Summary:
Marylin finds a shelf in her library has been vandalized. When she learns why, she can't help but follow the world's only consulting detective and his companion to see the resolution.
A/N:
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 had a way of making you feel special… Important. Almost like flattery was a self-preservation instinct. It made her seem charming, but it was really just another facet to hide her true personality. Another mask. I don't think she ever did it with the intent to harm anyone. That's just how life was for her, how she was.
There was a next time. Several next times, really. Marylin and John went on at least five more dates over the course of a few weeks, seeing each other for coffee and tea intermittently. Nothing as heated as the first night ever happened again, Sherlock made sure of that, interrupting whenever he could, however he could. Texting, sending questionable messengers, or showing up himself whenever John would about to ask if he could come up.
While his behavior was curious, Marylin had not minded too much. That aspect of a romantic relationship was frightening. Not in the sweet, heart-pounding way of someone desperately in love. Or the red-hot burning desire of someone impassioned by lust. It was pure fear. And she was surprised John had not picked up on it.
Oh, it had been entertaining the first time, watching John's reaction to her flirtations; knowing the way he desired her. But the more time she had to reflect upon it, Marylin began to feel ill.
That's how she was feeling nearing the end of their sixth official date, a nice restaurant this time. She was paying, though she knew it upset John. Could see it in what he ordered, the clenching of his fist, tapping of his toes.
"This isn't going to work out." He said abruptly, but not with malice. His tone was remorseful, as was his gaze.
"What?" Marylin said, wine glass halfway to her lips. "Why?"
Irritation no longer lined John's face or his posture, which was now slumped as though ashamed. So, he wasn't becoming exasperated with her lack of physical relationship with him. No, that would be expressed in anger. And John wasn't that type of man.
"This has all been perfect, and I appreciate you treating me tonight…" John began, awkwardness radiating off of him. "But that's just it… it's too perfect. Like it's been…"
"Planned that way?" Marylin interjected, her still elevated wine glass beginning to tremble. Wine sloshed over the side as she set it down, staining the white tablecloth. Too much force, she could have cracked it. She cursed herself silently.
"Yes, exactly!" John exclaimed in wonderment.
"I'm sorry…" She murmured, staring at the droplets of wine on the tablecloth. They were not blood. They were too purple. But damn if it didn't remind her of…
"Why?" John asked, interrupting her thoughts. Confusion colored his expression as he leaned forward, placing his hand atop her very, very still one by the red on the table.
"Because it has been planned that way," Marylin answered, swallowing thickly, as she tore her gaze away from the spilled wine to meet his eyes. "I wanted this to be perfect for you."
"Why? Why would you do that?"
He was hurt, confused, bewildered. The way he squeezed her hand, the slight tremble of his voice. In no way had she meant to. She was just bored. This shouldn't have happened. She should have just stayed away. But she was in too deep.
Something akin to affection stirred in Marylin's chest at John's wounded expression. He deserved an explanation, a version of the truth. She couldn't meet his eyes.
"Because… I don't know any other way to be." Her hand – which had been so still – began to tremble ever so slightly, and her voice shook along with it. At least the nausea was dissipating.
"I see." John said quietly, looking down at the empty ring finger on the hand he held with a furrowed brow.
"Do you?" She asked sharply.
"No. No, I don't. I'm sorry…" He had seemed to get it, at first. Sherlock must have told him about her engagement. But Sherlock had only known it had been broken off, not that Fitz was…
"I don't expect you to," she murmured, turning her palm upwards to hold his hand. "It isn't like I told you about… well anything really."
"And I've pretty much just dumped you…"
Laughter pealed up Marylin's throat, earning a small smile from John, and the notice from a few patrons close to their table.
"Yes," she snickered. "I suppose you have. But I shall explain anyway."
A moment of pause, a sip of wine, and a few deep breaths later and Marylin felt ready to share part of the truth. But only part. Nothing short of life and death would bring her to tell the whole truth again.
"I was engaged before, as I am sure you're aware," she said, fixing him with a look. He had the good sense to look sheepish. "And my ex-fiancé was very hard to get along with. I often would behave in ways I knew would be pleasing to him, or orchestrating things within his ideas of perfection. It was a miserable existence."
As she spoke, John's hand began to tighten on hers to the point it was nearly painful. Marylin realized she had never really seen anger as an expression in John's emotional lexicon. Annoyance and frustration, yes, but never complete anger. That was what now colored his face, his eyes, his tone.
"I'm glad you left him," he said, eyes blazing. "You deserve much better than that."
"Yes," Marylin agreed with a small smile. "I do. And I'm very glad to be rid of him."
"Can I have his name by any chance? I just want to talk."
Again, Marylin laughed, long and loud. So hard tears sprang to her eyes and a stitch began forming in her side. John surely was a good man, a loyal man to his friends. After a moment, Marylin realized that's what they were. Friends. The realization warmed her with a flame she thought had died long ago, with her past life. After her laughter died down, she gazed at him fondly.
"You're dumping me, but want to beat up my ex?" She squeezed his hand and stood from the table, leaving enough cash to cover the tab and tip under her wine glass. "It may be contradictory John, but you truly are a good man."
"Well," John said – half sheepish, half angry still – as he stood to join her, taking her arm. "As you once told me, you're a gem. You should have someone who treats you like one."
And Marylin felt the cool exterior she had been building up around her heart for so long begin to crack and soften. For the first time in a long time, she had been happy to let someone in, however partially. For once, her fear hadn't gotten the better of her. She may not have gained a romantic partner, but she had gained a new friend. And a trustworthy one at that.
A secret smile curled Marylin's lips upward as they left the restaurant. Her situation was improving. And for now, the itch had been relieved. Hopefully for a longer season this time.
Silence rang in her ears at an almost deafening level and the only thing combating it was the tapping of her fingernails on the polished wood surface of the reference desk she sat at. It was always quiet this time of day, early in the mornings like this.
There were no weddings scheduled until later in the month and she had already shelved all the books that needed it, pulled all the reserved books, shelved the DVDs, texted Roux, and made tea for herself and her coworkers. To put it mildly, Marylin was bored. Dreadfully bored. And that was dangerous as boredom for her always bred trouble.
From what she could see, there were only a handful of patrons browsing the shelves. None of them were of any note, nothing to indicate they were a threat in any case.
For the second time that morning, Marylin stood from the reference desk and began to patrol the shelves, searching for any books to re-catalogue and reshelve. It was as she did this that she happened upon something very odd indeed. Something that had not noticed the last time she made her rounds.
She had first caught a glimpse of them because she realized a book was missing. It had been checked out by a fellow named… Lucius? Lucas? No, Lukis, that was it. He was nice, a little flirtatious, but nice. A journalist he'd said, writing about China.
He was usually punctual about returning his books, but he'd not been back in a while. No other books were missing though. The whole row was there but the one book.
It had been that empty spot that caught her eye… But when Marylin looked closer, a spot of yellow jumped off the white metal of the shelving.
Curious, she pushed the books aside and gasped in horror. Two very distinct symbols had been spray painted onto the bookshelf.
Hurriedly, she pulled each book off the shelf, checking to see if it had been damaged by the vandal's painted joke, but none of them had, to her relief. It had been very clever of whoever decided to pull off such a prank, since this section was not visible from the reference desk. They had to have done it while she was busy, or seated there – unable to see their misdeeds. Or, more worrying, they had broken in.
White hot anger flashed through her, settling deep in her chest. There was nothing Marylin loved more than pretty clothes except for two things. Alexander, her cat, and books. And whoever did this had threatened her books.
The flame of anger was quickly replaced by ice-cold horror in her veins. What if this was a message and it had been left for her? What if it was from him and he had found her?
The air seemed as though it had been sucked from her lungs as she struggled to breathe normally, eyes darting every which way, trying to see where the threat was. If there even was one. Her heart was in her throat and stomach at the same time, beating through skin and muscle, trying to escape. To get her to escape.
Wait… if he were to leave her a message it would be something she would recognize. Marylin had no idea what these symbols were supposed to mean.
Relief washed over her as she reached up to run her fingers over the paint when a large hand snatched her wrist, fingers practically overlapping each other in a tight grip.
Without a second of hesitation, Marylin lifted her arm as high as she could, hooking her hand down and over the wrist of whoever held her. Twirling, she broke their grip and struck out as a shock of dark curls and bright blue eyes came into focus through the red haze that clouded her vision.
Her fist halted just short of his cheekbone, his own hand coming up to meet it. He would have blocked her, had she not recognized him and stopped.
"We really must stop meeting like this Mr. Holmes." She breathed, staring up into his face.
"Quite." He replied, face unsmiling, but eyes glittering with profound amusement.
"Have you provoked her before, Sherlock?" John asked, mild annoyance in his tone, arms crossed over his chest.
"Yes," Sherlock said, eyes not leaving Marylin's. "She nearly brained me with a very large book if I recall correctly."
Marylin grinned and pulled her fist from Sherlock's hand, moving past him to pull John into a quick embrace, and kissed his cheek before she drew back. John, now used to this type of greeting from her, was not flustered in the least. In fact, he looked delighted that Sherlock was nearly decked by the beautiful woman before them and he received a kiss. Sherlock, however, glowered.
"Hello John, darling. How've you been?" She asked, ignoring Sherlock's glare.
"I've been better." John said, still smiling.
"Still not sleeping well?"
"Perceptive as usual."
Sherlock scoffed, bringing their attention to him. Probably like he wanted.
"Anyone would be able to tell that, John," he said condescendingly. "Look at the dark circles under your eyes, it's obvious."
"And who's fault is that?" John grumbled, crossing his arms again.
"Never mind that," Sherlock snapped, turning toward the bookcase. "Do you know what these symbols mean, Ms. Montgomery?"
"Haven't the foggiest."
Turning to look over his shoulder at her, Sherlock's brow was raised. "No? You seemed distraught."
"My books could have been ruined." She said by way of explanation.
"Your books?"
"Yes, mine."
The look he gave her was quizzical, but before he could open his mouth she continued.
"What can I help you gentlemen with?" Marylin asked, sweeping past Sherlock to reshelve the books. "Do you need help with a specific section or are you here on a case?"
"Both," Sherlock replied, causing her to pause. "We need this section for a case."
"Oh?" She squeaked out, heart fluttering. Whether in anticipation or apprehension, she was not sure. "And what do you need this section for?"
"You noticed the symbols, that much is obvious." Sherlock said in his typical exasperation.
"We actually found this book at…" John interrupted, then paused, holding out a library book. "Well, there's really no delicate way to put this… We found it at a murder victim's house."
Marylin's eyes flashed to Sherlock, who was studying her intently. With trepidation, she took the book from John's outstretched hand and opened the cover. She needn't have done so to recognize it. There was no mistaking the title, the section it was in. She knew who had borrowed it last.
Swallowing thickly, she pulled the book tightly to her chest, as if her embrace would protect it from what it had borne witness to. "What happened to Mr. Lukis? Did he suffer?"
"How did you-" John began.
"How did you know the dead man's name?" Sherlock interjected, moving into her personal space, gazing at her so intently as though her appearance alone would give him all the answers.
"I-" she started shakily. "I never forget a name."
People died. Marylin knew that better than many of the human populace. It normally didn't upset her… but Lukis had been nice. She hadn't wished death on him, nor would she. And he was gone, just like that, leaving a library book behind as one of the clues to his murder. One of her books. At her place of work.
How thrilling.
The thought – and the trembling feeling of excitement that came with it – rose unbidden and unwanted. A man was dead, murdered, and whoever had done it had left a message here. This was not something to be excited about. It was not normal to be excited about this. She didn't want to be excited about this.
But she did. And she was. Marylin was still upset over the likely needless death of this man who had a name and a face in her mind, but his demise had brought about an invigorating distraction from her boredom.
"Sherlock, she's obviously upset," John was saying from what sounded like far away. "We found what we came for, we should go."
"I'm fine." She cut in, vision refocusing on him.
"Are you sure?" He asked, concern evident in his expression and voice.
"Perfectly." She trilled cheerfully, and started towards the reference desk, the two men following at her heels. "So, what happened to Lukis? Or is that hush-hush?"
"He was shot at point blank range on the first floor of his home, which was locked from the inside." Sherlock said before John could stop him.
Fascinating…
Marylin had to force back the grin of anticipation that almost betrayed her as he spoke. How utterly fascinating.
"How awful," she said, hoping they would think the tremble in her voice was nothing more than shock.
Quickly, the book was checked in and set on the reshelving cart, waiting to be placed in its spot. The silence was back, John looking as though he felt very awkward and Sherlock looking as though he wanted to dissect Marylin on the spot. They would have to go; she couldn't keep them there to entertain her with stories of dead men she happened to know.
That wasn't normal. And she needed to appear normal. Well, normal enough.
"Well," John said after a beat, rocking back on his heels. "We had better get going."
"Text me later?" She asked, batting her lashes at him in the way she knew would make him laugh. It did.
"Of course I will," John promised.
Sherlock's face screwed up in annoyance and displeasure. "I thought you'd stopped seeing each other."
"Oh, we have!" Marylin exclaimed, grinning mischievously at him. "We're just friends now."
"Clearly," Sherlock muttered, suspicion marring his features.
"We'll see you later, Marylin," John said, ushering Sherlock away before he could say anything further.
"Goodbye!" She called after them, leaning against the desk.
Lukis' book caught her eye from the return cart and she felt the itch creeping back up her spine, sinking deep into her chest and the pit of her stomach, threatening to turn her insides outward. Why had this happened? Why couldn't the library's patrons pass away like normal people? Why had Lukis had to go and get himself murdered in such a deliciously fascinating way?
With barely contained curiosity and frustration, Marylin pushed away from the desk and went to remove the spray paint from the shelf. She didn't need the police coming round, not that Sherlock would be telling them about the symbols here anyway. Her neighbors would be the death of her – for real this time – she just knew it.
Troubling.
That's what Sherlock thought as he studied the photograph of the symbols at the library he had taken before he and John had left.
Marylin's reaction had – once again – been troubling. He was positive he'd seen a glimmer of interest in her eyes as they were discussing Lukis. The same feverish look he'd seen when she made such a magnificent spectacle of herself in his flat. Then the fear.
Magnificent? He'd file that away for later.
Actually, he would file it all away for later. Two men were dead and Marylin was still very much alive. He could figure her out after he deciphered the symbols and caught whoever killed Lukis and Van Coon.
"So, the killer goes to the bank, leaves a threatening cipher for Van Coon; Van Coon panics, returns to his apartment, locks himself in." Sherlock said aloud, attempting to push the 'Marylin Enigma' – as he called it – from his mind with a recreation of the night Van Coon perished. "Hours later, he dies."
John, who he just realized was standing next to him added, "The killer finds Lukis at the library; he writes the cipher on the shelf where he knows it'll be seen; Lukis goes home."
"Late that night, he dies too." Sherlock finished for him, reaching up to run his fingers over the picture of Sir William with his eyes crossed out. Much like Marylin had tried to do with the symbols at the library.
His hand flexed automatically at the memory of his fingers around her wrist. So small and slender. But the way she broke his grip, almost struck him… His heart began to beat the way it always did when he made a breakthrough in a case.
"Why did they die, Sherlock?" John asked softly, bringing him out of his trance.
"Only the cipher can tell us." If only it were that easy about Marylin.
Much later that day, John had returned from the police station only to find Sherlock in the same place they had been hours earlier. Almost as though he had not moved, though John knew better since Sherlock was the reason he had spent so long at the police station anyway.
Irritation was beginning to rise in him anew when his phone vibrated. He quickly pulled it from his pocket and checked the notification, frustration dampening somewhat when he saw that it was a text from Marylin.
"Did you get that job you interviewed for?"
He'd almost forgotten about that, and Sarah. She was nice, Marylin might like her. Hopefully Marylin wouldn't be an issue, being his neighbor and having dated him for a bit and all. He didn't have to be Sherlock Holmes to know that Sarah was attracted to him, and he planned to pursue that attraction. In the most gentlemanly way possible, of course.
Quickly, he replied, "Yeah, it's just locum work, but it'll be enough for now."
"You've been awhile," Sherlock said without turning to look at him.
Anger flared up again, and his empty hand clenched into a fist. How was it fair that Sherlock and his little delinquent friend got off, but he was the one who had to go through the hoops at the station? Or that he was the one who was receiving an ASBO?
If the officers had even a tenth of Sherlock's reasoning prowess, they would have realized that he was obviously not the vandal; though he hated to give his flatmate such credit when he was so angry.
"Yeah, well, you know how it is. Custody sergeants don't really like to be hurried, do they?" John said tightly, a thin-lipped smile on his face. "Just formalities: fingerprints, charge sheet; and I've gotta be in Magistrates Court on Tuesday."
Sherlock, who was not paying attention – as usual – replied with, "What?"
"Me, Sherlock, in court on Tuesday!" John said, anger finally boiling over. "They're giving me an ASBO!"
"Good. Fine."
Oh, he was so done. He could have thrown something, but the only thing in his hand was his phone and he wasn't about to throw that.
In his anger, John turned away from Sherlock who hadn't even looked up from the book in his hands. As he did so, his phone vibrated again.
"Congratulations!" Marylin's next text read. "Shall I make you dinner to celebrate?"
She had promised to cook for him if he got a job… But he wasn't sure now would be a good time, not with Sherlock acting like a bloodhound trying to find a scent.
"Now's probably not a good time." He replied quickly. "Sherlock's not solved this one yet, and he's in a mood."
"Nonsense," she texted seconds later. "I'll cook something and bring it over when you get finished with whatever you're busy with. The food's not for him anyway. You don't have to go along with every whim of his."
With a sigh, John began shrugging out of his jacket. Marylin was right, as she often was. And if she wanted to make him dinner, he wasn't going to complain.
"You wanna tell your little pal he's welcome to go and own up any time?" John sarcastically asked Sherlock, who was muttering behind him, and went to hang up his jacket.
The sound of the book slamming shut and hurried footsteps would have caused him to turn around had Sherlock not pulled the jacket from his hands and forced it back on him. "No, I need you to go to the police station…"
"Oi, oi, oi!" John yelled indignantly.
"Ask about the journalist!"
"Oh, Jesus!"
He turned to tell Sherlock to do it himself, but he was already putting on his own coat and a flash of dark red peeking out of one of the pockets caught his eye. Sherlock, noticing John's gaze, tucked whatever it was back in his pocket.
"His personal effects will have been impounded," Sherlock reasoned as he guided them down the stairs. "Get hold of his diary, or something that will tell us his movements."
When they reached the street Sherlock started off down the sidewalk without awaiting John's agreement to this little errand. He had to see Van Coon's P.A. apparently and needed John to do this for him. Whatever.
With a half grimace as he got into the cab, he hailed he thought Marylin would be quite disappointed in him. He just couldn't seem to say "no" to Sherlock Holmes.
Unbeknownst to John, he was being watched on the other side of the street by a woman. Older, with short, dark hair. Sunglasses as an attempt to disguise herself as a tourist.
But unbeknownst to this watcher, she was also being observed. Not by Sherlock Holmes – who should know his home was being watched if he really was as observant as he claimed – but by a young, pretty woman with red lips and sharp eyes.
When the woman disappeared into the surging foot traffic, Marylin hurried off in the direction Sherlock headed. At least it wasn't her house that was being watched. That much was a relief. But what was not a relief was this constant buzz in her brain to follow the detective and find out just what he was doing.
It had gotten so bad that she claimed a migraine and left work early to tail him, reaching her street in enough time to catch him as he was leaving his flat. Poor John. He had to live with Sherlock in the same flat, but also with her next door.
"John, darling," she texted as she walked. She had been meaning to ask him about it for a while now. "Have you seen my red scarf? I can't find it anywhere and thought I might have left it at your place."
She couldn't find the damn thing anywhere since the day she first asked him out. Unlikely that it had been lost, but was very sad indeed if it had, since it was one of the first scarves she had ever made successfully and she wore it often. It was a prideful little feeling she got when she wore it.
John responded with a negative as she tailed Sherlock all the way to Shad Sanderson's. A fleeting tinge of disappointment colored her mood as she surveyed the building. A hoity-toity place if there ever was one. Investments, new money and all that.
So, there was money to be made in this case? Or money to protect? Investment fraud? What would that have to do with those symbols at her library? And how did Lukis fit in with all of it?
Oh, this was getting good.
Some time later, Marylin found herself watching Sherlock from across the street in a small Chinese gift shop. The poor man was pacing back and forth in front of some Italian espresso bar. She'd go in for a biscotti and an overly sweet coffee but then she would blow her cover. If he hadn't noticed her already. Unlikely.
Marylin allowed herself a small smile. Sherlock had been too preoccupied to notice his home was being watched, of course he hadn't noticed her who was taking more care to remain hidden.
From her vantage point across the street – the lucky-cat dolls all moving their paws in chaotic synchronization – she nearly giggled aloud as she saw John and Sherlock bump into each other.
The mirth died down into concentration when she realized they would likely be at that street for the same reason, both having come to the same conclusion with a different set of clues. They were having an animated discussion, well, animated on Sherlock's part. Enthusiasm and mania seemed to hang on the man like a cloak, following wherever he went. She liked to think she was more subdued.
For a few moments more, Marylin watched them, flinching when John pointed in her direction.
Before she ducked down behind a display, she realized John was pointing in the direction of the store and began to calm, only for her panic to begin anew when the two began towards the shop in earnest.
Should she stick to her original plan and hide? If she left the shop now it would be impossible to avoid them. Explaining this away would be just as impossible. The shopkeeper wouldn't let her out the back way for fear of shoplifting and every second she wasted thinking over her options Sherlock Holmes was closer to breathing down her neck.
Desperately, she hurried through the cluttered tables and began to duck down in a particularly jumbled section when the door opened, bell ringing in a jarringly loud fashion, as though it had been flung open in haste.
Praying that she hadn't been seen, Marylin kneeled on the ground in front of a display shelf filled with various cat figurines, the skirt and petticoats of her pearl grey shirtwaist dress pooling around her. Footsteps, loud and purposeful, came closer and closer from behind.
Her heart thundered in her ears. How was she to explain this? She wasn't exactly an inconspicuous figure with the ways she dressed. Nondescript was difficult for her.
As her darling Roux would say…
"I'm thoroughly fucked."
"Beg your pardon?" A deep, rich voice breathed into her ear.
Jumping back with a strangled cry, Marylin collided with a lean, hard body. A strong arm wrapped around her middle, pulling her upwards as they stood.
With her left hand, Marylin grabbed the arm which had still not let go of her and attempted to twist out of the grip, but the arm only tightened around her. Through her panicked haze she saw the heavy, black coat and surmised that it was probably Sherlock. That he was helping her up after startling her. That didn't mean she wanted to be in his arms though. Her heart wouldn't stop pounding. Stupid man.
"What are you doing here?" He asked, grabbing her wrist, and pried her hand from his arm.
"Doing a bit of shopping." She replied breathlessly.
"Hiding in the back corner of a tourist gift shop when you should be at work?" Of course he knew her schedule. "Doubtful. I'll ask you one more time, Miss Montgomery, why are you here?"
"Sherlock," John said, coming up behind them. "What's going on? Marylin? What are you doing here?"
Well now she had to explain herself. "I was following you…"
"What?" John asked, shocked.
"I knew it," Sherlock whispered, lips grazing her ear, much too low for John to hear.
"Well… I was following Mr. Holmes…" She explained, suppressing the shudder which threatened to climb her vertebrae. "I couldn't keep up with a cab, and it was all just too interesting and I had to know why those symbols were painted at my library. I figured that's what you'd be doing and that if I followed you from a distance, I could learn enough then go home."
"And how did you know this was where we would be?" Sherlock asked, thumb pressing on the pulse point of her wrist. All at once her heart stuttered, stopped, and began pounding in earnest.
Great. Now he would think she was attracted to him or something. Why had he gone and done that?
Craning her neck to look up at him over her shoulder, Marylin was shocked at how close their faces were. How low he was leaning over her. Oh, she was afraid. It was only Holmes, but he was holding her so close. So tightly. She couldn't breathe.
"I didn't," she whispered hoarsely.
Even without looking, she knew her eyes would be dilated. That coupled with her thundering heart would lead him to believe she was attracted to him, and that was dangerous. The signs were so similar. She wanted him to let her go, but now couldn't find her voice or even the strength to move.
"Sherlock," John said quietly, but with urgency. "I think you should let her go now."
"What?" Sherlock responded, gazing intently into Marylin's face.
"Let her go. Now."
Sherlock didn't need to be told twice; he released her as though stung. Surely the commanding nature of John's voice was what prompted her release and not the utter terror in her expression.
Marylin stumbled away from him, one hand steadying herself with the shelf in front of her, and the other clutched to her chest. Breath rushed into her lungs as she tried to ground herself, but the action brought little relief. Tears swam in her eyes, threatening to spill over.
"Marylin," John said softly, approaching with tentative steps, hands raised. "It's okay Marylin, just breathe. It's only me and Sherlock. I know that's not all that comforting, but he won't hurt you."
In spite of herself – her panic – she gave a short laugh, a tear spilling down her cheek. Wiping it away with a gloved hand she took another deep breath. Then another. Counted to four, then another. Counted to five. Then another.
"Was he…" John began, then looked over his shoulder and lowered his voice. "Was he physically abusive?"
The softness in his tone – in his face – nearly broke her heart. Unable to speak, Marylin could only bring herself to nod her answer. She couldn't meet John's gaze. There was no reason to feel shame. It was no fault of her own. None at all. But she hated how she felt, how he still made her feel. She was not weak, and she would not let him make her so.
"It's okay, Marylin," John said, reaching slowly to pat her back. Though she couldn't see it, she felt him turn to look at Sherlock with what was likely a very annoyed glare. "No one's gonna hurt you. It's just a panic attack."
With a trembling hand, Marylin fished a handkerchief from her purse and dabbed at her eyes, then gently at her cheeks. A few more breaths and she let go of the shelf and put the handkerchief away. Another and she turned toward John, who stepped away from her, giving her space.
"Sorry," she whispered.
"No…" Sherlock interjected looking uncertain. That was a first. "It is I who should apologize. I shouldn't have grabbed you."
"It's fine," Marylin said, mustering the courage to look at him. "I jumped into you and almost knocked us both over. You were helping."
"I didn't know–"
"I said, it's fine."
Sherlock looked as though he wanted to say more, but to his credit – and Marylin's relief, kept his mouth tightly closed. The elderly shopkeeper seemed oblivious to the melodrama unfolding in the back of her shop, which was also a relief.
"What did you come in here for anyway?" She asked, moving toward the center of the shop, John and Sherlock following. "I had only been here for a few moments before you so I haven't had much of a chance to look around."
"You want lucky cat?" The shopkeeper asked John as he approached.
"No, thanks. No." John replied, looking to Marylin for rescue. She merely smiled and left him to the old woman.
"Ten pound. Ten pound!" She insisted.
John, again, attempted to refuse, awkwardly when the shopkeeper gestured toward Marylin enthusiastically.
"I think your wife, she will like!"
"What?" John said, bemused, before realizing what the woman was implying. "She's not my wife!"
"She will like!"
"No."
Marylin laughed, picking up a small, porcelain colored lucky cat. She really did find the little figurines cute, and could always use a bit of extra luck.
"Is this one ten pounds too?" She asked the woman, who shook her head as Marylin turned the cat over to check the price sticker.
"No, ceramic is fifteen pound."
With a gasp of surprise, Marylin rushed the cat over to Sherlock holding it sticker side up at him.
"Look! Look!" She insisted, shoving the cat at him.
He thought she looked rather childlike in her excitement, knowing she liked cats. But Marylin was not only excited because it was a feline figurine. The symbol on the sticker was what gripped her.
"The sticker, Mr. Holmes!"
He took the cat from her to inspect it closer, then stalked toward the counter and pulled out his wallet removing one ten-pound and one five-pound note, handed them to the shopkeeper and stalked out of the store. A cheerful 'thank you' followed him.
Marylin and John exchanged a look before hurrying out into the street to catch up. Once they caught up with him, Sherlock pulled the sticker off the bottom of the cat, holding the figurine out to Marylin.
"What do I do with it?" She asked, taking it with trepidation.
"Keep it," Sherlock said. "As an apology."
John stared at the two of them in shock, muttering under his breath. "Two apologies in one day… I can't believe this."
Marylin allowed Sherlock a small smile, clutching the small cat to her chest. "I shall, thank you."
"Welcome," was all he said before resuming their walk.
"So," John said as they hurried along after Sherlock. "It's a number fifteen and not an artist's tag?"
"It's an ancient number system, Hangzhou." Sherlock replied without turning around. If he had, he would have seen Marylin smiling with delight at the lucky cat as she followed carefully along. He was not sure how he would feel, looking at that smile again, so he did not turn.
Instead, he stopped off at a greengrocer and began picking up random items, inspecting the numbers which were handwritten on the stickers.
"Numbers written in an ancient Chinese dialect…" He murmured, searching until he found what he was looking for.
Holding up an item, Sherlock turned to show it to Marylin and John, the latter who was listening intently. Marylin, on the other hand, was still enthralled by her cat.
"And the blindfold – the horizontal line?" Sherlock said, getting her attention. "That was a number as well. A number one."
"Blindfold?" She asked, frowning.
"Sprayed on a painting at the bank," John supplied.
"Ah." She nodded.
"So, we've found it then?" John asked excitedly, turning to Sherlock again.
He only grinned and began walking again. As he did so, Marylin caught sight of the same woman from earlier. How had she caught up with them? Marylin had enough trouble trying to tail Sherlock's long, erratic strides.
The breath nearly left her lungs when she realized the woman had a camera phone pointed in their direction.
Quickly, she turned her head and fell into step beside John. When she turned to look back, the woman was no longer there. Why was she taking pictures? Had it been her home that was being watched? Was she in danger?
Her hand itched toward her purse, to her phone, to text Mycroft about a possible security alert, but thought better of it. She was out with his brother, whom she had been explicitly warned away from. She couldn't possibly explain why she was out with them.
Though it was unlikely Mycroft didn't already know. He had her surveilled, he had to have his own brother watched too. In spite of that, she still decided against informing him. His lectures could be most unpleasant.
Some time later, they were all sat across from the Lucky Cat gift shop, having lunch in a small Chinese restaurant. Marylin had her cat sitting on the table next to her plate and would occasionally mime its paws movement, making John laugh each time she did it.
Sherlock was less amused, however. He had assumed her engagement ended due to an irreconcilable disagreement or infidelity – as most did – not abuse. Many women did not make it out of such a relationship. Marylin did not seem the sort, at least not at the surface. She was strong-willed, capable, and unflinching under his gaze, which he had been told was intimidating.
But the signs were all there. The subtle winces when he stood too close, the flashes of fear in her face when she thought he and John could not notice, the self defense classes and her 'fight' reaction whenever he happened to touch her.
John had told him that she had ended the engagement because her fiancé was controlling, which fit his disagreement theory. He could not believe he had not put it together before. Feeling like an ass was not something Sherlock was used to, but he certainly did now.
When he asked John the fiancé's name, John told him she hadn't said. Sherlock now thought that had been deliberate instead of a willingness to change the subject. Which was understandable, he supposed, but why not say if the engagement was over? If she had no ties to him?
Unless she was hiding from him, which is why she moved to an unfamiliar place with no one she was connected to. It would explain her reaction to him 'disabling' her security system. That just didn't seem to fit though… There were so many other variables he needed to consider.
But her strength was admirable. Attempting to comfort John with her silly antics as though he were the one to have endured a panic attack and not herself. How? When? Where? What? And why?
The what and why were easy, Marylin's fiancé was an abuser. The engagement could have been recently ended when she moved in next door. That could explain why there was a lack of personal photographs in her home, among other things. And her resilience would explain the how.
So why was he unsatisfied with this conclusion? Because it was too simple? Domestic abuse was abhorrent to him, as were many crimes, though he enjoyed unraveling them. It just didn't seem to fit!
A clearing of John's throat brought Sherlock out of his reverie and he realized both John and Marylin were staring at him.
"What?" He asked, attempting to siphon the waspishness from his tone, unwilling to offend Marylin further. Why? Why?
"You're scribbling all over your napkin…" Marylin said hesitantly, averting her eyes from the napkin.
Sherlock looked down, and sure enough he had been attempting to decipher the Hangzhou on it, with Marylin's name scratched out once or twice.
He rolled his eyes, unable to bring himself to embarrassment. Why was he so obsessed with her?
"Yes," he said, straightening. "What was your relationship with Lukis?"
Marylin blinked a few times at him. "I just checked out his books a few times… He flirted, tried to impress me with all his trips to China. Offered to buy me a new cashmere scarf to replace one I'd lost and take me to a nice restaurant. But that's it."
A stab of annoyance filled Sherlock at the mention of the dead man's flirtation. He ignored it.
"Van Coon also made frequent trips to China, both of them visiting that shop not shortly after returning to London."
"So, what did they see?" John asked.
"It's not what they saw," Sherlock replied "It's what they both brought back in those suitcases."
"So, they were smugglers," Marylin said, her plate now empty. Sherlock was impressed by her appetite. He could hardly bring himself to eat much when he was working. It slowed him down.
"Exactly." He said thoughtfully, peering out the large storefront window they sat next to.
"But why did they die?" John asked, finishing his own plate. "I mean, it doesn't make sense. If they both turn up at the shop and deliver the goods, why would someone threaten them and kill them after the event, after they'd finished the job?"
"Sticky fingers?" Marylin interjected.
"And the killer doesn't know which of them took it, so he threatens them both. Right."
That was what Sherlock had been thinking as well. Marylin was certainly sharp. But the wet Yellow Pages propped up against the flat door across the street had caught his eye.
"Remind me…" He began, rising from his seat. "When was the last time it rained?"
"Monday, Mr. Holmes." Marylin said, jumping up after him, John close at her heels with the lucky cat.
"Thanks…"
"Welcome."
When they reached the flat's door, the packaging of the directory certainly was still wet with Monday's rain. He rings the doorbell, but after a few seconds of no answer he heads off down the alleyway to the right, toward the back of the building.
"So, it's been there for three days?" Marylin asked. "No one's been home since before then."
"Could've gone on holiday," John suggested.
Sherlock, who was pulling down the fire escape, answered. "D'you leave your windows open when you go on holiday?"
He clambered up, running up the stairs as the ladder pulled itself back into place behind him, John shouting after him.
"Golly," Marylin said, staring up after him. "He's a quick ol' thing isn't he?"
"Very…" John grumbled, glaring at the spot where Sherlock had disappeared.
"Well," she declared, taking her gloves from her handbag and slipping them on, she handed the bag to John. "Might as well follow."
"What?" He asked incredulously.
But Marylin was already taking a few steps back, then rushed forward in a sprint. How she could run in heels was mystifying, but she did so, grabbing onto the ladder – though just barely – and pulled it down with ease.
And just as easily, she climbed up as effortlessly as Sherlock, leaving John alone in the alleyway.
He sighed, knowing he was shorter than Marylin in her heels, and headed back around to the front, hoping one of his erratic friends would let him in through the front.
Marylin, climbing in carefully through the window, nearly knocked over the vase on the table which sat in front of it.
"Vase," Sherlock said absently as she picked it up, then climbed in and set it back down, noting the spilled water on the floor.
"Thanks," she said wryly. "So, what are we looking for? Or you make it a regular habit to break into people's vacant homes?"
"If you're attempting to make a jab at me for that time I was in your home, you're better off riling someone else up."
"Well, at least this time I'm not in a state of undress. That would be rather embarrassing."
"It wasn't embarrassing the first time?"
Marylin laughed as John rang the doorbell repeatedly. The house looked as though it had been lived in, but untouched for several days. There was soured laundry in the machine and off milk in the fridge.
"No," she retorted good-naturedly. "Uninvited guests may see unpleasant sights if they break in."
"Never said it was unpleasant," Sherlock murmured under his breath, so low Marylin barely caught it. And when she did, she was unsure if she had heard him correctly.
"Can you not keep doing this, please?" John called up, irritated, through the letterbox.
"Have you done this to him before?" Marylin asked an absentminded Sherlock.
"Hmmm…?" He murmured, noticing a scuff in the rug.
"Nothing."
Using his pocket magnifier, Sherlock inspected the scuff mark as Marylin started toward the stairs to let John in.
"I'm not the first." Sherlock said.
"What?" Marylin and John said in unison. Though, John had not heard and was asking Sherlock to repeat himself, and Marylin was asking for clarification. She paused, turning back to look at him.
"Somebody's been in here before us!" He shouted, inspecting the footprint closer.
"No?" Marylin said – light sarcasm coloring her tone – as she resumed her original goal. "I wouldn't have thought that at all."
She could hear Sherlock's muttering growing fainter and fainter as she made her way down the stairs and toward the door. Then nothing at all. John was still attempting to get in, the poor dear, and then, all at once, there was a loud crash and a shout.
"Any time you two want to include me!" John called through the letterbox again.
Her heart went still in her chest. The previous intruder… They were still here.
"Marylin!" Sherlock's strangled cry came from above.
Abandoning any attempt to let John in she bolted up the stairs, fishing her stiletto from her stockinged sheath. No time for fear. No time to tremble and cry. Shove it down. Shut it off.
"No, I'm Sherlock Holmes and I always work alone because no-one else can compete with my MASSIVE INTELLECT!" John shouted behind her.
At least he was only irritated with Sherlock.
The moment she reached the top of the stairs a small man in black met her gaze as he tightened a makeshift garrote of cloth around Sherlock's neck. His gasping was so loud in her ears she was baffled that John could not hear.
Sherlock's pale face was purpling with strain and lack of air. His gloved fingers gripped at the cloth, desperate for any attempt to loosen its grip. The man would come for Marylin next. She knew that. And she knew she couldn't let Sherlock die. Not in front of her, at least.
At once, she rushed the man, swiping at him with her knife. Air rushed in her ears and everything seemed off kilter. Like it was in slow motion, tilted to the side. That all too familiar feeling crept up her abdomen, her spine. She smiled.
As nimble as Sherlock had described, the attacker dodged out of the way, but not before the knife nicked him on the ribs. Black cloth split to show tanned skin and a small flash of red blood.
Red lips parted over white teeth in a cruel mockery of a grin.
In his attempt to avoid Marylin's attack, the would-be assassin loosened his hold on Sherlock's neck, who was now coughing profusely on the ground, struggling to get to his feet.
Marylin stalked forward again, the click of her heels softened by the rug. The man still had not let go of the cloth around Sherlock's neck. From the way his eyes darted between them, she could tell he was wondering if he could finish Sherlock off before making his escape. If he should.
"I wouldn't if I were you," she said pleasantly, as though he'd popped in just in time for tea. "I'll kill you long before you finish strangling him. It takes much to long, strangulation. I'd think you'd have picked something different since you obviously saw me enter the flat too."
A pause, faltering with the cloth. Her grin widened.
"Perhaps you didn't perceive me as much of a threat."
With control, her arm snapped back and whipped forward in a throw, plunging the stiletto deep into the drywall where the attacker's head had been moments before. Oh, he was quick. Someone a fraction slower would have had their head split open.
The clattering sound of the beaded curtain and window rattling told her of her target's escape, but the choking and wheezing coming from the man before her took priority.
"Sherlock Holmes," she said, kneeling down to run her hand down his back in an attempt to comfort him. "I think we've found the man who killed Lukis and Van Coon."
He nodded his agreement and, surprisingly, allowed her to help him to his feet. Gingerly, she helped him lean against the wall next to the stiletto, which she yanked from its temporary sheath and wiped on the cloth which would have murdered Sherlock. Either if she had not been there to prevent it, or had John not been throwing a fit outside.
He was still ringing the buzzer. Good Lord, how many times had Sherlock done this to him to elicit such a strong reaction.
When she dropped the cloth to the ground, a tiny flower folded in black paper fell with it. With care, she picked it up and handed it to Sherlock. "Recognize this?"
"Yes," he rasped, taking it from her, shoving it in his pocket.
Marylin could feel his eyes on her as she lifted her skirts to place the knife back into its sheath in her stocking. While not a brazen woman, she did not fear his eyes on her. Not when she deemed it safe, at least.
"That throw would have killed him if he were any slower." Sherlock said, his voice still very hoarse. The poor dear.
"That was the intent," Marylin told him, offering him her arm.
"Interesting," was all he said in reply, allowing her to help him down the stairs.
Why was she not flinching away from him now? She nearly killed a man. Most would be in shock or panicking as she was earlier. Was she not afraid?
The serene smile on her lips, the barest hint of those infuriatingly deep dimples, told him that she was not. But why?
John was still buzzing the doorbell when they reached the bottom of the stairs, a small scrap of paper laying in front of the door.
Sherlock knelt to retrieve it while Marylin unlocked and opened the door, revealing a very put out John Watson.
What he saw, however, was an extremely disheveled Sherlock Holmes and a bright eyed, not a hair out of place, Marylin Montgomery.
"John, darling!" She exclaimed as though nothing had happened inside, and kissed his cheek, leaving a red lip print behind. "Thank you for being a dear and watching my things!"
"Y-you're welcome," he stammered. "What went on in there?"
"Somebody left here in a hurry three days ago." Sherlock informed him, clearing his throat in an attempt to remove the croakiness.
"Somebody?" John asked.
"Soo Lin Yao. We have to find her."
He held up the piece of paper he had been studying. On it was a message from a young man, whom of which seemed interested in Miss Soo Lin. Obviously not her boyfriend, who would have had cause to report her missing instead of dropping a scrap of paper through her letterbox.
A scrap of paper from the National Antiquities Museum.
"So, we're heading there next?" Marylin asked, opening a compact mirror to touch up her lipstick.
"It's where we should start," Sherlock replied, coughing a little still. "If you'd like."
"Would I!" Marylin exclaimed brightly, taking her lucky cat from John now that her lipstick was replenished, and grinned at him.
"You've gone all croaky. Are you getting a cold?" John asked, concern overriding his irritation.
"'M fine," Sherlock mumbled, taking off down the sidewalk so quickly neither of them caught the flush in his face.
They exchanged amused looks and followed along after him, John pestering Sherlock about taking some tea when they returned to their flat. Neither of them noticed the tremble of Marylin's hands as she gripped the cat figurine to her chest.
A/N:
Okay... So, the Blind Banker is one of my least favorite episodes... Idk, I thought it was boring and I hated Sherlock's client. However! Writing this, while having taken forever and a half, I came to appreciate it a lot more. I'm having a lot of fun with this part. Now, I still think the episode has its flaws, but I've enjoyed it a lot more this time around than in previous times.
Also, I am Aware(tm) that it is not the Mayfair library they go to, but I like the library Marylin works at and wanted to incorporate her into the story in some way that felt more organic to me.
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.