Summary: New developments and new obstacles. Or are they merely games disguised as such


A/N:

YALL I AM BACK

And a little worse for wear, but I've published a book in the meantime. Please check it out and review it on Amazon/Goodreads. It would mean the world to me. /d/5cifBW6

DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. As the author, I do not always agree with the actions the characters take. The depictions of anxiety and OCD are based on my own personal experience and do not apply to the illnesses as a whole. There will be mentions of various sensitive topics which are updated in the tags, read at your own risk.


And when the truth began to come out... Let's just say, Sherlock (surprisingly) and I were not prepared.


Grey skies with thin puffy clouds skimmed the horizon. The building had an excellent view of the city with its large floor-to-ceiling windows. But its minimalist modern décor gave the room a sterile, uncomfortable feeling. An air that prevented a body from getting too comfortable.

Marylin took that feeling as a challenge, kicking off her flat-heeled shoes the moment she sat down on the stiff leather couch. She was dressed in a comfortable loose-fitted dress with bell sleeves and lace. Not her typical style, but pretty enough, and better to protect her injury. She was happy to note that it was healing quite nicely, even after she tore the stitches in the course of her daring rescue attempt.

"How've you been?" Dr. Cox asked pleasantly while Marylin tucked her feet underneath her.

"You know how I've been." Marylin quirked a brow.

Her therapist was a mousey woman with brown hair that could be pretty if she would let it out of that severe bun she always wore. She hid her lovely green eyes behind terribly unfashionable glasses and dressed like a too-stiff lawyer.

But Marylin did like the woman. Even if she did like to try and poke around in her head. Even if she was a goldfish.

"You've missed several appointments," Dr. Cox commented.

"I don't pay for them," Marylin countered.

The doctor took a deep breath, causing an involuntary smile to cross Marylin's lips. She was getting under her skin. Good. That made things much more interesting. So much more fun.

"I can't help you if you disregard your appointments," Dr. Cox said, shifting in her chair.

"Well," Marylin said blithely. "I'm here now."

"Because of the panic attacks?"

"Oh, do keep up, dear. The flashbacks too."

"Right."

Dr. Cox scribbled something down in her notebook.

"What are you writing in there anyway? Do you need something to report back to Mr. Holmes?" Marylin asked, attempting to peer into the book.

Dr. Cox lifted it so she couldn't see. "I take doctor-patient confidentiality very seriously, Ms. Montgomery."

"Please, Diane, we've talked about this. Call me Marylin."

"Marylin, sorry."

Marylin looked at her with cat-like pleasure. Oh yes, like a little mouse in a trap. It was so easy to mess with this poor woman. Too easy.

"He can access all your notes once you input them into your system. All of your concern is flagged so he can check up on me. He even knew I wasn't taking my medication. How would he know that, unless he broke into my house? He's much too busy to do that on his own and wouldn't send someone else. He knew because he has access to your notes on my file, which would indicate that I've not filled the prescription."

"Why haven't you been taking your medication?" Dr. Cox asked in a cool voice, pretending she wasn't goaded by Marylin's games.

"Because, darling, it dulls the senses," Marylin explained with flourish. "I hate feeling so normal."

"So, you prefer to be in a heightened state of fight or flight? What about feeling safe is so dangerous for you?"

That was certainly a loaded question. One she didn't want to answer.

"I think it's because you're comfortable with fear," Dr. Cox answered for her, scribbling in her notebook again. "I think you're comfortable with all the bad things that happened to you because you think you deserve them, even though they were horrific. And you let that fear linger to torment yourself."

"I do nothing of the sort," Marylin argued, eyes flashing.

But she did. Marylin did exactly as Dr. Cox described. It was an added bonus that the heightened sense of anxiety and fear helped her stay alert to danger, even if it was unhealthy. Her medication did slow down her mind. At least that's what it felt like.

"And what about you?" she asked, pursing her expertly painted lips. "Why do you do this?"

"Me?" Dr. Cox asked.

"Yes, what's in it for you?"

The doctor was silent for a moment, studying Marylin with a practiced eye. She knew Marylin was deflecting, trying to keep the conversation on anything but herself. Her patient was only here to appease Mr. Holmes, nothing more. Which was a shame, because she was incredibly talented and pretty. She could have a successful life and find a partner if she could just let herself heal.

"Is it me?" Marylin teased.

"Wh-what?" Dr. Cox stammered, gripping her pen tightly. A deep, red flush crept up her neck and stained her cheeks prettily.

"It is me, isn't it?" Marylin threw back her head and laughed.

Oh, this was too good. The doctor thought she was attractive, that's partly why she kept her on as a patient. She was much too difficult to deal with otherwise. The other reason was probably money or fear of Mycroft. Whichever option could work in this scenario.

"Okay, fine, since you've flattered me, I'll cooperate just this once," Marylin said with an easy, somewhat flirtatious smile.

She relished in the way Dr. Cox flushed and squirmed. It was too easy to work people over. Much too easy.

"When I moved to this area I reconnected with my cousin, Pénelope," she paused, waiting for Dr. Cox's reaction.

"Yes," she said, marking Marylin's cooperation in her notes. "I remember you mentioned her during our first sessions. Does she know about you? About what happened."

"Bits and pieces," Marylin admitted, picking at her fingernails. They were finally growing to a nice length. "I don't make a habit of bringing it up. Makes people squeamish."

"Do you see her often? Talk any? Do normal, everyday activities?"

"We meet for coffee every now and again, sometimes she comes over for tea. She constantly texts me, which would be annoying if I hadn't missed her so much."

Dr. Cox smiled wryly. "She's got a lot of catching up to do."

"I suppose that's true," Marylin sighed.

A glance at her watch told her that the hour was almost up. She had to keep Dr. Cox talking about inane things until she could escape this minimalist prison. Just a few more personal tidbits to keep her satisfied and Mycroft off her back when he read the session notes.

"I also went on a few dates with my neighbor," Marylin blurted before Dr. Cox could ask the question poised on her lips.

"Oh?" she said, a smile of practiced interest playing on her mouth. "And how did that go?"

"He dumped me."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"You're not, but it's okay."

The doctor blushed again, but did not comment on Marylin's 'mind reading'.

"We've remained friends," Marylin continued, stretching her arms over her head, wincing at the tug on her healing stitches. "We see each other quite often. His flatmate is a nightmare though. Arrogant, God-complex, attention-seeking, obnoxious, insufferable – you name it."

Dr. Cox's eyes narrowed shrewdly. There was something there Marylin wasn't letting on about. She couldn't tell what it was, exactly, but she suspected Marylin had more feelings about this new neighbor than she was willing to admit – even to herself. A wry thought occurred to her, that Marylin also described some rather unpleasant traits about herself during her complaint.

"Do you see him frequently as well?" Dr. Cox asked.

"More than I'd care to," Marylin fibbed.

The itch had been growing steadily since the end of the case, especially since Shang disappeared without a trace. Since he had made notable movements, according to Mycroft. She had no desire to see him any time soon, but Lord, was it thrilling to know she was narrowly escaping danger each time she went out with Sherlock Holmes.

"And how are we with the compulsions?" Dr. Cox inquired, tilting her head to the side in that infuriating way television therapists always did.

"Fine," Marylin said calmly.

The skin around her fingernails said otherwise. As did the extensive skincare routine, long showers, and frequent pinching on the inside of her upper arms. The mental compulsions - checking to make sure she was thinking "perfect" thoughts – whatever "perfect" was – were, of course, invisible.

Despite Marylin's lies – and the run-around she was giving – Dr. Cox was a seasoned enough therapist to know when a patient was bullshitting her. She eyed Marylin with a calculating look, pushing her acrylic frames back up her pert nose.

"I'd like you to do something for me," Dr. Cox said, snapping her notebook shut. "Allow yourself the discomfort of imperfection."

That signaled the end of the session and Marylin slid her feet back into her shoes. What in the name of God did that mean though? Imperfection? Of course, she wasn't perfect. Nobody was. At least in the sense of normal perfection. But there was always that little voice in the back of her mind telling her to do more, be more.

Allow herself the discomfort of imperfection? Marylin had to smile to herself. She was always uncomfortable.


Later that evening, when the sky was a dark grey to match her mood, Marylin climbed her front stairs to find her front door unlocked. Adrenalin coursed through her, and she hastily yanked up the skirt of her dress to wrap her fingers around the mother-of-pearl handle of her stiletto in its thigh sheath before she pushed open the door.

The alarm wasn't tripped again, meaning it was destroyed, disabled, or someone shut it down from the outside. There were only two people she could think of who had the means or ability to do the latter.

Her heartbeat was in her throat, threatening to leap from her mouth and hurtle to the ground. He wouldn't be so obvious. Yes, he relished in her fear – her pain even – but he also loved the drama of a surprise.

That didn't mean this wasn't a run-of-the-mill burglar… or one of his less competent lackeys; though, that was unlikely. He would want to come himself, to see her face when she realized he figured out who she was.

But as she crept further into the house, any sound her flats could have made was muffled by the carpet, her nose wrinkled at the smell of old blood. And Alexander hadn't come to greet her, which was always a cause for alarm.

"Oh good," a deep voice said when she edged into the kitchen. "You're home. This beast you call a cat keeps begging me to feed it."

"You?" Marylin said incredulously, her brows furrowing.

Sherlock Holmes stood in her kitchen – Alexander winding around his legs –doused in blood as though this were the most normal occurrence in the world. Like he'd popped 'round for tea. She should have anticipated this. Mycroft would have known it was his brother breaking in, and shut off her alarm.

What a meddling prick.


Marylin placed the stiletto back into its sheath on her stockinged thigh, taking no care to hide the sheer, stockinged expanse of her legs. Or the pearl pink, lace undergarments peeking out from underneath her lifted skirt. Her expression was tight, annoyed. But there was an undercurrent of waning fear and growing relief.

"Were you expecting someone else?" Sherlock asked, feigning innocence as he tried not to stare at the long hemline of her dress as descended towards the floor, the soft, stocking-covered skin of her legs now hidden from view.

"A burglar," Marylin snapped and pushed past him to feed her cat.

She was lying again. That was something she did quite a lot of.

"What do you want?" she asked once the beast was fed. The sound of his lips smacking was very loud in the quiet kitchen.

Sherlock hesitated a moment before answering. "John wouldn't let me back into the flat…"

"He wouldn't let you…?" Marylin paused, looking him up and down. "Never mind, you're covered in blood. No wonder he wouldn't let you in. Sarah is over, I assume?"

Sherlock merely responded with a scoff, which she smirked wryly at, looking him up and down. At once, he felt the weight of her gaze penetrating him as he never had before. A cold, calculating light shone in her eye, making him feel small, exposed.

He didn't like it.

He didn't like it one bit.

Though he did wonder if this was how others felt when he turned his own, highly trained eyes on them. If they felt as though they were under a microscope, like all their actions down to the smallest twitch were judged and appraised by him. Surely not.

Surely this was just a one-off.

Surely Marylin didn't possess the same, uncanny abilities as him and his brother.

But what if she did?

"Working on a case then?" she asked, breaking into his thoughts.

That voice, so soft and lilting. So saccharine and annoying. Sherlock hated that she was right. He was working on a case, though that was obvious with the blood. John had merely reacted with horror, worried that Sherlock was hurt when he barged into the flat oblivious to Sarah being there at all. When he explained that the blood wasn't his, he was pushed out and the door was locked. Unfortunately, John had shoved a chair under the door's handle before he could try and reenter, and Mrs. Hudson would have thrown an unholy fit had he broken the door down.

Not to mention the headache John would have given him.

It was odd that Marylin came to that conclusion rather than assuming injury, though he supposed he wasn't acting injured. But John, slow-minded as he was, was a doctor and still didn't notice Sherlock was unharmed.

"I asked you a question, Mr. Holmes," Marylin said, now digging in her refrigerator – likely for a late-night snack.

"We're back to that are we?" he asked sardonically, referring to her habit of calling him by his surname.

She sighed and pulled a random assortment of foods out of her fridge: fruit salad, cold meat, a cupcake, and a pitcher of what looked like sangria. She saw him staring and held the pitcher up.

"Non-alcoholic," she supplied, and he was reminded of John's "no alcohol" instructions when she was injured. "Hungry?" she asked, preparing two plates without waiting for an answer, even slicing the cupcake in half to share.

Before she set both down on the enamel-topped kitchen table, she paused, observing him once again. The increasingly familiar feeling of being stripped down came over him. Irritation flared up in his chest and he almost walked back out of her house.

"Do you want to shower first?" Marylin asked with such innocence he nearly stumbled back in surprise.

"Are… Are you really offering—" he started.

"Don't make me change my mind."

There she was; the steel was back, hard as ever.

And with that she placed both plates and the pitcher back in the fridge, sweeping past him and up the stairs. Sherlock stood there, stunned until she poked her head back over the railing to call for him.

"Do keep up, Mr. Holmes."

Irritated and confused, Sherlock stomped after her, ignoring the way her hips swayed in that ridiculous dress as she led him to the second-floor bathroom. It was about as opulent as he expected. All rose pink and cream, from the walls to the floor and ceiling. Soft, fluffy white towels sat in a cream-painted wrought iron rack between the standing shower and the claw-foot tub so deep and long two could fit inside and have room to spare. A small, gold chandelier hung from the ceiling, throwing glittering light across the room. Small, faux candle sconces adorned the walls to provide low light. A variety of spa-like products lined the bathroom in several pretty, organized containers, only adding to the feminine feel of the room.

"You'll need clothes," Marylin said, grabbing him a red washrag – likely so the blood wouldn't stain the pristine white ones. "You can use whatever you want in the shower, though you'll smell like me I'm afraid. I'll be back momentarily with your things."

So dumbfounded was Sherlock by her hospitality that when she exited the room, he'd all but forgotten John had barricaded the door to their flat. It wasn't until he was stripped naked in the shower, washing his blood-soaked hair with shampoo that smelled of roses and vanilla did he remember. And then, a chuckle escaped him imagining the ways Marylin would burst into the flat. Because when that woman set her mind to something, it seemed as though she wouldn't give up until she got whatever it was she wanted. Little did he know just how right he was.

Marylin stood on the landing, pounding on the door to John and Sherlock's flat with a well-manicured fist. And she would keep pounding until John opened the goddamn door, so help her. It didn't take long for her dear friend to open up, exasperation clearly lined his face. This quickly changed to shock when he saw who was standing there.

"Marylin," he whispered, looking over his shoulder into the flat. "Now's… now's not the best time…"

"Oh, don't worry, darling," she chirped, pushing past him and into the flat. "I'm not here for you. Evening, Sarah!"

Before John could recover and drag her out, or Sarah could respond to her cheerful greeting, Marylin hurried to Sherlock's bedroom. It was surprisingly neat compared to the rest of the house. And smelled astonishingly clean. Dark wood furniture contrasted with the light grey walls, and mismatched lamps added Sherlock's signature eclectic air. As well as the collection of art and prints adorning the walls.

Interesting.

Marylin's pink-painted mouth quirked up in a triumphant smile. Sherlock had invaded her space yet again, this was payback. Carefully, but quickly, she cataloged the space in her mind to examine at her leisure later. Then she set about grabbing Sherlock's favorite dressing gown – she could tell because it was the only one that smelled faintly of… well of him. And it was blue, which seemed to be his favorite color. Then she grabbed a soft, worn T-shirt, pajama pants, and slippers folding everything but the slippers carefully on the bed. Next, she pulled a pearl gray dress shirt, charcoal slacks, and a matching ensemble jacket from the closet and placed them on the bed.

"I should have grabbed a bag…" Marylin lamented to herself as she stared at the load.

Sherlock would be staying the night tonight, he needed things. There was no way John was going to let him back into the flat, and Sarah was here. Meaning Sherlock probably didn't want to be around for the end portion of the date.

Marylin wondered – almost jealously, almost – if John had thought about bringing her back up to his flat after a few of their dates. Or if he had hoped she would be the one to invite him into her home. The thought, though initially catty, made her stomach roll.

She was glad he dumped her.

Irritated with herself, Marylin grabbed the first black pair of shoes she saw and stormed over to the large wooden dresser to search for a pair of underwear and socks. Her hand faltered when her fingers grazed something soft, something that felt like a winter garment. Pulling it gingerly from the confines of the drawer, Marylin gasped and nearly dropped it.

It was her scarf.

The red cashmere she'd left at the flat weeks ago. She knew she hadn't misplaced it. Sherlock Holmes, the sneaky bastard, had stolen it. But why had he stolen it? DNA testing? Ransom?

The latter was ridiculous, but the first? It could be plausible.

With trembling hands, Marylin refolded the scarf and grabbed what she came for, nestling the garment back where she initially found it. She could wait until Sherlock brought the scarf up himself when he confronted her about it for whatever reason – if he ever did. If he didn't, she knew where to take it back.

If anything, it might be amusing to hear the conclusions he came to. Besides, there was something the great consulting detective could help her with – and boy was it going to be amusing.

Back inside her home, with the security alarm rearmed, the shower was still going. Steam fogged up the bathroom, the mirrors, and thankfully the shower so she was barely able to see inside. Marylin hung Sherlock's dressing gown on the hook next to the shower and placed his pajamas on the counter of the sink before heading to her room to hang his clothes on the door to her armoire. When she returned, Sherlock was still showering, so she ran herself a small amount of warm water in the tub, low enough not to reach her stitches.

"No peeking," she called, pulling her dress and chemise over her head, not waiting for an answer.

Once those were carefully folded on the counter next to Sherlock's clothes, she shed her stockings, garter belt, and underthings, throwing them in the hamper next to the tub. Thankfully, Sherlock had left his things directly on the tile floor. She would put them in the tub to soak later.

Once she clambered in, carefully so as not to disturb the nearly healed wound, she allowed herself to relax against the cool porcelain contrasting with the warmth of the bathwater. Her hair, thankfully was already back in a braid and easily kept out of the way while she gingerly ran a rose-scented bar of soap over her skin, avoiding her stitches.

How odd it was that she bathed not mere feet away from a nude man. A near stranger no less – one that could reveal even her deepest, darkest secrets. It would have been very easy had her father not shelled out thousands of pounds to remove most, if not all, of the scarring from her body. Silver slivers still marred her otherwise perfect flesh where the torture had been the worst, but that was hardly noticeable unless one was face-to-face with the marks.

Marylin never intended on letting anyone get that close. Ever.

The mere thought would awaken a fear so primal in her that she would nearly faint, or vomit, or both. No. No person would be that close to her unless it was absolutely necessary. Like the time when Sherlock pinned her down on his dining table with just… just one hand.

She swallowed.

But not with fear.

Marylin had been too covered with blood, everyone had been too scared for her life, for anyone to notice anything awry on her body – much less indiscernible scars removed by cosmetic surgery. It wasn't the thought of questions being asked or secrets being discovered that caused her reaction.

It was the memory of that long-fingered, violinist's hand hot on the cool, blood-slick skin of her abdomen. Pinning her down, keeping eye contact with her, encouraging her… praising her. Something tightened inside of her and her skin grew hot all over, but it wasn't from the bathwater which was rapidly cooling.

Before she could take those memories any further, she pulled herself from the tub and drained it. She was already rinsed off and into an oversized, fluffy bathrobe and scrubbing the makeup from her face when Sherlock turned off the shower. He must have had blood on every part of him with the amount of time he took.

Marylin, shocked by the direction her mind took with that thought, doused her face with cold water as he stepped out, almost smashing her cleansers to the floor.

He was naked. Sherlock Holmes was naked in her bathroom and she was in nothing but a bathrobe. And she allowed this to happen. Oh, what a fool she was. Her goldfish of a therapist would be proud of her.

That was hardly an accomplishment.

Mycroft would be furious.

Now that was an accomplishment.

Sherlock was speaking to her; Marylin could hear him but she could no more comprehend his words than her thoughts at the moment. And that frightened her. Sherlock was still a man; he could still take advantage of this situation and take what he wanted of her – secrets or otherwise – despite her martial prowess. He was much bigger than her. She wasn't sure if he liked women, much less any sort of person regardless of gender, but she would have guessed the same of Mycroft and his fragile ego as well. And she had been very wrong in that regard.

Marylin barely noticed when an unopened glass bottle of facial serum clattered into the sink until she looked down and noticed she was shaking.

"Marylin?" Sherlock asked from behind her.

She didn't dare look into the mirror to see if he was clothed. Didn't dare turn around. Didn't dare breathe.

Fitz had always been handsy whenever they were together, which wasn't often if she could help it. They hardly spoke – especially about anything of substance – and he did most of the talking. He was handsome, sure. A rugby player, and smart in the way many people were. But he was not curious about anything. Only liked to boast about himself.

Marylin, like her chosen namesake, was merely a trophy – to Fitz, his parents, and even to her own. She was meant to be a notch in Fitz's belt. Only she never let him take from her what he wanted. Even when he hit her. Even when he taunted her and called her names. Belittled her, and made her feel small. Drove her into horrendous cocaine addiction that would have killed her had he not gotten to her first. Whenever they were alone and Fitz's hands began to wander, his dark eyes took on a predatory light. Not the kind she had read about in romance novels, not the kind to make her toes curl and her skin flush.

He looked like he wanted to destroy her. Own her. Body, mind, and soul.

That was something she could never accept. Then, when he attacked her, and she showed her claws…

That was that. He couldn't hurt her anymore.

But that didn't mean there weren't men out there like him. And it never meant she was safe.

"Marylin," Sherlock repeated, more sharply this time. "You're trembling. Look at me."

The command in his voice, the concern. It was strange. He wasn't supposed to act this way. He was supposed to be cold and distant. Calculating. Cynical.

When she did not turn, those fingers she had been thinking nearly salaciously about earlier gripped her shoulders, spinning her around to face him. She kept her gaze trained only on his pajama-clad legs, too afraid to look elsewhere. Afraid of her thoughts, afraid of him.

Those same fingers hooked under her chin, his thumb barely grazing her bottom lip as he tilted her face upward so she would look him in the eye. The tremors lessened somewhat when she realized that it was blue eyes gazing down at her and not brown. Not dark and evil.

"What did he do to you?" Sherlock asked in that curt way of his – like he didn't already know, like he hadn't deduced it – the hand that remained on her shoulder squeezing slightly.

That calculating light returned to his eye, but it wasn't cold. It was burning through the crumbling mask she so carefully crafted, right into her very soul. At that moment, Sherlock Holmes saw more of her than any other human being. He saw the craving, the itch, the terrible way Fitz had hurt her before he tried to have his way with her.

The wine staining the white tablecloth on that opulent carved table that was decades if not centuries older than the both of them – the broken crystal twinkling like stars in the wine stain. Saw the shaking limbs and the sniffling from her latest fix. Saw the burning in Fitz's eyes when he finally realized they were truly alone and he could have his chance, the predatory way he approached her.

Sherlock saw the black eyes, the battered ribs, the broken nose. Her blood. So, so much blood.

Before he could see further, she turned away in shame.

Was he angry? Surely not. That was impossible. Sherlock didn't care for her other than her secrets. He didn't care for anyone but himself. But that didn't explain why he kept her scarf in his sock drawer.

Of course, it did, it was all a part of his plan to figure her out.

"What do you care?" she tried to snap, but her trembling voice was devoid of its usual sting when it came to him.

Sherlock merely smiled as though she had not had her soul stripped bare before him. As though he had not nearly seen just what kind of a person he gripped so tightly. Had not seen the pleasure with which she gripped that fire poker in her shaking hand and raised it above her head…

"There you are," he praised, eyes twinkling. "There's the knife you wield disguised as words."

Marylin tried to smile, but it was more like a watery grimace. Her heart was still pounding, breath quick and uneven. How could she think of Sherlock Holmes in such a way? He was working her to his advantage – biding his time to unravel her web of secrets. He was mean, biting, arrogant – much like herself. She had never even been attracted to anyone before in any way. Was that even what this was? Surely not.

She needed to get away. She needed some air that wasn't saturated with steam. Once again, Sherlock's hand gently squeezed her shoulder, the other lifting her face from where she had turned away from him.

"Marylin, you have nothing to fear from me," he promised in earnest.

She almost believed him. Almost. He was a Holmes. There was always something to fear from a Holmes.


Later, after Marylin dressed in a soft pink silk nightgown that fell to her ankles, they shared a "dinner" of whatever Marylin had scrounged around from her fridge, she sprung her idea on Sherlock. He couldn't go home, not with Sarah and John doing… whatever it was they were doing. It was a stupid idea, but she was being reckless and selfish. The itch was strong, too strong for her to resist.

Besides, she had a legitimate reason to ask for his help anyway. There was also Mycroft's request that she get closer to Sherlock, which she couldn't keep avoiding. Despite what she accidentally allowed him to see in the bathroom.

They were sitting in her bedroom each on a plush couch, a classical record on in the background. It was almost peaceful, except Sherlock was observing anything and everything he could, that cold, calculating light back in his eye. All trace of tenderness had disappeared. It was as though she was his adversary again.

The thought made her smile. That would make this proposition all the more pleasurable for him. It certainly would make things more interesting for her, if not more dangerous. Hopefully, Mycroft would not be too put out. Not that she cared. She just didn't want a lecture.

"I have a proposition for you, Mr. Holmes," she said blithely, lounging back on her couch.

"I'm not interested," he responded quickly, eyes flashing to her form almost immediately, a dusting of pink on his cheeks.

Marylin's brows rose so high and quickly she thought they would fall off and a most unladylike, but mirthful sound escaped her. Alexander startled from his place next to her with a yowl at the noise.

"I don't mean sex, Mr. Holmes!" she exclaimed, near laughter.

He appeared chagrined for a moment but gestured for her to continue, reclining back against his couch. His posture wasn't what one could call relaxed, but he was at least listening.

"It's rather silly," she admitted with a sniff. "But I have a leak in my basement that needs fixing. It has been inspected and there is a lot of repair work that needs doing, it may take several days, a week at the most. I don't feel comfortable having strangers here with just me, or by themselves while I'm at work."

"And you want me here to keep an eye on things?" Sherlock interrupted with a raised brow. "How mundane."

"I told you it was silly." she grinned at him. "But I've not even gotten to the good part. For every day they're here, you may ask me a series of questions. I decide which ones to answer, and I must answer truthfully. No matter how painful."

There. If that didn't get his attention, pique his interest at all, Marylin didn't know what would.

"Oh," she continued flippantly. "I'll also need you to pretend to be my boyfriend or husband, just so no one gets any ideas. I've heard too many horror stories about women being attacked by handymen."

Sherlock was staring at her with furrowed brows, but when she finished, he threw his head back and laughed. It was the same giddy sound he made when he was on an intriguing case. The warmth that flooded through her at the sound shocked her beyond words, beyond thought.

Marylin ignored it.

"Do we have a deal?" she asked, rising from her place on the couch.

Sherlock studied her for a moment, a mirthful smile playing on the edges of his lips nearly making her regret her decision to ask him for help. There was no turning back now, though. And she knew that Sherlock was going to use that to his advantage.

"We do," he said finally, rising to take her hand in his and sealing the deal with a shake. "But I will have to pretend to be your husband. The permanence of such a relationship would scare away more potential predators than a mere boyfriend."

It was Marylin's turn to smile, though her nerves were beginning to fray around the edges. The silk of her nightgown was suddenly very scratchy and her skin felt too tight, as though she had forgotten to moisturize, which was preposterous. She never forgot to moisturize.

"All right then, husband," she said with a confidence she did not at all feel. "I'm exhausted and I have work tomorrow. The handymen will be here before I leave. I suggest we get some sleep."

"And where would that be?" Sherlock asked, feigning innocence.

Marylin could tell he was already enjoying his new role as her tormentor. She was loath to admit that she also thought this would be fun, and not just for an opportunity to get under Sherlock's skin.

"The bed is big enough for both of us," she replied, moving to turn down the covers. "Unless you'd like to take the guest room downstairs, but we really should keep up appearances, shouldn't we?"

He scoffed. She grinned. Take that, Mr. Holmes.

"Are you really wearing that to sleep?" he asked, gesturing to her nightgown.

It was a long, pink, silk confection with lace applique around the straps, under bust, and hem. To the untrained eye, it would appear to be an evening gown. But Marylin wore it as it was intended to be, a sleeping garment.

"What did you expect?" She blinked.

His head cocked as he stared at her, contemplating. She felt too hot once again. Her breath quickened. Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe she should have run it by Mycroft. He was her conscience after all.

"Your pearls and Chanel No. 5?" Sherlock supplied with a mischievous grin. He looked positively boyish.

"Another Marilyn Monroe joke, clever, Mr. Holmes," she quipped, settling herself on the bed. "I only do something so extravagant for my gentleman callers."

"You don't have any gentleman callers," he snapped, joining her. "And do call me Sherlock, we are married now after all."

Marylin snorted in an attempt to suppress a smile. She would have to find her grandfather's wedding band in the deep recesses of her jewelry collection. He had long, thin fingers just like Sherlock's, it would have to do. Marylin herself would use her grandmother's wedding set. Just to make the playacting more believable.

"You don't watch my back door, Sherlock," she teased, leaning back against the pillows with languid grace – very aware of his gaze on her.

"Well, now I'll have to," he retorted, settling in next to her. "I don't want people to get the wrong idea about my 'dear wife.'"

"I could have you sleeping on the couches tonight."

"You could, but I suspect you are a light sleeper and want to keep as close an eye on me as possible."

A serene smile was her only answer to his deduction as she settled beneath the luxurious covers of her bed, likely for a good night's unrest, as most nights were for her. Sherlock cleared his throat, drawing her attention from the blankets back to him. He gave her a pointed look.

"You promised me answers," he said.

"No, I promised you questions," she corrected, a smug feeling spreading throughout her. "And I'm tired. You may have your questions tomorrow, Sherlock."

With that, she rolled over and switched off her lamp, leaving him to sit in the low light of his own. With a sudden flush, he realized Marylin had essentially purred his name like some sort of femme fatal in those old Hollywood films she was surely fond of. Were these questions going to be worth the trouble he had most definitely found himself in? And what sort of trouble was that exactly? For once in his life, Sherlock Holmes was unsure of himself as he drifted off to sleep next to the most confusing human being he had ever met.

A/N:

Again, if you could, please check out my book. I'm super proud of it. /d/5cifBW6

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.