Summary: Marylin's excursion with the Baker St. Boys leads to an interesting conversation with Mycroft, which leads to an even more interesting decision.

A/N: This is a big, long overdue update. No dual-upload today, but the chapter is very long to make up for it. I hope you enjoy!

Thank you for your comments, subscriptions, bookmarks, and kudos! I really appreciate them.

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.

It was strange. She was like Sherlock in a way, with her intellect, but I hadn't quite realized it yet since she wasn't quite the same type of drama queen. I felt for her. She was one of the cleverest women I'd ever met, but she was so afraid. She would have been so indignant that someone would have noticed it.

By the time the trio had reached the National Antiquities Museum Sherlock's voice was far less scratchy than it had been, and he was notably bossier now that he was able to speak without coughing.

"When was the last time that you saw her?" He demanded of the young man who'd left the note in Soo Lin's flat – Andy.

He was cute, Marylin supposed. Definitely the desperate puppy love sort of cute. But that kind of cute began to grate on the nerves after a while, typically because people like him were so desperate.

"Three days ago, um, here at the museum…" He told Sherlock, but was watching Marylin, who was observing the teapot display with avid curiosity, the lucky cat still clutched in her arms, waving its little paw hypnotically.

In her short black coat, voluminous pearl grey shirtwaist dress, and t-strap pumps, she looked very out of place. Like a 1950's runway model who landed in the middle of an architecturally modern antiquities museum, trying to regain her bearings after being so jarringly uprooted from her own time.

Sherlock, who was also observing Marylin, trained his eyes on what she was looking so intently at. A shining clay teapot, noticeably more polished than the others in the display case who were very dull indeed.

"This morning they told me she'd resigned just like that," Andy continued, looking dejected. "Just left her work unfinished."

"What was the last thing that she did on her final afternoon?" Sherlock asked, observing the other artifacts in the display area.

"I'll- I'll show you." Andy said, and began leading the way to the archives.

"Is this allowed?" Marylin whispered to John as they followed Sherlock and their guide down the stairs and into the basement.

John shrugged. "No idea. Sherlock has a way of getting people to do what he wants. Letting him into places he's not supposed to be."

"Well," Marylin supposed, as Andy turned on the lights and led them to a stack. "Acting like you know what you're doing will open you a lot of doors."

"I do know what I'm doing," Sherlock said in a low voice.

Marylin merely smiled serenely in response as Andy finally pulled the stack open, revealing Soo Lin's supplies.

"She does this demonstration for the tourists – a-a tea ceremony," Andy said nervously. "So, she would have packed up her things and just put them in here."

But Sherlock was no longer listening. He had noticed something further away from them and had started toward it. Andy was still rambling on about Soo Lin and the tea ceremony and her unusual behavior.

Marylin was beginning to think he was something of a stalker. Not the dangerous kind, just the annoying kind. She would have left if she were Soo Lin too.

But she quickly realized that Andy may not have been the only reason the poor girl had abruptly disappeared. Finally focusing on what Sherlock was staring at, Marylin gasped in horror.

It was a lovely, voluptuous sculpture of a woman, likely in marble. Nude, of course, as was typical of many sculptures. But the perfectly carved breasts were not the cause for Sherlock's intense stare, nor the horrified noise that escaped Marylin's lips. It was the Hangzhou symbols that had signaled the deaths of both Van Coon and Lukis spray painted across the sculpture's eyes and torso.

Oh… Oh, that poor girl.

She had saved Sherlock Holmes from the killer, and herself. Well, mostly herself. Sherlock had redeemed himself a bit in her eyes for the lucky cat and the apology, but she wasn't horrified that he had been attacked. She had attempted to harm him on multiple occasions herself, mostly because he was arrogant and annoying.

But Lukis' killer, it was self-defense, she had repeated over and over. Nothing more. It wasn't like then. Just self-defense this time.

But poor Soo Lin… Whether she was in the smuggling ring Lukis and Van Coon had worked with or not, she likely had little-to-no self-defense training. Many people didn't. And often it was the difference between life and death – or the attacker being prosecuted in any fashion.

Nausea and unease spread through her veins like ice water. She needed to go home. Sit with her cat with a cup of tea and a book, maybe call her cousin. What had possessed her to follow them? She wasn't doing any better than she had before… Well, before that. Just as much of an addict as she used to be, but now it wasn't cocaine or heroin. It was the thrill that John and Sherlock brought with them wherever their little game was afoot.

Oh, why did they have to show up at her library that morning? Why had Lukis had to go and get himself in bed with a smuggling ring? And why had she come to London in the first place?

Because she was able to get a house and protection, that's why. God, she was going to be in so much shit when Mycroft decided to tell her he knew what she was up to. And she knew he did. The man had eyes everywhere.

"Ms. Montgomery?" Sherlock asked, looking down at her with concern. Well, as much concern as he could show. It was probably only due to him wishing to 'figure her out' as he'd put it. Wanting to get inside her head and know all her deepest secrets.

"Yes?" Marylin replied, meeting his gaze unflinchingly.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm well Mr. Holmes."

"Are you sure?"

"I wouldn't tell you if I wasn't."

He smirked and she had a feeling he was beginning to like her, as much as he could like anyone really. This was bad. Very bad.

They were obviously done here. Soo Lin was either dead or hiding, and the shining tea pot upstairs proved that it was the latter. There was no other explanation of all the facts. So, they had to find the killer before he found her. Or after, Marylin supposed, but preferably before. Particularly for Soo Lin.

"What's all this about then?" John asked as they hurried from the archives.

"Ms. Soo Lin is in danger," Marylin said.

"She was a smuggler too?"

"Highly likely."

Outside the museum the sky had begun to darken and the ever-growing panic began to settle in the hollow of Marylin's chest. Being out after dark was something she always hated, especially now. She was always jumpy on her walks home from her jiu-jitsu classes, but refused to take a cab because of that cabbie. Mycroft had said his name was Jim Hope, but Marylin preferred him to remain nameless. Monsters remained less frightening when you took away their names.

"We have to get to Soo Lin Yao," Sherlock said decisively.

But she didn't want to find Soo Lin. It was dark and she wanted to go home. God, she felt like a child.

"If she's still alive…" John said softly.

Marylin wanted to tell him about the teapot, but that would alert Sherlock, which would be bad. All of this was bad. She needed to get home. This wasn't safe. It wasn't safe. She wasn't safe.

"I- I need to go…" She said hoarsely.

"What?" Sherlock said, turning to look at her incredulously.

"Home," she said, her voice stronger this time. "I need to go home. Feed my cat."

"Oh." He said simply. He'd forgotten about her giant cat. Wasn't even a big breed, just massive. Of course it would need to eat. It was getting late after all.

Then why did it feel like she wasn't being honest? People very rarely were, but she had seemed to be having fun… Especially after she'd rescued him. He knew she would lord that over him if she got the chance.

Well, only Marylin knew she wasn't being fully honest, even if Sherlock did sense it. He knew nothing without facts, and if she were not to divulge them, then he'd have no way of knowing. Mycroft made sure no one could connect her to her past.

Roux had been a happy accident. One that Mycroft had been willing to overlook. But he would only be willing to overlook so much for so long.

"Can I call you a cab, Marylin?" John asked, moving to take her arm.

"Oh, no," she smiled. John was so likeable. "I can do it myself. Thanks for the craic boys."

"Be safe going home," John said, kissing her on the cheek before releasing her.

Sherlock on the other hand, said nothing, staring at her with an imperceptible expression.

"Where's the fun in that?" She teased, turning toward the road, and hailed a cab as she neared the sidewalk.

The only reason she was taking a cab now was because it was much too far to walk in the dark, and because she didn't want Mycroft picking her up on her way home.

Not that he couldn't have a car waiting for her there if he really wanted to see her. Or break into her house again. Marylin would not put that past him. He really was more like his brother than he cared to acknowledge or admit.

But to her dismay, and relief, Mycroft hadn't tried to contact her or planted a false cab to pick her up. The drive home was uneventful and she made it unmolested.

Almost in a daze, she tossed the driver some money and told him to keep the change, making her way up the stairs. Alexander was quite delighted to see his mother – mostly because he had not seen her all day, but also because he wanted food – twining around her legs as she rearmed her security system and locked the door.

Only then did she allow herself to relax, taking a deep breath as she leaned her back up against the door, sliding down it until she reached the floor. Alexander, desperate for Marylin's attention, crawled into her lap and pressed his head against her cheeks.

With a laugh that resembled a sob, she wrapped her arms around him, burying her face into his fur. She was in such a mess.

Sherlock stood in front of his fireplace yet again, examining the newest additions to the collage of crime scene and spray paint pictures he and John had amassed there.

Pairs… the numbers always appeared in pairs. He said as much to John, who was not helping at all. Not that Sherlock needed help, or wanted it. He continued to focus on the Hangzhou until his eyes began to strain. He noticed the house next door was unusually quiet.

"Still upset about Marylin then?" John asked wearily.

Sherlock turned toward him, frowning. "Upset? Why would I be upset?"

"She did leave rather abruptly, and you looked put out." John said, rubbing his face as though that would alleviate his feelings of exhaustion.

Sherlock turned back to the collage silently, frown still in place. He had found Marylin's abrupt departure strange, but he was trying to give this case his whole attention. John was not making that easy on him.

"Why did he paint it so near the tracks?" Sherlock muttered darkly.

"If I didn't know any better," John continued in a more mirthful tone, ignoring Sherlock's muttering. "I'd say you were infatuated with her."

"Infatuated? Infatuated?" Sherlock whirled toward him in indignation.

"You know, a crush?" John smirked up at his friend.

"I don't have crushes," Sherlock argued vehemently. Where had such anger come from? "Especially not on her."

It was true, he didn't care for forming romantic or sexual attachments, so he'd never had one. Even when he'd had the opportunity. And Marylin was no exception. He was married to his work and that was that.

So why did John's inference make him feel so defensive? So irritated?

"Ah, forgive me," John teased, holding up his hand in surrender. "I forgot that you're incapable of producing any sort of human emotion."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Of course John wouldn't understand him. Not that he blamed his friend. People were used to others acting in a 'socially acceptable' way and were often perplexed or uncomfortable when they did not. No, it was not a romantic or physical interest he had in Marylin.

She had captured his interest only because she was a mystery to solve, a puzzle missing a piece – or several. No amount of flushed pink skin and ivory lace was going to change that, not for him. Nor the fact that she'd saved his life, however unwillingly.

He ran his fingers over the symbols again, her slender hand flashing into his mind as it had that afternoon. The trembling of it as he held her in his arms, the steady self-assurance as she flung that knife she hid in her stockings…

He wanted to know what she was hiding. Asking her was out of the question, she would never answer.

Staring hard at the symbols on the wall, it finally dawned on him. "Of course! He wants information. He's trying to communicate with his people in the underworld. Whatever was stolen, he wants it back."

In his excitement, he'd awoken John who had dozed off again. Sherlock ignored his sputtering.

"Somewhere here in the code." He said, pulling three photographs from the wall and hurrying for his coat.

All at once, Sherlock stopped, then dashed towards his room, leaving John in a sleepy daze at the coat hooks. A small bang came from behind the closed door and Sherlock emerged, coat on, expression aloof. Had John been less tired, he may have noticed that one of Sherlock's coat pockets seemed significantly smaller.

"We can't crack this without Soo Lin Yao." Sherlock declared, leading his friend from the flat.

They had been out late, then they came home, and left again not long after. Little sleep had come to her that night. Her little whisp had lain upon her chest, offering his comfort, and purrs. But she had heard every time they came and went since she returned home that evening.

In the end, she gave up and found her medication that therapist Mycroft had sent her to had prescribed, and popped a few into her mouth, swallowing them dry. They left a bitter taste on her tongue. By the time the pills kicked in and she found rest, the sun had come up and she had to get ready for the day.

With a heavy sigh, Marylin placed Alexander on her silk encased pillow and pulled herself from the bed. The carpeted floor was soft against her bare feet and kept her from feeling completely chilled in the cool morning.

Phone in hand, she made her way to her dressing room, checking for any missed messages from Mycroft or Roux on the way. Roux had texted her multiple times throughout the night, which had prompted her to turn her phone's ringer off, thinking Mycroft was attempting to get a hold of her to bite her head off.

Her heart leapt and fluttered in her chest before sinking to her toes when she noticed that there was one from Mycroft. From the private number he only used to contact her.

"We need to talk." It read.

There were four missed calls timestamped before the text message. Fuck.

"I have work today," she replied to the hours old message. "Can't it wait?"

Gingerly, she turned the ringer back on and set the phone down on a small side table. She did not have to wait long for a reply when the screen lit up with a call from Mycroft, his ringtone shattering the fragile silence in her dressing room.

With a quick tap, Marylin declined the call and slid out of her silken night dress, the material pooling around her ankles like rippling water. A glimpse into the floor-length mirror showed her nude form and the statue from the evening prior flashed before her mind's eye. She quickly looked away.

Her phone rang again, making her jump, and she reached for it. It was Mycroft again.

"What?" She snapped when she accepted the call. "Can't a girl dress before a man begins blowing up her phone? Or is it that your sex prefers it this way?"

"As amusing as I find your morning moods," Mycroft drawled, a sardonic smile in his voice. "I'm afraid I am in no humor for your mischief, or waspishness, today."

"How fortunate," Marylin purred back, sliding into a pair of silken panties, her phone pressed between her cheek and shoulder. "For I am in no mood for yours."

"I've a car coming for you. I don't have time for your antics this morning." Mycroft snapped.

Marylin paused, fingers on the hooks of her garter belt. Sherlock would see the car. He would become even more suspicious. And John would know. She would be exposed.

"Ms. Montgomery," Mycroft sounded very annoyed.

"Right 'o," she said, cringing at the tremble in her voice. "But your brother will see."

"He's not home now."

"How can you be sure?"

"You think I keep such a close watch on you and not my dear brother?"

Well… That alleviated some anxiety, but not all of it. How was she supposed to explain herself to Mycroft? He'd explicitly warned her away from Sherlock, but she ran willingly to his side yesterday. And planned on doing it again. She still had to make John dinner after all.

"I'd remind you to wear clothes this time," Mycroft jeered. "But I think you'd take that as a challenge."

"You would be right," she said, attempting to sound light, and snapped her stockings into place. "Shame though, since I'm probably the first woman you've seen even partially undressed."

"Don't flirt with me."

"Stating an assumption isn't flirting, Mr. Holmes."

A sigh came from the other line. He sounded incredibly weary. Good.

"If you hurry, we can have this over and you would be dropped off before the library even opens." He said smoothly.

"So, a quick lecture and a spanking, then I can go about my day?" Marylin asked innocuously, shimmying into black cigarette trousers.

Mycroft's voice was low and dangerous when he replied. "I think you'd like that, Marylin."

"Now who's flirting?"

"As you said, stating an assumption isn't flirting. Though, I never assume."

Hot blood rushed into Marylin's face. She'd brought that on herself, but how dare he make such an inference? The very thought of Mycroft's hands on her backside made her skin crawl for more than one reason. Namely that she didn't want any man touching her there.

"I…" She swallowed around the embarrassment clogging her throat. "I suppose I deserved that. Let's not go there again, I find it uncomfortable."

"Docile now, are we?" He laughed. He could really be so hateful. "Don't worry Ms. Montgomery. I'm not interested in women who can't back up what they say."

"Fuck you," Marylin snapped into the phone, crumpling the creamy white blouse she had picked out in her fist.

Mycroft merely tutted and said, "Don't keep me waiting, Ms. Montgomery."

With a click, the call disconnected and Marylin was left half-dressed, crushing the soft cotton blouse in her hand. He knew full well why she didn't 'back up' her flirtations, better than almost anyone, even Roux. Or John.

But, she would not let Mycroft Holmes make her cry. No. He didn't get that right, even if the whole situation was her fault.

When she was calm, she pulled on her slightly rumpled blouse, tucking it smoothly into her pants before grabbing a pumpkin-colored Bavarian style cardigan and throwing it around her shoulders. She secured it with a gold and freshwater pearl cardigan clasp at the neck, folding the lace collar of her blouse over the woolen garment.

Then she grabbed a pair of russet leather, t-strap pumps and a matching purse before returning to the vanity in her bedroom. Because of her rush, Marylin forwent any makeup, even her favorite pink lipstick which she had planned to wear today. Hurriedly, she brushed out her pin curls and pulled the sides back, fastening them with a gold barrette.

"It's only Mycroft," she told her reflection.

Yes, only the man who stood between her and certain death. Or a life of eternal torment. Not so different from how she was living now.

Marylin hated Mycroft, but was grateful to him nonetheless. He made her safe and fearful, usually at the same time. It was obvious that he enjoyed the dynamic. Enjoyed having her under his thumb. Strangely enough, he enjoyed her challenging him too, as much as he claimed it annoyed him.

After a spritz of perfume, she sighed and headed down the stairs to fix Alexander his breakfast. No time even for tea, as the black sedan was idling outside, waiting for her like Mycroft said it would be. Steeling herself as she slipped on her shoes and coat, Marylin stepped outside to meet the ferryman who was to take her to meet her fate.

The first thing Mycroft did when Marylin arrived at the Diogenes Club was confiscate her phone. She would not have minded much, save for the fact that he knew her passcode and began snooping through it almost immediately after being seated in one of the private rooms where talking was allowed.

"Is that necessary?" She drawled, crossing her ankles, and glared at him from across the desk.

"Yes," he replied, in no hurry to get to the point it seemed.

Minutes of silence ticked by before Mycroft set her phone aside, leaning back in his leather chair with his fingers steepled in a mirror image of his brother.

"Why?" He asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Why what?" She retorted; posture as stiff as a statue.

"You know what, Marylin," he said with a smile. "And you know why. Don't make me take you over my knee."

Heat sprang to her cheeks as her hands balled into fists, short nails digging into the flesh of her palms. "I thought I specifically requested you not go there."

"And I specifically requested you stay away from my brother."

"I told you, he would be the one you'd need to speak with."

Mycroft tutted, leaning forward with a languid grace. He was studying her. Looking for any signs of… Well, she didn't quite know what he was looking for. Perhaps he merely wished to make her feel uncomfortable, as he often did.

Lord knows, she deserved it, after all the trouble she caused him. Refusing to get dressed in her own home notwithstanding.

"I have been bored," she admitted finally, unable to bear his eyes on her for a second longer. Whether he was interested in her or not – likely not, he was much too cold for that sort of passion in her mind – she could not stand being looked at so intensely for so long.

"Was that so difficult?" He asked, a satisfied smirk crossing his elegant features.

"Yes, Daddy." She hissed, just begging for him to react. To get angry, or disgusted so she could feel as though she were in control again.

Eyes flashing, Mycroft stood from his seat, stepping around the desk to stand in front of her. His tall frame towered over hers – even when she was standing – but sitting? In this chair it was like she had been hurdled months into the past. Her heart began to pound.

"I have been patient enough with you," he sneered, capturing her jaw in one of his hands, a silver ring glinting as he tilted her head up. "And yet you constantly undermine my efforts to keep you safe. May I remind you that this is the second time I've had to relocate you?"

Marylin bit back a sarcastic comment, glaring balefully up at him. How could she forget? That first time was hardly her fault – she'd barely been settled when a mere burglar had ransacked her flat in Edenborough – but naturally, he blamed her for it.

"I'm sorry," she said, offering nothing else. No tremble of emotion, save the lingering embarrassment staining her cheeks.

Marylin was very unwilling to tell him just how frightened she was, him looming over her with her face in his hand. So much like that night, and the many, many nights following. And the subsequent torment that ensued.

Play stupid games, win stupid prizes. She wanted him angry, wanted a reaction, and she got one. How could she complain when it happened to be one that spiked her anxiety to almost unbearable levels?

"You haven't been taking your medication." It wasn't a question.

"I did last night."

"It won't do you any good to take it so sporadically."

Was it her imagination, or did Mycroft actually sound concerned? His hand softened on her jaw, but did not let go.

"I don't like what it does to my mind," she whispered, hating the pleading tone that came out. "It fogs my thoughts, makes me feel like one of your little goldfish."

With a sigh, Mycroft relinquished his hold on her completely.

"Marylin," he said, something akin to concern in his voice. "I cannot help you if you do not help yourself. I made a promise to your father to protect you, and I intend to keep it."

"You made that vow to protect a dead girl," she said unsteadily, eyes on her lap. "Now you're protecting me."

"Are you not one and the same?"

"I believe I've already told you that I'm not."

Another sigh. With the weight of the British government – along with his other side projects – on his shoulders, Mycroft had little time to be dealing with her. She didn't know why he owed the man she once called 'father' a favor, and she didn't want to know, but it must have been significant for this favor to be taken so seriously. She almost felt bad for causing him so much trouble. Almost.

"You could go out," he said finally. "Meet someone. Alleviate your boredom."

"We both know that's not possible," she sniffed, folding her hands in her lap.

"You… dated John Watson for a few weeks, did you not?" He asked.

"Dated is a strong word. And he dumped me." She replied.

"Hard to imagine why."

Marylin raised a brow at him. His mocking smile returned.

"He would be a safe choice," Mycroft continued, gesturing dismissively. "Sleeping with him might make you feel better."

"Oh? Moreso than you or your brother?" She spat vehemently. Mycroft wasn't a virgin, but rarely took part in sexual conduct. In fact, it had been several months since his last encounter, which was when his diet started. Even Mycroft Holmes was insecure about some things. Bringing that up, however, was not in her best interests.

He was silent for a few moments, taking the time to look her over carefully – she wondered what he saw, what he thought – before answering. "That would be one of the worst decisions you could ever make."

"I wouldn't think I'd have to explain to you why I am so…" Marylin paused, searching for the right words. "Adverse… to… intercourse. I'm glad he dumped me anyway, that way I wouldn't have to do it when he expected too much."

"It was merely a suggestion," was his reply. "Onto the issue at hand. You deliberately went against my wishes and inserted yourself into my brother's life after I explicitly warned you not to. You are a danger to him in more than one way, and I intend to keep him safe."

"Hah," Marylin scoffed. "Little 'ole me? Dangerous? Since Little Brother has the British government at his back, I think I'd need to keep away from him for my own safety."

Mycroft considered her for a moment, before smiling. It was not a kind smile. "I suppose that would also be correct."

"Can we please get to the point?"

"Of course."

Smile still in place, Mycroft gestured to a stack of files on the desk. There were three of them, each quite thin. Marylin took it that she was supposed to read them, and did so, pulling the top file off the stack.

With a quick flip through, she realized it was a file on her cousin, Roux. Everything was condensed considerably, but there. Her academic achievements, hobbies, even the time she turned herself into the police for stealing a piece of candy from the market when she was a child. All there in a file folder on the desk in front of them.

"What are you doing with all this?" She asked, placing the file back on the desk and taking the next one.

It was on John. His military record was impressive. As was his record with women. He'd been with more than they had dates together. Marylin suppressed a laugh that threatened to bubble up her throat.

Mycroft didn't answer her until she set down John's file and picked up the last one. It was his brother's, Sherlock Holmes. Immediately, Marylin could tell key information had been omitted from this file. She couldn't tell what, not yet, but there were very telling omissions. The most suspicious being filled in with an 'East Wind' and a 'Redbeard'. Very telling indeed.

"We have files on everyone in the United Kingdom, and many beyond that," Mycroft informed her, eyeing her carefully as she placed Sherlock's file on top of the other two. "Including Margarete Beechwood. Care to see it? It's very colorful, there are so many court cases, and so much intrigue. One could write a story about its contents."

"Now you're mocking me," Marylin said, leaning back in her chair, and glared pointedly at Mycroft's mocking smile. "You've caught me," he said.

"Please, get on with it," she snapped.

Mycroft picked up his brother's file and began thumbing through it. A wistful expression crossed his features for a fraction of a second before his characteristic cool expression slammed back into place. It happened so quickly Marylin barely saw it.

"I have a proposition for you," he said, tossing down the file in a show of careless arrogance. "Since you've insisted on ignoring my requests to stay away from Sherlock, I'd like you to try and get closer."

She blinked a few times in surprise. Whatever she had been expecting, it wasn't that. Close to Sherlock Holmes? For what purpose? Why her? John was much closer to him if Mycroft wanted information. He could have the flat bugged, bribe the landlady, a multitude of things. Why her?

After a few moments of silence Marylin realized she hadn't said any of that out loud. "Why?" She croaked, unable to get anything else out of her suddenly very tight throat.

"Despite your constant disagreeable moods, defiance at every turn, and propensity for mischief and trouble…" Mycroft began, discomfort seeping into his tone and expression. "I've come to trust you. Somewhat. I want you to help me protect him."

"What?" She breathed, unable to believe what she was hearing. Mycroft, trust her? Protect Sherlock? The man could handle himself in a fight – her rescue of him aside – and John knew well enough too, according to his file. Why her? Wouldn't this just draw unwanted attention to her? To Sherlock? Which is why Mycroft had warned her away from him in the first place.

As if he could read her mind, which was close enough to his level of ability, Mycroft said, "It's come to our attention that he has an increasing… interest in Sherlock. It may seem counterproductive to protecting the both of you, but if you are in each other's company, doing whatever it is you do for fun, solving his little crimes… It just may draw him out so he can be neutralized."

"So," Marylin hedged. "I'd be helping protect myself and your brother by drawing him out of hiding?"

"That's the idea," Mycroft said, looking slightly displeased with the whole thing.

"Him hunting me wasn't the only reason you wanted me to stay away from your brother," She stated, glancing about the room. Eyes catching on several of the books, the massive fireplace, then back to Mycroft himself.

"No," Mycroft agreed reluctantly. "But he is the more pressing danger. To both of you."

"Fine. I accept. It seems stupid, but I will trust you."

"If you agree to do this, your leash will be tightened considerably."

Marylin laughed. Of course he would threaten her with that. It wasn't like she didn't already know he had people shadowing her, cameras watching every move outside of the house. And the main entrance inside.

"You make it sound like it's not already." She teased, moving to stand from her chair.

"A glutton for punishment, as always," Mycroft sighed, standing as well. "Just don't let him know about our… relationship."

"Of course not," she tittered, holding out her hand for him to shake. "I'd hate for your little rivalry to get in the way of my peace of mind."

Mycroft shook Marylin's hand with a grimace of annoyance, but said nothing when he released her, handed her the phone back, and she stalked from the room.

A gleeful smile crossed her lips at the loud clicking her heels made as she left the building – at the fearful and disgruntled looks from the men who frequented the club – and laughed once she made it outside. She had chosen her noisiest heels that morning on purpose.

Getting into the awaiting car, she sent a quick text to her jiu-jitsu instructor – apologizing for her absence the previous evening – and answered Roux's barrage of messages from the middle of the night. They mostly consisted of silly puns and cravings she had while working overtime and overstimulated on coffee. But one was from nearer this morning.

"Your neighbors were in just now…" it began. Marylin's hands started to shake. "They reported a dead woman to Sgt. Dimmok. The cute one asked me to check in on you. So, you alright?"

Damn… Soo Lin must have been caught before they could get to her. Guilt wracked Marylin's body as she tried to fight back the rising panic in her chest. That poor woman must have been so scared. Willing back the tears which threatened to spill over, she quickly typed out her reply, "I assume you mean John? He certainly is cute. Maybe you should try and make a move on him instead of your boss."

The angry text equivalent of sputtering was all that Roux replied for the moment. Fishing a handkerchief from her handbag, Marylin dabbed at her eyes and let out a small laugh. Thank God for Roux. She refused to cry, especially in front of one of Mycroft's drivers.

"I told you, D.I. Lestrade and I don't have that kind of relationship." Was her cousin's harried defense.

"Whatever, darling. He still keeps you up all night."

Any reply from Roux that she had planned was halted for a moment. Marylin could almost picture her bright red face and sour expression. She missed teasing her like this.

"Why would John be concerned about you while they were reporting a dead body?" She asked, refusing to acknowledge Marylin's teasing.

"I was with them at the museum yesterday, long story."

Mycroft's driver was nearing the library now. It was much earlier than she normally arrived, but it would be fine. She would make herself some tea and find a book to read while she drank it. There would be plenty of time before she had to actually work.

"You'll have to meet up with me for tea and tell me about it later." Roux said with a smiley face.

"Sure," Marylin typed, sans the smiley face. "I'll try and get John your number too."

"Oh, fuck off Marylin."

"I've tried. Found I didn't enjoy it much."

Mycroft's request stuck with her throughout the whole time Marylin was at work. Surely, she couldn't invite herself along on every investigation. Or just over to their flat unannounced. It would have been easier had John not broken up with her. Maybe. Sherlock may have resented that more, had she still been with his friend, he was rather possessive about him it seemed. But at least she'd have reason to be at their flat, or with them, often enough.

She still had to bring John dinner, which she would do tonight since she was already involved in this investigation. From there, she would just have to figure that out. Mycroft would likely not help her in the slightest, stating that it was her problem to solve.

But she would do anything if it would mean he would be out of her life forever. Anything.

After work, Marylin was at home, in her kitchen, preparing the dinner she had promised John, Alexander winding around her legs as a record blared loudly from the library. With all the noise she had endured from next door, she hardly cared if she received a complaint.

The chicken was bubbling away in a dahi masala sauce, the rice was washed and cooking, and the flatbreads were already shaped and ready to be laid on the heating griddle then brushed with ghee and garlic.

The smell of spices and cooking bread was beginning to make her head spin and her stomach growl. She'd hardly eaten that day – due to Mycroft ruining her chance to have a small breakfast as well as the breakroom being out of snacks – and now she was practically ravenous. Marylin had gotten the recipe from an older woman who worked at the library with her, Chanda. It was rather simple, and smelled like heaven.

Marylin, who was fairly new to cooking, appreciated the ease of it. She assumed that was why her coworker had given it to her, and not another, more complicated dish. Sooner than she had anticipated, the timer had rung, the flatbreads had been finished off, and the rice was fluffed.

"Well," she sighed, wiping her hands on her frilled apron. "I must go now, Alexander."

The boy-cat, who was meowing pitifully for his supper, headbutted her leg and flicked his tail in response.

Marylin smiled and knelt to kiss his furry head before scooping out his portion of dry food for the evening. She then washed her hands, slid her phone into the pocket of her apron, and began packing up the food.

Minutes later she was on her way over to 221B Baker St., arms laden with food. While still figuring out how to knock with her hands full, Mrs. Hudson opened the door wide, ushering her inside.

"Hello dear," she said with a sweet smile, taking the container of flatbreads, and led her up the stairs. "Sherlock said you were on the doorstep. I won't repeat what he said exactly as I don't think it was very kind, but that's just how he is."

"I completely understand," Marylin said, face one of extreme neutrality. 'How he was' indeed. The man was a menace. And she had now agreed to try and worm her way into his life. Wonderful.

"Woo-hoo!" Mrs. Hudson sang, pushing open the door to the men's flat. The space was a mess. Boxes and crates of books everywhere, spilling onto the floor and nearly every available surface. Everywhere else had lab and chemistry equipment strewn about, and likely was incredibly unclean.

Mrs. Hudson, though, swiftly had a space cleared and wiped clean for Marylin to set down the food. It was quite obvious she was used to doing so.

"What's all this then?" Marylin asked, stepping fully into the flat. John and Sherlock's heads snapped up to see her standing there, food containers in hand.

"Damn, that was tonight?" John said, sounding very weary indeed as he rubbed a hand over his face.

"I texted to remind you this morning," Marylin said, peering into a nearby open box. It was marked with the name Van Coon. So, they had somehow gotten ahold of the books to search through? Interesting. She tamped down the annoyance she felt at herself for being excited.

Mycroft had essentially given her permission to go wild chasing this high, so she would and she wouldn't let herself feel regret for it. Well, she would try not to.

"Oh," John sighed, standing to take a container from her. "That's right. I'm sorry, it's been a long day."

"Nothing to apologize for," she smiled brightly and moved to the kitchen with him. "Now you don't have to cook or order a takeaway."

Throughout their interaction, Marylin could feel Sherlock's eyes on them, on her, reminiscent of his brother's hawk-eyed gaze. The whole time, she pointedly refused to look at him, not because she was afraid of giving anything away, but because she didn't want to look at him and be reminded of his brother. Which was very… Curious.

Plates and utensils were procured and spaces at the equipment covered table were decluttered, then disinfected before Mrs. Hudson took her leave. But not before Marylin pressed a plate of food into her hands. The poor lady deserved a little something for her help. And for putting up with Sherlock Holmes.

"Marylin, this looks fantastic," John praised, nearly drooling.

"I hope so," she said, dishing out everything onto plates. "I've never made this before, so you're my guinea pigs."

"Uh… Marylin," John said in a hushed tone, peeking over his shoulder as he moved closer to her. "Sherlock doesn't eat while he's on a case. Says it slows him down."

She blinked at him a few times in surprise. No wonder Sherlock was so spindly. That, combined with his drug addiction, would certainly explain it.

"That is utterly ridiculous," she said a bit too loudly, as she continued to fix three plates, though intentionally making one portion smaller than the other two. "I can hardly function if I don't get at least two full meals, a snack, tea, and dessert."

"I'm just warning you," John said, holding up his hands in surrender. "Didn't want him to hurt your feelings if he didn't eat."

Marylin flashed him a grin and handed him his plate. "Well, I made this for you, not him. But he's certainly not going to just sit there while we eat."

John took it graciously, and hers, then set them in their respective places at the table before grabbing them both a beer from the fridge.

Marylin then grabbed the plate with the smallest portion and took it to Sherlock who still stood by the fireplace, sorting through two boxes of books. He didn't look up at her when she came up behind him and peered around his frame to look into them.

"Oi," she said, nudging him in the back with a finger. "Brought you a plate."

He then turned his head, looking down over his shoulder at her, standing there in her frilly apron holding food out for him to take. Something about the slightly drooping pin curls and lack of makeup combined with the casual outfit – well, casual for her – and ridiculous apron did something to Sherlock's heart that he couldn't quite describe. He didn't like it.

"John told you I don't eat while I'm working, I'm sure," he murmured, turning back to the books. "Besides, I thought this was for him."

Marylin sighed. "I'm trying to be nice, Mr. Holmes."

"Take your need to please people elsewhere," he snapped, refusing to take the offered plate from her. "It has no uses here."

"Well then," she began, setting the plate and utensils on an unopened box next to him. "I suppose I'll not be so nice. Take the damn food, Mr. Holmes, before I dump it on your head."

It was then that he turned fully toward her, an amused smirk growing on his face. Before she knew it, an answering smile graced her own lips.

"Besides," Marylin continued, crossing her arms, and leaned into her left hip. "As a chemist, you should know that the body needs sustenance to be able to function properly. Not eating will slow you down more than taking a few minutes to have a small meal."

"A chemist?" He asked, smirk still in place.

"That equipment obviously isn't John's," she replied, waving a hand in the direction of the chemistry set. "He's a doctor of medicine, not chemistry, though I suppose the two could be connected. But you're much untidier than John, who also told me you leave your experiments all over the place regardless of living space and sanitation."

He seemed pleased with her answer, smirk broadening into a smile as he leaned carefully against the tower of boxes next to him. "He told you that, did he?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes, and if I may, he was much nicer about it than I would've been."

Sherlock quirked a brow at her in amusement, as though he wished her to continue. She did.

"He said that you were merely untidy and unhygienic," Marylin explained, smiling demurely. "I'd've said you were a gobdaw and an inconsiderate dick."

Sherlock's initial amusement turned into laughter, soft, but genuine. "'She speaks poniards and every word stabs,'" he said, pressing a hand to his heart as though she had actually wounded him.

"Shakespeare,"she said, smile widening into a grin. "Enjoy your meal, Sherlock Holmes."

With that, she left him alone to his plate and books, returning to the kitchen table. John had already opened her beer for her, a white ale, and had begun tucking into the dish of thick sauce of onions, tomatoes, and chicken.

"Let me know if it needs more or less spice," Marylin requested as she lifted the can of beer to her lips.

"It's fantastic," John smiled blissfully. "I've not had a home cooked meal in ages."

"Well, I can try and cook for you more," she offered, tearing off a piece of flatbread and pinching up a piece of meat. "I always end up making too much, living alone and all."

"Big family?" Sherlock interjected, striding past them to place a surprisingly empty plate in the sink.

"No," Marylin said, smiling mischievously into her beer.

"I hope you didn't dump that somewhere, Sherlock," John said in exasperation.

"Of course not," he quipped in response, turning to observe Marylin as she ate. "I may be 'unhygienic', but I'm not going to dump food around the flat."

John sighed and returned to his dinner. His friend could be annoyingly precocious at the best of times, and a downright smartass at the worst. He wasn't about to walk into the trap Sherlock was laying for him. Which left Marylin to Sherlock's attention rather than John. He felt bad about that, sort of. He was still a little sore about her leaving him outside Soo Lin's flat.

"Are you unaccustomed to living alone then?" Sherlock asked Marylin pointedly.

"Pardon?" Marylin countered around a mouthful.

"You constantly make too much food for one person and offered to share with us. Thus, you are unaccustomed to living alone, and are therefore lonely."

John sighed again, his head falling into his hand. He felt the beginnings of a headache coming on.

""Wrong again Mr. Holmes," Marylin said, sitting back in her chair to look him in the eye. "I'm actually just learning to cook and I find that meals for one or two portions lack flavor. Therefore, the recipes I choose often have a great deal too many servings for one person. As for being lonely... I have my cat. I thought I'd be nice and feed you since you and John are looking a bit scrawny."

"Scrawny!" Sherlock sniffed indignantly. "I'm not scrawny."

Before she could argue further John said, "I'd never say 'no' to your cooking, Marylin, even if it put a few extra pounds on me."

Affectionately, Marylin grabbed his hand and gave it a quick peck.

"A gem, John Watson. A gem," she grinned.

Sherlock, pleased that she'd voluntarily given up some information – but annoyed at her easy affections towards John, returned to his stacks of books by the fireplace. He attempted to tune out their conversation as he searched, but he found doing that quite difficult, his ears straining to catch every utterance, every syllable that fell from Marylin's unpainted lips.

"So…" She hedged, dabbing her mouth with a napkin. "Soo Lin didn't make it?"

The mirth drained slowly from John's face and his shoulders slumped with a heaviness much older men seemed to carry. He was too youthful to be carrying the burdens he did. But, he had chosen this life. He had chosen every bit of it, even the death that came along with it.

"Yeah," he said. "Her brother is the assassin, which makes it somehow worse."

Marylin's lips pressed together in a line, her expression pained and angry. "Family often do such things to each other. I'm not surprised."

"I'm sensing this has something to do with your 'arrangement'?" John asked, scraping up the last remnants of his meal.

"Perceptive, Doctor." Marylin smiled sadly, swirling the last of her beer around in its can. "I've found that families often perpetrate the worst abuses towards one another."

"Why'd you go along with it?"

"I felt I had no other choice. I know differently now."

The smell of blood assailed her nostrils as that familiar, hot feeling of rage bubbled up inside of her, making her tremble. But she merely sat there and finished her meal instead of indulging in those memories. Inhale. Exhale.

Everything was fine.

It was going to be fine.

It will pass.

But she almost didn't want it to. She almost wanted to remember how it felt to–

No. John was talking to her. Sherlock was staring. Not the time. Not the place. Not the time, not the time, not the time. Good god, she needed to get a grip.

"Pardon me," she muttered, standing on shaking legs to rinse her dishes. "What were you saying?"

"I was thanking you for dinner," John said, concern coloring his tone as she heard him come up to stand behind her, placing a hand on her trembling shoulder. "But now I'm asking if you're okay."

"Peachy," Marylin said, voice too cheerful. They noticed.

"Are you taking anything for those panic attacks? Seeing anyone?" John asked, taking the dishes from her and placing them in the dishwasher.

"Yes," she said, drying her hands on a slightly musty tea towel.

"But not regularly," Sherlock commented, not looking up from a pair of books he was looking through.

"I beg your pardon?" She hissed, eyes flashing as she turned to glare at him.

"Please," he said, smirking down at the books. "Beg all you like."

The hot, tingling rage sizzled through her veins, until she remembered she had spoken those very words to him weeks ago. Fighting the urge to laugh, or even smile, she started gathering up the dishes to place in the fridge.

"As a doctor, Marylin," John began hesitantly. "And as your friend, I recommend you do something regularly."

"Thanks for the concern," she said, closing the fridge. "But I'm fine."

"Mmmm, no." Sherlock snapped shut the books he was looking at. "You don't sleep much, if at all. I wouldn't call that 'fine'."

He was right, but that didn't mean she wanted to admit it, or have it observable on her person. So, she stayed silent.

"Dark circles can be caused by a myriad of things," Sherlock continued, sorting through the books. "But seeing how I have heard you playing your piano at three in the morning more than once, as well as the sound of your sewing machine, I can safely conclude that you don't sleep much."

"God," Marylin groaned and glowered at him. "Are you always this insufferable? Can't you just do that in your head, or do you need attention that badly?"

At that, John – who was still cleaning up dishes and placing them in the dishwasher, burst into laughter. Much to Sherlock's befuddlement.

"No…" He replied, brows furrowing. Did he need the attention? He was just accustomed to saying what he thought, regardless of others' feelings or desire to hear. No, he didn't think he needed attention.

"Only joking, Mr. Holmes," she said, though her tired expression slightly belied her words.

John, having finished his task, thanked Marylin for the meal with a squeeze of her hand and sat back at his desk. His face, all at once, looked as tired as Marylin felt. She watched them for a few moments, leaning against the entryway to the kitchen with her arms crossed over her chest.

Sherlock glanced up at her a few times, as if he could feel her gaze on them, but otherwise ignored her, completely absorbed in his task. John accepted the stacks of books he was handed with patience that Marylin considered saintlike. After a while, she grew bored of watching, or waiting to be invited to help. She knew she'd have to insert herself anyway, per Mycroft's request, and she had fed Alexander early just in case.

Wandering over to a box, Marylin opened it and pulled out a stack, running her fingers over the pages of the top book. They were obviously looking for matching books, with matching editions. It likely had something to do with the Hangzhou, probably a cipher; so, matching editions would be imperative.

She gracefully sat the stack down on the cluttered coffee table in front of the couch and grabbed the heavy box she took them from, a Van Coon. Then she took a box marked Lukis, removed her apron – tossing it on the couch, and began sorting through. This went on for about fifteen minutes before either John or Sherlock noticed she was still there. Marylin still hadn't found a match.

"Why've you not left yet?" Sherlock asked, noticing her sitting cross-legged on the floor in a pile of books as he'd turned to give John another stack.

Were it anyone else, she would have thought him rather rude. But it was Sherlock. He was always rude. Only now he was just being inquisitive.

"I'm helping." She shrugged, standing to grab another box.

"Let me help you with that," John said, attempting to stand.

She waved him away, placing the boxes on the floor next to her, then discarding the empty ones on the coffee table.

"Do you even know what we're doing," Sherlock asked.

"Cracking a cipher, Mr. Holmes. Not an idiot," she said, stacking the books by owner, author, and popularity. "I'm a librarian. I know books. And if a cipher is connected to a book, it would need to be a current or popular edition of a currently popular or commonplace book. Such as the Bible, or another religious text. Or, even something like 'Harry Potter'."

"That's brilliant Marylin," John said, astonishment coloring his tired expression.

"Not really," she murmured, ignoring Sherlock's eyes on her. "Either of you have matches for any of these?"

Carefully she read off the title and publication date for each popular or commonplace book in her stacks, placing them off to the side at each negative, or handing them off to John and Sherlock if there was an affirmative. If there were matches, they would ask her if they would even be worth looking into, since the book would need to be relevant, something anyone would have. Often, they would have to be vetoed.

This went on for hours, until Marylin's eyes began to grow heavy. They grew heavier and heavier and the old, worn-out couch looked so soft and inviting. She could just sit and close her eyes for a moment, sink into the brown leather for just a minute, couldn't she? Just for a minute.

It had been a while later when both men realized Marylin had fallen silent and the flow of books from her side of the room had ceased. Unnoticed by them, she had curled up on the couch in a fetal position, her apron acting as a pillow. Her shoes had been kicked off and discarded, one in front of her on the couch, one among the clutter of the coffee table.

"Should we wake her?" Asked John, who yawned and stretched as he made a move to get up from his desk.

"No," murmured Sherlock, eyes transfixed upon her sleeping form. She hadn't been sleeping, and now here she was, already in the REM stages from her eye movements beneath her lids. Why? It was quite apparent that he annoyed her, frightened her even for reasons he couldn't conclude.

Sherlock doubted it had much to do with her ex, his looks were too unique to bear any resemblance to him. Her ease of friendship with John eliminated a fear of his gender. Was it just him? What could he have done to make her that uncomfortable? Besides being himself and grabbing her a few times. Perhaps he needed to learn how to keep his hands to himself. That wasn't it though.

His deductions? She had secrets, so maybe she thought he could uncover them. Unless they were insignificant. But they would be easier to figure out if they were… And why insert herself into his investigation if she feared that? Unless… No, she was too much of a romantic. All the books and handmade things in her home told him that.

As Sherlock stared at Marylin's sleeping form, she shivered slightly. Without a word to John, he stalked to his bedroom and yanked the comforter off his bed. When he returned to the front room with it, he covered her in the thick fabric with little flourish, then returned to his work.

John, who had watched the whole thing, thought he was hallucinating from lack of sleep. He carried on throughout the rest of the night, until he too fell asleep, sitting up at his desk.

At least until his watch alarm went off. Aghast and sleep deprived, he looked out the window to confirm that it was indeed morning. Then to the couch, where Marylin was still curled up, Sherlock's comforter pulled around her like a cocoon.

He blinked a few times at the sight of her there, then at Sherlock's rigid posture as he sorted through the mounds of books in front of him. John huffed a laugh, having made a few deductions of his own, as he set about getting ready for work. Good lord, he needed a proper nights' sleep.

A/N:Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed.

If anyone watched GBBO and remembers Chetna, the meal Marylin makes is her recipe for Dahi Masala Chicken Curry. It's absolutely delicious and I suggest you all make it. Chetna also has plenty of vegan and vegetarian meals on her blog in case you're interested. .uk/dahi-masala-chicken-curry/

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.