*A/N I just wanted to thank all of my readers for asking me to do this one, and for all the support that you have shown for both my character, Marie, and for the books! You guys are all awesome, and I hope you enjoy this story as much as I will enjoy writing it! Also, again, I do not own Sherlock or its characters. I only own my own.

London, 1881

Doctor John Watson followed his old 'friend', Michael Stamford, through the bleak underground mortuary. They'd met quite by chance as Watson wandered the London streets, struggling to get back into civilian life after the second Afghan war. He'd hoped that finding a place in London would help ease him back into things- unfortunately, finding an affordable place with his small budget was looking incredibly bleak.

At least, until Stamford offered to introduce him to a man he knew, who was also looking for a flat mate. Hence their current visit to the mortuary. The air was stale and the candles lining the walls did little to brighten the dank corridors. But what Watson found most peculiar was the sound of… whipping, echoing through the whole place.

Whoever was smacking a rod against what Watson really hoped was not another person seemed to grow impatient as the smacking sounds became faster and harsher, and he fought a grimace as he followed Stamford down the hallway. The pair turned a corner, and Watson frowned as he found the source of the whipping sounds.

"Good Lord!" Watson murmured as he leant heavily on his walking stick, frowning at the silhouette of a man standing in one of the mortuary rooms, visible through the window on the wall to the mortuary room, whipping at something lying on the table in the centre of the room.

"It's an experiment, apparently." Stamford explained dryly as they walked up to the closed door, watching the man whipping his rod continuously. "Beating corpses to establish how long after death bruising is still possible."

Watson almost raised a brow, his lips curling a little in distaste as he watched the man for a brief moment, before he turned away, limping off as he asked: "Is there a medical point to that?"

"Not sure." Stamford answered simply as he followed Watson, and Watson replied coolly: "Neither am I. So, where's this friend of yours, then?"

Stamford stopped by a door, and Watson turned back to look to see the other man standing by the closed entrance to the room they had just seen. Stamford raised a brow as Watson's jaw dropped incredulously, and he glanced back towards where the window was still just visible and they could still hear the smacking sound of a rod hitting the corpse.

Watson slowly followed as Stamford led the way inside, and they could see a tall man standing with his back to them as he whipped at the corpse.

"Excuse me!" Stamford called loudly, but the man ignored them as he continued to flog the corpse- if anything, his movements seemed to go even faster.

"I do hope we're not interrupting." Watson called a little sarcastically, and finally the man gave the corpse one last, particularly harsh thrash before turning to face them.

Watson was surprised to see a rather handsome albeit cold-looking man, perhaps a few years younger than himself, dressed in a fine suit complete with waistcoat and tailcoats, and with sharp calculating eyes that darted over Watson once, seeming to see everything…

"You've been in Afghanistan, I perceive." The man said abruptly, making Watson blink in surprise. Stamford didn't seem nearly as surprised, while the strange man turned away, seemingly disinterested as he pulled a pocket watch from his waistcoat.

"Doctor Watson," Stamford introduced, "Mr Sherlock-"

He was cut off as the odd man suddenly threw the walking stick he had been using as a rod at them, not even looking up from his watch or turning around. Watson reacted instinctively, catching the walking stick with his free hand before blinking in surprise once more as the strange man said firmly: "Excellent reflexes."

He turned back around to face the other two men in the room, pocketing his watch and giving Watson a fake smile as he added: "You'll do."

"I'm sorry?" Watson asked blankly, but the man went on, ignoring him: "I have my eye on a suite of rooms near Regent's Park. Between us we could afford them."

"Rooms?" Watson repeated, looking between the strange man and Stamford with the confusion evident on his face. "Who said anything about rooms?"

"I did." The stranger said swiftly and flatly. "I mentioned to Stamford this morning I was in need of a fellow lodger. Now he appears after lunch in the company of a man of military aspect with a tan and recent injury, both suggestive of the campaign in Afghanistan and an enforced departure from it."

Watson stared, his mouth just short of falling open in surprise, while the other man finished with a sharp intake of breath: "The conclusion seemed inescapable."

He glanced over Watson once more, taking in the man's surprise and amazement, and allowed a small smirk to pass over his face before he finished shortly: "We'll finalise the details tomorrow evening."

Watson blinked again, but the man was already moving, brushing passed the two men as he added: "Now if you'll excuse me, I have a hanging in Wandsworth and I'd hate them to start without me."

"A hanging?" Watson repeated, his surprise forcing him out of his shock.

The other man was shrugging on his coat as he explained: "I take a professional interest."

He paused before adding almost as an afterthought: "I also play the violin and smoke a pipe. I presume that's not a problem?"

"Er, no, well..." Watson began, and the man finished as he grabbed his top hat from the coat hanger: "And you're clearly acclimatised to never getting to the end of a sentence. We'll get along splendidly."

Watson stared incredulously, and the man added as another afterthought: "Although, you are also clearly a romantic, so I must warn you: if you begin to woo or court the young woman living in the rooms downstairs then I must insist you never bring her back and bother me with her surely dull conversations."

Watson's jaw was hanging wide open by this point, as the man finished: "That is all. Tomorrow evening, seven o'clock, then."

He made to turn and leave, before pausing. He turned back to the stunned Watson as he tacked on almost carelessly: "Oh, and the name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is two hundred and twenty-one B Baker Street."

With that, he placed his hat on his head and walked out, Watson watching him go in a mix of sheer disbelief and curiosity.

"Yes." Stamford told his friend as he took in Watson's numb shock. "He's always been like that."

Watson stared at Stamford and then back to the doors Holmes had left through, still unable to close his mouth.

London, 1885

Watson poked his head out of the carriage as their driver paused at a street corner, right beside a news vendor as he called into the chilly December afternoong: "Papers! Papers!"

"Here." Watson called to the newsvendor, who was holding up the daily papers, each with a copy of the Strand magazine, which had a picture of a man's silhouette- a man wearing a deerstalker hat and with a pipe between his teeth. The newsvendor peered at the other man, recognizing him immediately despite the busy moustache growing on Watson's upper lip.

"How's 'The Blue Carbuncle' doing?" Watson queried, and the newsvendor answered with a beam: "Very popular, Doctor Watson. Is there gonna be a proper murder next time?"

"I'll have a word with the criminal classes." Watson joked, and the newsvendor jested: "If you wouldn't mind."

He then noticed another figure behind Watson, the man's face hidden in the shadows of the carriage and his eyes widened.

"Is that 'im?" He asked excitedly. "Is 'e in there?"

Watson winced as his companion kicked him harshly in the shin, making him grunt as he replied quickly: "No. No, no, not at all. Ah, good day to you."

He quickly turned away, thanking the heavens as their cabbie urged the horses forward once more. The cab went on its way once more, and Watson winced as the newsvendor shouted after them: "Merry Christmas, Mr. Holmes!"

He caught sight of the dark look on his friend's face, and he sighed: "I know, I know- you hate Christmas."

Holmes just huffed, glancing out the window as they finally arrived back at 221B Baker Street. Holmes clambered out of the carriage, leaving Watson, and he stuck his pipe in his mouth just as the door to their flat opened and the landlady, Mrs. Hudson, came out.

"Mr. Holmes." She greeted sternly.

Watson clambered out behind Holmes, while Holmes paused as the landlady strode up to the younger man, the houseboy Billy hurrying out behind her.

"I do wish you'd let me know when you're planning to come home." Mrs. Hudson scolded Holmes pointedly, but Holmes shrugged: "I hardly knew myself, Mrs Hudson. That's the trouble with dismembered country squires – they're notoriously difficult to schedule."

He gave her a look before glancing back to the door to see a pretty woman striding out, her hair perfectly curled and sitting in an elegant bun as usual. She was wearing a dark green dress, the frills tucked in neatly as always, although Holmes detected that she had forgone wearing a corset. Again. While he hardly minded it on anyone else – he wasn't one for tradition or fashion – it made him balk when his Rose-Marie went without a corset.

She was one of the most careful and meticulous women, or rather people, he'd ever met, which was quite a remarkable feat, so any deviants from that perfection was a sure sign she was feeling rebellious. And she was only feeling rebellious when she was angry.

Judging by her facial expression at present as her green eyes bore angry holes in his head, Holmes was certain he was the target of her anger. He quickly turned to pay the cabbie as Billy hurried up to Watson, asking curiously as he looked at the bag Watson was carrying: "What's in there?"

"Never mind." Watson answered quickly, refusing to let Billy take that bag.

Billy sulked but turned away without a word anyway, carrying the other luggage as he hurried after Mrs. Hudson back into the flat while Holmes turned away from the cabbie with a brief: "Thank you."

Mrs. Hudson fussed with Rose-Marie at the door, asking if she was all right, but the younger woman quickly dismissed the landlady as she continued to glare daggers at Holmes. Holmes shifted sheepishly, and he was rather grateful when Billy asked him eagerly over his shoulder as the boy walked into the building: "Did you catch a murderer, Mr. Holmes?"

"Caught the murderer; still looking for the legs." Holmes replied swiftly as he followed the boy when Rose-Marie stood aside to let the child walk passed her. "Think we'll call it a draw."

He moved passed Mrs. Hudson, who was standing by the doorway, before wincing as Rose-Marie stepped before him, her arms crossed across her chest as she looked at him expectantly.

"Upstairs?" He queried, not wishing to fight with her in front of Mrs. Hudson – the landlady always took the young woman's side – and the brunette woman narrowed her eyes.

"Upstairs." She agreed, although it was more of an order. Holmes almost rolled his eyes, but he knew he'd really done it this time so he wisely kept his opinions to himself this one time.

He was somewhat relieved when it appeared Rose-Marie wasn't quite so angry that she wouldn't help him out of his coat, and she'd already hung up his hat by the time he handed her the removed coat. She took the coat without her usual kiss to his cheek however, so she was most definitely still angry with him.

Rose-Marie had just moved to hang it on the peg in the hallway when Mrs. Hudson stalked in behind them, saying to Watson bitterly: "Well, I never say anything, do I?"

Both Holmes and Rose-Marie lifted a brow, knowing immediately that Mrs. Hudson was, once again, upset about Watson's stories that he wrote for the Strand.

"According to you, I just show people up the stairs and serve you breakfasts." Mrs. Hudson finished indignantly, and Holmes turned back to Rose-Marie, disinterested in the conversation and rather hoping to soften her again.

She simply gave him an unimpressed look, while Watson commented to Mrs. Hudson as he hung up his own hat and coat: "Well, within the narrative, that is, broadly speaking, your function."

Rose-Marie's brow shot up- Holmes noted it and realized he needed to quickly shift the conversation least she become even angrier with him. He wasn't quite sure how it worked, but when Watson did something wrong, it inevitably came back to him when the beautiful but sharp woman scolded him later. Women.

"My what?!" Mrs. Hudson demanded indignantly, and Holmes comforted swiftly: "Don't feel singled out, Mrs. Hudson. I'm hardly in the dog one and Rose-Marie is completely absent from all the narratives."

"'The dog one'?" Watson repeated indignantly, and Rose-Marie simply turned away as Mrs. Hudson scolded crossly: "I'm your landlady, not a plot device."

Watson ignored her as he demanded after Holmes, who was going up the stairs after Rose-Marie: "Do you mean 'The Hound of the Baskervilles'? And you know I only leave Mrs. Rose-Marie out of it to protect her dignity. Imagine how the public would react to a woman on the case with you!"

Both Holmes and Rose-Marie ignored him as they disappeared around the corner and further up the stairs, while Mrs. Hudson moaned unhappily: "And you make the room so drab and dingy. It's a wonder how dear Mrs. Holmes can survive…"

"Oh, blame it on the illustrator." Watson snapped in annoyance. "He's out of control. I've had to grow this moustache just so people would recognise me."

Watson followed after his friend, moving belatedly. Holmes had already reached the threshold to their flat when Rose-Marie pulled him to a stop, demanding his attention in the doorway. He sighed, and turned to his wife, knowing she wanted to at least say a piece of her mind before they walked inside the living room.

"Care to explain yourself, my dear husband?" She snipped, her green eyes flashing with annoyance and Holmes frowned.

"Actually, no." He feigned ignorance, and her eyes were slits as she snapped: "Don't play games with me, Mr. Holmes. I demand to know, again, why you left without a word or any indication of when I should expect your return."

"You know I don't control where my cases take me or how long they will take, Mrs. Holmes." Holmes countered, and Rose-Marie hissed: "I grow tired of waking to an empty bed for half a month and a list on your pillow for the other half."

Holmes's face showed no emotion, only serving to anger her further as he answered coldly: "You knew what I was before you agreed to marry me, Mrs. Holmes. I will not change for anyone, neither woman nor man."

He strode passed her and into the room, pulling the curtains and throwing dust up into the air as he did. She watched him resentfully from the doorway as he moved to the other set of windows to pull the curtains there as well. He, meanwhile, cursed in his head as he saw how neglected the room was; Rose-Marie had most certainly not been joking when she warned she was getting tired of his antics. Never before had she left the room to just sit in his absence, and that fact disturbed him more than her actual words.

However, he had a more pressing matter at hand that needed to be resolved before he could confront his wife again. Hence, he threw open the curtains on the second set of windows, just as Watson entered the living room after dropping off the bag he'd been carrying, in the study.

"Good Lord!" Watson exclaimed in surprise, stopping in the doorway between the living room and the study as he stared at the woman revealed in the light coming in from the windows. She was dressed completely in black- a long, black dress that covered every inch of skin, and a thick black veil over her head and obscuring all of her features completely.

She had been facing the mirror, away from the room, and she turned to face them as Watson stepped inside, staring curiously at the figure while Holmes called sharply: "Mrs. Hudson, there is a woman other than my wife in my sitting room! Is it intentional?"

"She's a client!" Mrs. Hudson called back irritably. "Said you were out, insisted on waiting. Mrs. Holmes let her in, so I saw no need to argue."

Holmes grimaced while Rose-Marie glided into the living room, glancing at the other woman almost carelessly before she settled into the sofa on the far side of the room. Watson cleared his throat, before grabbing a chair from the nearby table as he offered their strange guest: "Would you, er, care to sit down?"

The woman didn't move, simply standing straight with her face forward, and Watson had the distinct feeling she was watching him intently. Holmes meanwhile was shouting down at Mrs. Hudson: "Didn't you ask her what she wanted?"

"You ask her!" Mrs. Hudson retorted.

"Why didn't you ask her?" Holmes demanded, and Mrs. Hudson answered huffily: "How could I, what with me not talking and everything?"

Holmes sighed before striding back into the living room and he hissed at Watson under his breath: "Oh, for God's sake, give her some lines. She's perfectly capable of starving us, and Rose-Marie would let her at this current moment!"

Watson blinked as Holmes glanced at his wife, noting the way she was watching their guest with an almost amused smile, and he rolled his eyes again. No use questioning his wife- she was clearly having fun at their expense.

Holmes moved to stand before their client, a fake smile plastered on his face as he greeted: "Good afternoon. I'm Sherlock Holmes, and behind me is my wife, Rose-Marie Holmes. This is my friend and colleague, Doctor Watson. You may speak freely in front of him, as he rarely understands a word."

"Holmes." Watson said shortly and irritably, while Rose-Marie snorted, but Holmes continued to his guest: "However, before you do, allow me to make some trifling observations."

He walked closer, circling the woman as he listed: "You have an impish sense of humour, which currently you're deploying to ease a degree of… personal anguish."

He moved to circle Watson as he continued: "You have recently married a man of a seemingly kindly disposition who has now abandoned you for an unsavoury companion of dubious morals. The only reason you have waited so long is because you trust the companion's wife, but have recently decided that things have gone far enough. You have come to this agency as a last resort in the hope that reconciliation may still be possible."

"Good Lord, Holmes!" Watson exclaimed, impressed as he always was and Rose-Marie rolled her eyes.

"All of this is, of course, perfectly evident from your perfume." Holmes finished, and Watson glanced over in surprise. The woman was also looking at him, although in surprise or confusion, Watson couldn't say. Rose-Marie could though, and she knew it was neither- it was amusement and aggravation. Not unlike herself.

"Her perfume?" Watson asked in confusion, and Holmes said with an impatient sigh: "Yes, her perfume, which brings insight to me and disaster to you."

"How so?" Watson asked, puzzled, and Holmes answered as he reached over to their 'client': "Because I recognised it," he removed the woman's veil, "and you did not."

Watson blinked in surprise as he saw the face beneath the veil, and he gaped: "Mary!"

"John." Mrs. Watson greeted with a falsely friendly smile, while Holmes rolled his eyes and moved to sit beside his wife at the sofa. Rose-Marie raised a brow and stood as he sat, making him sigh in annoyance.

Watson didn't notice, too busy staring at his wife as he demanded incredulously: "Why, in God's name, are you pretending to be a client?"

"Because I could think of no other way to see my husband." Mrs. Watson replied flatly, before she added with a falsely sweet smile: "Husband."

Watson pulled back, blinking in surprise, while Mrs. Watson smiled more genuinely as she opened her arms to her friend. Rose-Marie slipped into her embrace, greeting her warmly once more as both men exhaled sharply in irritation.