

The home was full to bursting of personality, but told him little about the woman. Nothing about who she was, or where she came from. If he'd had more time, he possibly would have figured out more, but she had that home packed full of things, all three stories.

And he was sure John only brought her up for tea because of that well-shaped mouth and those glimmering grey sky eyes. And maybe her figure. That probably had something to do with it.

Hastily, Sherlock shoved the unbidden image of Marylin's ivory lace clad body out of his mind and flung off his scarf and coat. Of the pale expanses blotched with red due to clothing friction. Of the pink flush which tinged her nearly bared chest to her face in anger. Of the way she held the knife to his throat seemingly without a care. It did not do to dwell on those things.

"No, Ms. Montgomery," he answered finally. "There is nothing on your face."

"Then whatever is the matter, Mr. Holmes?" She asked, false innocence plain as the pert nose on her face.

"Why are you here?"

"Why, I've already told you. John and I are having tea."

"Yes, but why? I'm sure it has nothing to do with your shared interests in jumpers."

That elicited a laugh from her and Sherlock noticed the way John noticed. How his eyes followed the woman's every move, each flicker of expression on her face. John's attraction was so obvious, Sherlock was sure Marylin had not missed it.

"I'm not sure what you mean?" She said, the neutral smile resting on her lips again.

"Merely that John's invited you in because he finds you intriguing." Sherlock replied, an easy smile gracing his own mouth.

"And you don't?" Marylin countered.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Oh, please. Beg all you like."

With that innocuous statement, she finished her tea and stood from her seat, taking her thick, black coat from the back of the chair and threw it around her shoulders.

Her eyes flashed like a stormy sea as she took in John's embarrassed and crestfallen face, and as she turned back to face Sherlock.

"Jealousy does not become you, Mr. Holmes," she said, slipping her arms into the coat, and belted it about her waist. "I'll not disturb your love nest any longer."

"What?" Sherlock said, barely keeping up with her barrage of mischief. Only because he was tired, of course.

"And John, darling," Marylin trilled as she crossed the room to take her black felt hat. "Don't forget that pint you promised me. I like my dates to be punctual."

Placing the hat upon her head and pinning it into place with a sharp, pearl stickpin, Marylin sent the doctor a saucy wink.

"See you Wednesday evening." She said, and disappeared down the stairs.

Once she was gone, Sherlock crossed the flat and flung himself down into his chair irritably.

"Was that necessary?" John snapped at him, his expression one of annoyance and anger.

"She's hiding something." Sherlock grumbled, thumb and forefinger pressed to his lips, attempting to decipher the interaction.

"So bloody what?" John exclaimed, clearing the table from the mugs, pausing to stare at the deep red color marring the white surface of the mug Marylin used. "You made it sound like I'd lured her in here for something… sexual."

"Guilty conscience?" Sherlock asked, genuinely curious.

"No!" John shouted, then lowered his voice. "No. Marylin, she's classy, and smart. I wasn't thinking that at all."

"Well, not yet anyway."

"Whatever Sherlock."

They were quiet for a few moments, the sounds of John wiping down the table, the running water as he washed the used mugs.

"What did you talk about?" Sherlock asked after a while.

"Nothing much," John said, still clearly irritated. "You came back and ran her off before we could discuss much of anything."

"I'm sure it had nothing to do with your lack of wit." Sherlock muttered under his breath, and clearly John had not heard him. "So, she came up and you had tea? That's it?"

"Yes, and discussed a good place for a pint."

So, she was serious. They were going out. On a date. That threw a wrench in Sherlock's ideas about her. Marylin Montgomery did not seem like the dating type. Or the drinking type. Though, she was partly Irish… but Sherlock did not like to rely on stereotypes. They didn't help much in the way of deduction.

"She said she's only been to London a few times before moving here and wanted to go someplace local, not some hipster joint." John said, likely hinting for Sherlock's local knowledge of good eateries.

"But nothing important came up?" Sherlock asked, ignoring John's unspoken question. "Family, friends, previous jobs?"

John shook his head in defeat and answered. "No, we didn't really get a chance."

"What about the ex-fiancé?"

"The what?"

That wicked, prideful feeling filled Sherlock. He had taken John off guard. While he didn't particularly like hurting John's feelings, it was humorous to rattle him with information he didn't know. Especially now that it pertained to Marylin. But that puzzled him and he filed it away for later. Why should that matter…?

"She was engaged before," Sherlock smirked. "She has a nervous habit of fiddling with her left ring finger, as though there was a ring there for a considerable amount of time. Or enough time to form the habit."

"That's just a guess," John said, exasperated. "She could have been married instead; did you think of that?"

"Of course I did. And Ms. Montgomery all but confirmed the engagement anyway."

"That doesn't change anything."

"I'd think less of you if it did."

"Would you?"

Sherlock finally looked over at his flat-mate, slight hurt coloring his expression.

"Of course." He said softly. "Why should it be of any consequence?"

"Well," John sighed. "You made it sound like a bad thing. That she was engaged."

"It was only the conclusion you came to, not my inference."

"Then why bring it up?"

"I was curious if she'd mentioned it."

John crossed the room to sit in his own chair across from Sherlock, leaning his elbows on his knees.

"We've not even been on a proper date yet, Sherlock," he said, seeming slightly more amused. "Women don't tend to bring up their ex's on even the third date. Considered bad form."

"I know that!" Sherlock exclaimed, growing petulant again. "I was just curious."

They were quiet for a moment, John observing Sherlock and Sherlock gazing at a specific place on the wall behind John's left shoulder. The enigma that was Marylin Montgomery was consuming him, and he hated it.

"What's eating you?" John asked finally.

"Marylin." Sherlock snapped, annoyed that John could sense his irritation.

"What about her?"

"She's saccharine. It's sickening and gives me a headache."

John chuckled, but Sherlock remained in the same increasingly foul mood. She had no internet presence, no local family, no connection to London at all according to John. Why was she here? What brought her to the house next door? How did she manage not to leave a single trace on the world? And why was Pénélope Giroux leaving her house the night he confronted Hope?

"Maybe she's in the witness protection program." John teased, leaning back in his armchair.

And that small, teasing comment awoke something in Sherlock that he had never considered. His eyes flashed to John, taking in the joking expression that was now quickly turning to one of concern.

"You don't think…?" He began.

Sherlock stood abruptly and made his way toward his coat, spying a burgundy-colored scarf on the hook next to it.

"Not likely, John," he said, hoping to spare him if he wasn't right. But if he was…

Sherlock plucked the scarf off the hook – noting the scent of Marylin's perfume – and stuffed it into his deep coat pocket. He had more investigating to do.

Wednesday evening rolled around, finally, and Marylin had popped back home to refresh herself before her date.

"Date…" She said aloud, frowning slightly.

The word felt strange in her mouth. In her mind. She was not used to dating. Or even going on dates. What Fitz used to take her on were more for show than anything. It was an arranged thing between them, between their families, nothing more. He was a dull fellow too. Hated when she got drunk just to have a little fun on those outings.

It did not do to dwell on such things.

Patting her cheeks lightly, as if the sharp noise would shock the memories away, Marylin gazed at her reflection in her vanity mirror.

She had not been sleeping well, if at all, and it was beginning to show under her eyes. But really, how could she sleep when he was out there somewhere, waiting for her, searching for her. Waiting for her to mess up, to slip so he could find her and take her and do God knows what to her again before obliterating her from the face of the earth.

Another pat to her cheeks, this time it was closer to a slap than anything.

It did not do to dwell on such things.

Right. Refresh her makeup and hair. Lips repainted a lovely hot red. A spritz of her favorite perfume. Then on to the dressing room.

As if on autopilot, Marylin gravitated toward a black velvet, Grace Kelly inspired sheath dress with capped sleeves and an exaggerated sweetheart neckline. It landed about mid-calf and emphasized the hourglass shape of her figure, especially when she cinched it in at her waist with the matching belt.

Black strappy heels, a small black handbag, and a string of pearls at her throat completed the ensemble to a degree which she was happy with. It may not have been typical pub attire, but it was what Marylin took comfort in. Besides, she looked like a knockout in that dress.

She couldn't help but notice the bright red of her nails as she reached for a burgundy wool overcoat. They were not as long as she would like them, nor the attractive oval shape she preferred… but that could hardly be helped since she was not the one who ripped them out from the root.

A sharp pinch to the inside of her arm shut that thought down immediately.

It did not do to dwell on such things.

Right. The overcoat. The silk lining against her skin was like a balm on her fried nerves and the scratchy wool on her hands grounded her. Marylin had places to be, and she would not let thoughts stop her. They were only thoughts, memories. They were not what hurt her. They could not hurt her. They wouldn't.

The cool wood of the bar gleamed brightly in the low light. It was so well polished Marylin could see her reflection in it. Soon, a pint of dark beer was placed before her along with a steaming batch of chips. Her stomach growled. She loved chips.

In her haste to escape her own thoughts, Marylin had arrived at least ten minutes early, allowing her to get settled before her date showed up.

Date.

There was that word again.

She had agreed to a date with John Watson and she really didn't know why. Was it because she was bored? Maybe – John definitely was not boring. An army doctor who was WIA and delved into the life of a crime addicted, self-proclaimed sociopath immediately upon his return home. Adrenalin junkie much?

Or was it because she was lonely? Alexander was typically enough company for her, and Roux had taken to blowing up her phone with texts day and night lately. Unlike most people, she did not require a lot of heartfelt interaction with others. And since she worked with the public, she was often too drained to deal with social niceties.

John certainly was attractive, shorter than her in heels, but attractive none the less. Well, handsome. Marylin never really felt much attraction to others. It was hard to picture herself in a sexual or romantic situation with another person, unless they were nameless and faceless. There was too much danger in emotional and physical intimacy.

So, boredom it was then. Even if that didn't feel quite right.

"Is this seat taken?"

Marylin refused to flinch at the sound of his voice so close to her, instead lifting a chip to her bright red lips and smiled as she turned towards him.

"Be my guest," she said, devouring the morsel in one bite.

John stood, drinking in her appearance for a moment before hurriedly taking the stool next to her at the bar.

"Chip?" Marylin asked, holding up a golden, deep-fried piece of heaven.

"Oh, uh, yeah sure," John stammered, reaching for the basket.

Before he could Marylin tapped his hand lightly, stopping him, and held the chip out to him. When he stared at her in bewilderment, she raised a sculpted brow, continuing to offer it.

Finally, he took the hint and leaned forward – embarrassment plain on his face – and bit into the chip, earning an encouraging smile from her.

"Good boy," she said mirthfully.

John, in shock, inhaled and began to choke. Marylin handed him her pint.

"Sorry," she apologized, sounding not at all sorry, as he took a large gulp. "I was only teasing."

"S'fine," John said, wiping his eyes on the back of his hand.

Marylin looked away, feeling rather awkward now. She was only teasing. But it hardly mattered. John would lose interest in her after a while. Yes, she was pretty to look at, but if looking was all you could do… Most were not pleased with that sort of arrangement. Especially when she… well, flirted like that.

"Have you been waiting long?" John asked after regaining his breath.

"Oh no, I just got my chips," she said, and took a long sip of beer. "I got here early on accident. It usually takes me ages to get ready."

"That's good, that you've not been waiting too long, I mean," John stammered. "Not that you take ages to get ready. That wouldn't bother me, sorry, I mean I'd be happy to wait."

Marylin trilled a laugh, earning a few looks from the pub's patrons.

"Oh dear me," she giggled. "You are charming, aren't you?"

"Pardon?"

"I can see why ladies like you."

"Pardon?"

Fixing him with a look that was not at all unkind, Marylin leaned forward and placed her hand upon his, noting his pulse quicken at her touch. At the dilation of his eyes. The nervous quiver of his smile.

"You, Doctor John Watson, are a gem." She said, voice smokey and smooth.

"Well, uh… Um, thanks." He said after a moment of embarrassed, and likely aroused, pause. "You're pretty great yourself."

A smirk. "You hardly know me."

"The same could be said for you."

Marylin wanted to smile, to be alluring. Tease him, taunt him with what she knew about him, what she deduced about him. But she wouldn't because John would tell Sherlock, and Sherlock would stick his nose where it didn't belong and then she'd be in danger. Again.

This was a mistake, this date. This something of intimacy with John. Marylin knew that, but she just couldn't help herself. Dancing on the edges of something, someone, so exciting as Sherlock Holmes – and his blogging companion – was supposed to scratch the itch. Nothing more. She would deal with it once this no longer helped. Of course she would. She wasn't an addict. Not anymore.

"I suppose you're right," she agreed demurely. "But, I just have a feeling about you, John."

He smiled at that. They chatted amicably while he waited on his own pint, an amber color to her darker one, the sounds from the pub filling in the lulls in their conversation pleasantly.

Marylin fought every urge to impress him with her deductions about the patrons. Fought that small, narcissistic part of herself which desired a grandiose sort of satisfaction from astounding normal people. Although, John wasn't really all that normal.

Still, she could tell the businessman in the shady booth in the back of the room was cheating on his wife by the way he fiddled with his ring finger, and the fact that the woman sitting with him was much too young for him. Judging by the way she was dressed, a sugar baby or an escort as well.

From across the pub, she could see a group of grizzled old fishermen who had eyed her appreciatively when she entered, but had otherwise left her alone. They were the type that enjoyed looking tough, but the way their eyes glittered merrily showed a different side. A softer one.

From behind the bar, she could tell that the bartender likely had financial troubles due to the fact that he had deep worry lines in his face and appeared overworked. That, and the way he was working his patrons pretty hard for tips. She'd make sure to leave a good one for the poor soul. It wasn't like she was hurting for money.

Marylin hadn't realized she had zoned out in her observations until she noticed John staring at her as though he were awaiting a response.

"Sorry," she apologized, gesturing for the bartender to top off her beer. It had been a while since she drank any. No matter. She felt fine. "What were you saying?"

"I asked what you were looking at," John said. "You trailed off mid-sentence."

"Oh," she swallowed. "I do that sometimes."

"So does Sherlock."

A chill ran up her spine, her hand stilling against the glass only for a moment before bringing it to her lips, and she took a long drink of the dark, smooth beer. When she brought the glass away from her lips it was smeared with the hot red of her lipstick and condensation.

Was John being perceptive? From the corner of her eye, he seemed fine, concerned, but not accusatory.

God, it was hot in there. She wanted to rip off her pearls and earrings, scratch up her skin. But she didn't.

Deep breaths. John hadn't noticed. No one had noticed.

"I think I'd like a couple of scotch eggs," she said too brightly.

John laughed. It was nice. Soothing over her fraying nerves like a balm. Marylin knew this would lead nowhere with John – she didn't particularly want it to – but she really did like him. He'd make anyone a good friend.

As the night continued on Marylin found herself smiling genuinely. And enjoying herself, not just as a distraction. But last calls were coming around and patrons began leaving. It was time to go.

So, they stood, most unwillingly, and Marylin fixed her lipstick before she slipped her arm into John's, leaving the pub in companionable silence.

The cab ride back was anything but silent, however. Slightly drunk and having a natural penchant for mischief, Marylin used the opportunity to tease John. To watch him blush.

"You're different than I imagined," John admitted when they had first gotten into the cab.

"Oh?" She said, a sultry note in her voice, as she leaned against him, taking his hand in hers. "And how did you picture me?"

From the look on his face – shocked and slightly enticed – Marylin could tell exactly how he was picturing her. She grinned, awaiting his response.

"You're… You seem to be enjoying yourself." John replied, clearing his throat.

"Did you think me a snob, Dr. Watson?"

"Maybe…"

There it was. The rush of blood in his cheeks. Her grin widened.

"I can assure you that I am, John," she murmured into his ear. "I contain multitudes."

"Is that from a poem?" John asked, voice trembling. Like the rest of him. "That American?"

"Walt Whitman," she said, dimples flashing at him. "He's my favorite. He was gay, like you."

John sputtered and jumped away from her, Marylin giggling at his reaction. The poor cabbie had probably seen much worse in the back of his cab that day than the scene that was unfolding now.

"I'm not gay!" John exclaimed when he recovered. "Why would I be on a date with you if I was gay?"

"I know, darling. I'm only teasing," she said. "You're bisexual at the very least."

"What?" He interjected, wishing very much he had not agreed to this date, which up until that point had been going very well. "How could you possibly come to that conclusion?"

The silence between them before Marylin answered was very pregnant. Honestly, she wished she had never opened her mouth. She always hurt people. Always. But the flushed, pleading, almost angry expression John was giving her begged an answer.

"The way you look at Sherlock is the way you look at me."

John's face reddened deeper, then paled. Horror and resignation flashed over his face and in his eyes.

"Don't worry, he's not the type to care." She said as she placed her hand over his in a tender gesture, thanking every deity in existence that he had not asked how she figured that out.

"I know that." John replied, turning his hand over so he held hers.

"Then don't be down. He cares about you."

John squeezed her hand gently but the look in his eyes was now quizzical, hard.

It was Marylin's turn to clear her throat. Keeping her hand in his, she turned to look forward at the road. How could she change the subject? Why had she let herself get into this situation, this mess? She was so angry she could scream.

Instead, she blurted the first thing that came to mind. "What's your opinion on children?" If kicking herself were an option, she would have done so.

Thankfully John laughed, though it was not as mirthful as earlier. She had, as Roux would have eloquently put it, royally fucked up.

"I like children," he said, smiling at her. "You?"

"Children are sticky and loud." Marylin replied, crinkling her nose.

"So, you don't like them?" He asked, leaning back against the seat, and slipped his arm around her shoulders. Maybe she hadn't ruined the evening after all. Things seemed to roll off John's back rather easily. At least minor things. Marylin hoped this was one of them.

"Oh, no I love other people's children," she explained, leaning into him. She was cold. "But I don't want to have my own."

"Oh dear," John said, his voice lowering. "I want at least one. Is there any way I can change your mind on that?"

A warm feeling spread through Marylin's chest and abdomen. John was flirting with her. How odd. Not as odd as her reaction to it, but odd. Men were not usually genuine when they flirted with her. John knew where to appreciate beauty in women, she could tell. Maybe even have a bit of a wandering eye, but he was a good man with good intentions toward her.

In her experience with men, that was a rarity.

"We'll see where this takes us Dr. Watson," Marylin purred up at him, fiddling with the collar of his jacket.

The air in the cab seemed to grow thick and heady and John's hand tightened on her own, his arm which was around her shoulders pulling her closer. Marylin's breath caught in her throat as the expression in his eyes changed, became dark and heated as he looked into her own.

The cab stopping to let them out broke whatever spell was between them. John cleared his throat for the umpteenth time that evening, and Marylin smoothed her hair and clothes before stepping out with John following shortly behind her.

The door to her home loomed before her like an omen, promising death and despair. Boredom most likely, but death and despair sounded more romantic in her head. She did not want the night to end, as mundane as it was.

"I guess this is goodnight, John." She said, starting up the stairs to her door when he caught her wrist.

"Doesn't have to be," he said gently, a gentle smile in his eyes.

It had been a while since Marylin had thought about kissing someone for the fun of it. If she had ever really thought that to begin with. There was something about John that felt… Safe. At least for a small moment such as this.

Without hesitation, Marylin leaned forward and pressed her lips to John's, noting his surprise. It was nothing more than a brush of her lips against his, light as a butterfly's wing, and lasted only a second before the door to 221b Baker St. flung open and out stepped Sherlock who was tying his scarf around his neck.

"Good evening," he called – a false smile upon his face – startling the two apart.

"Evening," Marylin called, willing back the flush in her cheeks as John rolled his eyes.

"Have a nice time?" Sherlock asked, moving toward them; though, Marylin was sure he did not particularly care for an answer.

"Yes, actually, before you interrupted." John said, exasperation heavy in his voice and on his face.

Marylin smiled. It was not kind.

"Goodnight, gentlemen," she drawled, straightening her coat. "We should do this again John."

"Yes!" He agreed quickly, enough to embarrass him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

Marylin returned the gesture with a glare.

"How about this weekend?" She asked, only to annoy Sherlock.

"Sounds fantastic." John replied.

"Yes, fantastic," Sherlock interrupted breezily. "John, I need your help with something. Come along."

"But–" John started looking between Sherlock and Marylin, but the former had already started down the sidewalk and the latter up her stairs. "We just got back…"

"It's okay darling," Marylin said, unlocking her door. "There will be a next time."

She sent him a saucy wink over her shoulder, pulling the door open, and stepped inside. When she closed the door behind her, she leaned her back against it, listening to John's retreating footsteps and annoyed muttering. The night surely was diverting, but what was she getting herself into?

John smelled sweet, Sherlock noted as they stalked the cold streets of London that night. Too sweet, not like the pub he had been in. In fact, he smelled like the scarf Sherlock still had tucked away in his pocket. Like wild roses, raspberries, and musk. As though he had been drenched in Marylin's perfume.

He knew exactly the one. He'd catalogued women's perfumes on his website. It was very Marylin. But a daytime fragrance at night? Marylin obviously didn't care for convention; though, that much could be said in her manner of dress, at least in this era.

As the night wore on and her perfume caught his attention each time John so much as moved close to him, Sherlock grew more and more impatient. Irritated. Why was he so irritated? That he could smell her? That her scent was all over John? The latter couldn't be it. He was married to his work; John wasn't his partner. He didn't think of him like that.

Was it because it was her perfume on John then? That he didn't want her on him?

Sherlock scoffed, earning a quizzical look from his companion. The thought was preposterous. Of course that wasn't the case.

Of course it wasn't.

A/N: If y'all haven't seen or read Miss Fisher's, I highly recommend it if you like Marylin, or just detective show in general.

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

I also don't remember the saccharine quote's origin. When I find it, I'll update this section.

Marylin quote's Tennyson's Mariana in the first part of the chapter.

Credit to: Ariane DeVere for the transcript she so painstakingly created for fic writers.