Gwenyth inhaled the gunsmoke and smiled as her ears rang. He had fired mere inches from her head. Neither of her men had moved an inch, as per her instructions. Icy blue eyes glared back at her as Sherlock lowered the gun to his side.

"How sweet of you to accept Mr. Holmes." She said with a smirk. "Consider that an engagement present." She nodded her head towards the gun in his hand.

"How thoughtful." He spat sarcastically. She hadn't so much as flinched when he had fired. This woman was a force to be reckoned with, and he was willing to try his hand at her game. Gwenyth stood from his seat with a smile and winked as she took another drag from the cigarette.

"I must admit. You're much prettier than I expected." Cold calculation was all her comment received. He was an enigma, and she found herself mildly intrigued. "I'll see you tomorrow evening then?" Gwenyth brazenly held the burning cigarette up for him to take a smoke. She watched him grapple with himself before he plucked it from her fingers and took a long needy drag.

"Why?" His tone was nothing short of annoyed. He clearly wasn't going to give her an inch without a fight. Gwyneth smiled and shook her head. Having a mule for a betrothed might have been simpler.

"Couples are supposed to have dinner together." Pulling a small card from her pocket she turned and slipped it into the breast pocket of his coat. Her touch was skilled and nearly imperceptible "I'm afraid we have to keep up appearances. There is the address and my number. I know you're prone to distraction so if something comes up, be a doll and let me know you won't be coming. Be there at eight o'clock" She patted his pocket with finality and turned on her heel. "Boys give him the rest."

Sherlock caught the gold cigarette case that was tossed to him and examined it as his visitor and her henchmen swept out the door. They were gone just as suddenly as they had come. He took another drag and turned the case over in his hands. The initials G.E.M were engraved on the face of it in elaborate cursive. Her men had worn gloves and she had not touched the case, leaving no traceable fingerprints, but Sherlock had something much better. He tucked the 9mm pistol into the back of his waistband and extinguished the now diminished cigarette. Kneeling down next to his chair he pulled his kit out of his pocket and produced a magnifying glass and tweezers. With expert finesse he plucked five long, ebony hairs from the carpet. One end of the hair was burned from the bullet that had shorn it from Magnusson's supposed heir.

Sherlock slipped the hairs and the cigarette into their own vials and quickly sealed them before pulling his phone from his pocket. Molly would be asleep but he needed to have these hairs analyzed. If his visitor was an imposter that would deepen the plot. If she was who she claimed to be, he would be trapped into going along with her ruse. More than anything else, he was irritated that he had been caught unaware. There had been no sign of a stranger entering the flat. The knocker had been askew exactly as he had left it and there were no signs of forced entry. He pulled the gold foil business card from his pocket and read the pitch black cursive that was scrawled across it. She had one of the most extravagant addresses in London. A flat with this address would cost millions of pounds, and this particular complex did not offer short term rental. If it was a farce she went to great lengths to create it. The card itself was expensive, made of strong stock, attractive foil, and high end inks. As his brain ran rapid fire he found himself agonizing over one simple question. Who is this woman?

The detective's deft fingers dialed Molly Hooper's number and hit the call button. Several droning tones later Molly's exhausted voice met his ears.

"Sherlock?"

"Molly, meet me at the morgue. It is an emergency. I need you to run a DNA analysis for me. I'll be there in ten minutes."

"What? Wh-" Sherlock ended the call, slipped the phone back into his pocket and turned towards the door before pausing. He slowly flipped the case open and found a beautiful row of cigarettes, with a single empty slot. Molly didn't need to see the case. There was no reason he couldn't save them for a later date. The case flipped shut with a faint "click" before he slid it back into his breast pocket. He was going to find out whether or not his visitor posed a real threat and he didn't intend to tell John anything until he had the answer. The detective righted his coat before stepping out the door and hurrying down the stairs. Three long strides, out the door and he was in the street hailing a cab. A cabbie pulled up to the curb and Sherlock got into the back seat without delay.

"Saint Barts." He grumbled as he steepled his fingers under his chin. The London street lamps flashed by, leaving him to stew in punctuated moments of darkness.

The entire situation struck him as abnormal, tantalizing, exciting. His visitor operated with finesse and skillful planning, but there was something more intriguing about her. She radiated a level of confidence that Sherlock was loathe to admire. Her manner was not unlike that of Irene Adler, however he had won against Adler in the end.

This woman baffled him. She was fastidiously groomed and pale as the driven snow. He could deduct that she spent a great deal of time inside, away from the sun. He did not observe any sign of a wedding ring, or any pets. She was clean, uncommonly so. Perhaps she had a disorder, but he couldn't be too certain. She had been steady as a surgeon, and utterly precise during her visit. If she was not Magnussen's daughter she played the part far too well.

What would be his plan of action if she was who she claimed to be? Sherlock was put off by even the thought of the institution of marriage and certainly had no plans in participating in the bonds of holy matrimony. If he was to judge anything by her proposal, she didn't seem invested in the idea of a marriage. She was clearly in it for the strategic gain it would present. He could certainly respect that. He had gotten frivolously engaged to get to Magnusson after all. Perhaps such an arrangement wouldn't be entirely disagreeable. He could finally have his mother off his back in regards to marriage and he wouldn't need to invest any of the energy normally required in such situations. His visitor was objectively attractive, and she reminded him dangerously of another dominant woman he had once known.

He needed to know more before he devoted anymore thought to that conclusion. Speculation was nothing more than a waste of time.

The cab came to a halt and Sherlock sprang out of the backseat, barely pausing to toss his fair at the cabbie. His impatience worsened with every tedious step through the hospital. He cast an imposing figure, slinking down the hall at top speed with a dower glare on his face.

Sherlock burst through the morgue doors and into the dimly lit office. Molly was slumped in the chair that sat in front of her work station. She was bundled up tightly with a hand knit scarf and a cup of hot chocolate in her hand.

"Is this really an emergency, Sherlock?" She asked as she began to yawn.

"Yes. I have several samples that I need you to cross reference with Magnusson. I am looking for any signs of a familial relation." Sherlock placed two vials on the counter in front of her. "Quickly."

Molly sighed and removed her winter layers so that she could work properly. She slipped into her lab coat and began silently going about the numerous steps required to copy and analyze the DNA.

"One end of the hair is singed." She commented as she peered into her microscope. "Where did you find this?"

"In my flat. I had a visitor and I need to know if she is really who she says she is." Sherlock sat in Molly's empty chair and steepled his fingers.

"What sort of visitor?" The young woman's tone had changed, unbeknownst to the detective.

"A sudden and unexpected one." Sherlock said, still very deep in thought. "She was in my flat when I arrived home."

"Oh." Was all Molly could muster as she continued about her work. "It will be several hours Sherlock. Why don't you get some sleep?"

"I'm fine." Sherlock was too deep in his contemplation to really engage in any conversation, not that he wanted to. He had far too much thinking to do.

Gwenyth stood in her Father's flat perusing his temperature controlled wine cellar. Every now and again she would slip a bottle off the shelf and consider it for a moment before replacing it gently. She wore a silk robe and a pair of black slippers with feathered pom poms on the toes. Her long dark hair was in a soggy bun on top of her head, still drying after her shower. What sort of wine will he like? It was an important question. A person's favorite wine was like a window into their soul. Gwyneth had a knack for picking the perfect wine for any occasion and she took her process seriously.

As her fingers grazed the rows of bottles she pictured the striking detective in her head. He was tall and refined, very particular about his clothes, and even more so about the company he kept. She had no doubt that his knowledge of wine was impeccable, if his blog was taken into consideration. Sophisticated, complex, dramatic. Those were the words that would define the wine. Where are you? She thought as she scanned the shelves with more intensity.

"Aha!" She exclaimed as she seized an old vintage bottle of Petite Verdot. It was grown at an old-vine vineyard tucked away in the Bordeaux region of France. She grabbed a second bottle and stepped through the glass door to the wine cellar before closing it firmly.

Gwenyth crossed the expansive flat to the open concept kitchen area and placed the two bottles on the black granite countertop. She grabbed a white apron from a hook next to the stove and tied it about her waist with a neat bow in the front. The press of a button sent Frank Sintatra's music flowing through the flat. A plaintive "meow" sounded next to her feet. She bent down and gave her sphynx cat, Osiris, a loving pat on the head before washing her hands like a surgeon. Moving expertly through the kitchen she collected ingredients and utensils, setting them at a workstation on the counter.

The kitchen was where Gwenyth truly shined. She'd loved cooking since she was a little girl. No dish was too advanced for her, and she found a peaceful joy in the preparation of a meal. Normally she would prepare three courses but she had a feeling that her guest would be a peckish eater. Some bread and a meat dish would suffice. She opened the massive double door fridge that was built into the wall and surveyed her choices. Smoked pork belly would pair perfectly.

As she gathered her ingredients she thought about the man she would have to marry. She knew that such an arrangement was eccentric and abnormal, but she had been raised with this expectation. Flexible. Gwenyth began to massage the meat, tenderizing it as she thought. He seemed particular, much like she was, a handsome man, tall and regal. She had seen something in his icy eyes, like a blue flame. He had a monster lurking in those inky black pupils. As composed as he appeared to be there was an energy roiling inside of him. Is that why I'm so intrigued? She wondered as she poured the Petite Verdot into a large bowl and placed the sliced pork belly inside. A flurry of spices, cloves, cardamom, rosemary, and brown sugar were tossed into the bowl, followed by a dash of sea salt. Her skilled hands stirred the marinade before slicing four mandarine oranges and juicing each one into it.

It was a shame that he was so disinterested in marriage. She did not delude herself to believe that a fabulous meal would change that. Still she couldn't help but wonder at the little pieces that made up such a man. Did he prefer coffee or tea and how did he take it? What made him smile absently, or irked him. By all accounts he was a moody, insufferable man, but absolutely anything was better than her father. She could see Sherlock Holmes brooding silently in her mind's eye. And how her eye did wonder. Her mind could imagine all too well what the man of mystery hid under those tightly fitting dress shirts he kept on the floor of his bedroom.

The knife was little more than a glint in her hands as she minced and chopped vegetables. This time she would be acting as herself, and not as Magnussen's daughter. No breaking and entering, no cryptic messages, no power play. Well maybe a little. She thought with an absent smirk.

She made quick work of a Petite Verdot reduction and pan fried various vegetables and greens, using the wine for a deglazieres. Everything was set in the warmer with only the meat left to cook before she slipped across the flat to the master bedroom.

Her father's flat was cold and sparse with a staunchly modern look. Geodesic designs could be found in every item. The designer had greatly displeased Magnussen with the choice of a gold and black color scheme with dark cherry accents. Magnussen was all cool and gray, but the slight warmth suited her just fine.

Gwenyth untied her robe and let it slip to the floor before plucking a sheer, black dress off of the enormous bed. It was a simple black cocktail dress with a diving neckline and an open back that came to a pool of fabric just above her bum. Gold strappy heels and the quick application of a lip stain that matched the wine she had chosen almost completed the look. She stood in front of the vanity and let her hair loose as she perused her jewelry for the perfect addition. A little gold pair of violins caught her eye and she grabbed the earrings before exiting the master suite. She was only mildly startled to see Sherlock Holmes himself silently stroking her cat.