Greg sat at his desk reading the newspaper. He took a sip of coffee and blinked away the tiredness that was still irritating his eyes. Sherlock opened the door and stepped inside, followed quickly by John.

"I got your text, you have her name?" asked Sherlock bluntly.

Greg looked up from the paper. "Hm?"

"The woman in pink, they've identified her..."

"Oh yeah, sorry... I was just reading about you. What's it like being a celebrity?"

He folded the paper in half and threw it onto the desk. Facing up was a headline: 'London's most mysterious bachelor set to wed.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes before glaring at John.

"I've already said sorry," John shrugged. "I didn't know my blog would make the tabloids. Must've been a slow news day."

Greg smirked. Sherlock was growing agitated.

"The woman, Lestrade!"

"Yes! Her name was Louise Corkhill. 32. She's been homeless since she was 16 which is why no one reported her missing."

John narrowed his eyes. "So, what's her connection to us? To the first case?"

"There isn't one," Sherlock interrupted. "The fact that she was homeless confirms my theory that the killer committed this murder for no reason other than to replicate the first. They chose her because she was a nobody who fit the physical appearance of the first victim - she was nothing more than a prop."

"And the scene was clean," Greg added. "No forensic evidence besides that of the victim. No witnesses, nothing."

"Okay, so where do we go from here?" asked John.

"Nowhere," Sherlock replied bluntly.

"Nowhere?"

"I'll put a pin in it."

"A pin in it!? Sherlock, a woman is dead."

"Yes," he checked his watch. "And I have a wedding to plan."

Greg and John looked at him in astonishment. If anyone else had said it, they'd be filled with disgust. But it was Sherlock. So instead they remained silent.

*

Molly sat on the couch in 221B with her hands placed neatly in her lap. She glanced around the room, turning her head to look at the wall behind her. The back wall, which was often plastered with Sherlock's investigations, was currently decorated with wedding plans – seating arrangements, invoices, colour schemes.

Margaux walked in from the kitchen carrying two steaming mugs. She handed one to her and sat down, following her eye line to the wall.

"It's all Sherlock, you know?" she said. "He's currently running a background check on the priest."

"Oh yeah," said Molly chirpily as she noticed a picture of a man in a white collar pinned to the wall.

"I think it makes him feel more in control, having it all plastered around like this. It keeps him busy, stops him from dwelling on the reality of the situation and getting cold feet."

"Is he really freaking out that bad?" 

"He's trying his best to pretend he's not. But, I gave him the responsibility of choosing the song for our first dance; gave him all my records, CD's and playlists and told him I trusted him to make the right decision... That was last week and he's still 'working on it'." Margaux took a sip of her tea. "He's absolutely freaking out."

Molly laughed. "Well if you need any help, I'd be happy to take some of the pressure off."

She smiled and placed her mug carefully on the floor. "Actually, Molly, there is something I wanted to ask you. I wanted to ask you if you would be my bridesmaid..."

Molly's eyes grew round like saucers. She stammered for a moment, before finally managing a single word. "Really?"

Margaux nodded with a smile. "Of course. I've already asked Rose, and my friend Steph is coming back from America, which I'm thrilled about. But I think the person I wanted to ask the most was you. But, Molly, I just want you to know that...  if you don't feel comfortable being a bridesmaid then I completely understand. I know the way you felt about Sherlock, and you've handled all of this so well. You've been so kind and understanding and supportive. You're honestly too kind for this world, Molly. I think that's why I love you so much." She sighed. "But yeah I'm not going to force you into a decision, I'll leave it with you–"

"Yes. Of course I will."

"Really?"

"Yes absolutely!"

They pulled each other into a hug.

"Actually," said Molly as she pulled away. "While we're on the subject, I was wondering if I could possibly get a plus-one?"

Margaux's mouth opened, curling up at the corners. "Have you met someone?"

"I have. I really do quite like him."

She squealed with excitement. "Who is he? What's his name?"

"Arthur Westbrook. He's an architect. He's really lovely."

"I'm so happy for you! And yes of course, bring him." She paused for a moment before laughing to herself. "You know Sherlock is going to do a full background check on him to make sure he's good enough for you..."

Molly smiled. "Yes, I thought he might. I suppose that's why I kept it to myself for a while. He's not like the others. He's not just a couple of dates, or a clone of the person I really want."

"Or Jim Moriarty."

Molly laughed. "Or that." She looked down at her tea. "He's really quite special."

"Do you think he's the one?"

"Let's just get through the wedding, hey. Let's see how he fairs there; if he can have a conversation with Sherlock without melting into a puddle, then maybe he is indeed the one."

*

London fell into a cool, dim evening as they waited outside the theatre amongst a crowd of other people. There was a bustling of excited conversation, a blend of perfumes and colognes in the air. Margaux linked her arm in Sherlock's as she scrolled through her phone.

"It's just never ending," she said. "As soon as I think I've sorted something, something else comes up; flowers, food, seating plans, deposits, venues, centrepieces–"

Sherlock placed his hand on top of hers and gently lowered her phone. "Why don't we put this away?"

"Ugh, sorry." She slipped the phone into her pocket. "There's just so much to do. Now I understand why most people have long engagements."

"We're not most people."

"No, I suppose you're right."

"If it makes you feel better, I chose a song."

"You did!?"

He nodded.

"Well go on then, what song did you pick?"

"I've decided not to tell you. You said you trusted me; I'm testing that trust."

She shook her head. He gave a slight grin.

The theatre doors opened, greeted with a murmur of ooh's and eager chatter as the line began to shuffle into the building.

Margaux turned to Sherlock. "Are you ready to be scared out of your wits by the tale of the tortured spirit of Jennet Humphrey?"

"Oh yes, absolutely thrilled."

"Please refrain from spoiling it by pointing out all the technical aspects."

"I'll try. But only because this is your birthday present."

They got closer to the doors, waiting patiently for the ushers to check tickets and let people inside. Suddenly, a girl approached them excitedly.

"Excuse me, could I get a photo?" she asked.

Margaux looked up at Sherlock, then back to the girl. "Go ahead, I'll take it for you." She reached out to take the girl's phone.

"Oh, no," said the girl, pulling back slightly. "With both of you."

"Sorry, I think you might have the wrong people..."

"I read Dr John Watson's blog. I saw that you're getting married. Congratulations! I'm a huge fan, I'm so happy for you." She held up her phone. "Would you mind?"

"No, I don't do photographs," said Sherlock bluntly.

Margaux glared up at him before turning to the girl with a sympathetic smile. "I'm so sorry."

The girl walked off quietly as Sherlock moved further up the line.

Margaux caught up with him. "You're so rude sometimes."

"I'm not rude. I simply have no obligations to anybody else. Nor does anyone else on this planet. Who you choose to oblige is your decision, hence why I'm about to spend two hours of my life crammed into a small theatre watching people collectively jump at a pair of actors saying 'boo'."

He handed their tickets to the usher who tore them and handed them back.

*

A voice sounded through the speakers. "Ladies and gentlemen, there will now be a short interval."

The lights rose as the audience bustled towards the doors. Sherlock and Margaux got up and made their way out.

"So, what do you think so far?" she asked as they exited into the bar area.

"Of what?"

"Of the play, you numpty."

"Oh, well it's better than the opera."

She rolled her eyes and glanced towards the bar. "Do you want a drink?"

He shook his head.

"Okay, well I'm getting one. Wait here."

He stood aside, avoiding the crowds and queues as he waited for her to return. He found himself people-watching; noticing the woman who was having an affair, the man who travelled all the way from Liverpool just to see the play. He glanced across to the older couple waiting in line at the bar, at the husband's shaking hands and red nose – alcoholic. The wife's posture – narcissist. Sherlock liked to amuse himself by assessing strangers, sometimes doing it without even realising. He turned his attention to someone else, beginning to work out the man's medical history from the way he tied his shoelaces, when suddenly a hard hand slammed into his back and a familiar voice made his stomach drop.

"Well if it isn't Sherlock bloody Holmes!"

Sherlock turned around to see a man in a grey suit and too much gel in his hair. He had a large chin that jutted forward when he smiled. Charlie Owens. Sherlock's body tensed.

"How the hell are you!? Still an oddball, I bet," said Charlie in his obnoxiously posh boarding school accent.

"Charlie," Sherlock replied calmly. "Still using the same hair gel, I see."

Charlie snorted. "Sebastian mentioned he saw you few years ago; he said you still did that trick with the guessing."

"It's not a trick..."

"You remember Sebastian Wilkes? I work with him now at Shad Sanderson bank."

He looked away, uninterested and unimpressed.

Margaux approached them holding two plastic glasses, she handed one to Sherlock. "Here, I know you said you didn't want anything to drink, but the bartender gave me two instead of one and I was too awkward to correct him."

"Who's this then?" asked Charlie with his eyes buried in his phone. He looked up with an arrogant grin. "One of your blogger people?"

Margaux turned her head slowly to look at him, a wrinkle forming between her brows.

"What do you do then?" he continued. "Follow him around writing about all his weirdo antics?"

"I'm his fiancée..."

"Oh?" He sniggered.

"I'm sorry, is something funny?" she asked.

"No, no, just..." he gestured to Sherlock.

Her eyes flitted between the two men for a moment. "Just what?"

"Holmes tying the knot – the other guys are going to lose their minds!"

Sherlock remained quiet as he continued.

"You know he was such a pain in the arse at uni. If you were chatting up a girl when Sherlock was there, you could almost guarantee he'd do or say something to put her off you. One minute you'd be in there, the next she'd be walking away before you got the chance to bang her."

"Maybe he was doing the girls a favour; saving them from sleeping with someone who refers to it as 'banging'," she replied dryly.

He laughed, checking his phone quickly and putting it back in his pocket. "Yeah maybe. I just..." he shook his head at Sherlock and laughed. "Holmes is getting married. To a woman! Ha, I'll have to check the sky later for flying pigs."

Margaux stood holding her drink with a blank yet perplexed expression on her face. Charlie laughed again and slapped him hard on the upper arm. Sherlock barely flinched.

Charlie winced and shook his hand. "Bloody hell, you've beefed up, haven't you! It's almost like you've turned into a normal person."

Sherlock could practically see the steam rising from Margaux's head. It had been so many years since university, yet he still knew to expect the insults, the name-calling, the patronising jokes disguised as banter. But Margaux didn't, and her fury was palpable.

"Can I wager a guess that you weren't particularly close at uni?" she asked, trying her best to be polite.

Charlie gave another snort. "You're joking, aren't you. We all hated him. He wasn't even fun to take the piss out of because he'd just correct your grammar."

"Hm." She blinked slowly.

Sherlock placed his hand on the small of her back in a silent plea for her to ignore him.

"So, when's the big day then?" asked Charlie, phone in hand again.

Sherlock sighed and cleared his throat. "May."

"May? Like... this year? Bloody hell what's the rush? Shotgun wedding, is it?" he snorted again, pointing at Margaux's stomach.

"No..." she replied sternly.

Sherlock pushed his fingers into her back. She looked up at him with pressed lips and wide eyes.

"Oh, I wasn't saying you look pregnant. You look great... too great to be marrying this weirdo, ha!" His laugh bellowed through the room.

Margaux took a slight step forward, her body shielding Sherlock's slightly as if she were protecting him. "Funny, you say all of this but... doesn't it really say more about you? When the 'weirdo' is here with his fiancée and you're here alone, checking your phone every few minutes to see if anyone on that dating app is interested in you."

Charlie's smile dropped. "How do you..."

"Yes," Sherlock added. "How do you–"

"Oh, come on. I'm going to be Mrs Holmes, I've picked up some deduction skills from my 'weirdo' husband-to-be." She glared at Charlie with her burning amber eyes. "No one's interested in you by the way. Go ahead, it's been a few minutes, check your phone. Confirm my theory."

Sherlock lowered his head to hide the slight smirk growing across his lips. Charlie scoffed and fixed his suit jacket before running his hands through his gelled hair.

A voice sounded over a tannoy asking everyone back to their seats.

"Enjoy the rest of the show," she said before taking Sherlock's arm and walking back into the theatre.

Sherlock looked down at her as they walked back to their seats, his mouth creasing at the corners. "Have I told you I love you today?"

Margaux laughed. "I think so."

"Well I have the sudden urge to tell you again."

*

Two men stood centre stage, bowing together and smiling. The audience applauded them, rising to their feet with cheers and whistles.

"Has this convinced you to read the book?" asked Margaux as she continued to clap.

"I may skim it," Sherlock replied.

Shortly after, the audience filed out of the theatre. Sherlock pulled on Margaux's sleeve, holding her back and waiting until everyone had gone. She watched as he wandered through the rows of seats and up and down the aisles.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"I'm looking for the secret entrance they used to sneak her in."

"To sneak who in?"

"The actress."

"Sherlock, there was no actress, she was a ghost."

He gave a sarcastic laugh.

"Can't you just enjoy the mystery?" she continued. "Instead of trying to debunk everything?"

An usher stepped through the doors holding a dustpan and brush. "Excuse me, you shouldn't be in here."

"I'm sorry," she replied. "We're leaving now."

By the time they left, the crowd outside had dispersed; disappearing into taxis and wandering through the west end to the nearest pubs.

"Thank you for my birthday present," said Margaux as they stepped out onto the street.

"You're welcome."

They stood for a few minutes waiting for a cab to turn onto the street, when suddenly, Sherlock's back straightened.

"Did you hear that?"

"Hm?" She looked up at him, noticing his attention had turned to the alleyway down the side of the theatre.

"I heard screaming."

"I think the stage door's down there. Probably just the staff, the actors..." she stopped speaking, now hearing it too.

It was the muffled scream of a man. Sherlock darted down the alley, walking quickly, fearlessly towards the sound. Margaux rushed after him, catching up and staying glued to his side.

The alley was dark, not even the streetlights could reach it. The pair stumbled further down until eventually they reached him.

"Oh my god," said Margaux.

Charlie Owens. Sherlock could tell it was him by the suit, the hair gel, the jutting under bite. He was moaning, wailing with fright and pain as he lay on his side on the damp, dirty cobbles. His knees were to his chest, his ankles bound, wrists tied behind his back. His face was bruising, blood trickling from his slick hair, and his eyes had been sprayed with yellow paint.

Sherlock cocked his head, as if completely unconcerned by the sight, but instead confused – intrigued. Margaux dropped to her knees, placing her hand on Charlie's arm. He began to scream, writhing on the ground as if she were attacking him.

"I'm not going to hurt you!" she shouted. "What happened!?"

He didn't answer, instead he lay there taking shallow, panicked breaths.

"Sherlock, you should call the police," she said.

"Already texted Greg," he replied as he examined the ground beneath him, before noticing something on the wall.

He took out his phone and switched on the torch light, shining it at the wall and taking a step back. On the bricks in bright yellow spray paint was a smiley face, and next to it were the words:

'Interested Yet?'

*

Margaux walked across the hospital ward, approaching a bed that was hidden behind a curtain. As she got closer, she could hear Greg's voice.

"Did he speak at all?"

"No, he didn't say a word," Charlie replied.

"So, you didn't see him, you didn't hear him–"

"I know it sounds impossible. But I really didn't." There was a pause before he spoke again. "He targeted me because I work at Shad Sanderson, didn't he."

"We don't know anything yet–"

"It's obvious. I get some random ticket in the post to see a play on the same night Sherlock Holmes is going to be there. I work at the bank where Sherlock was hired to solve a break in after the office was vandalised with yellow paint..."

Greg sighed. "Let's go back to the attack. Did you get a look at the weapon? Any clothing?"

Margaux pulled the curtain back and stepped inside. Charlie was sitting on the edge of the bed, his eyes were red and puffy, his cheek swollen and stitched. He looked at her before turning back to Greg.

"What's she doing here?" 

"It's my job," she replied.

"Margaux's a behavioural analyst, she–"

"You are joking, aren't you? No way. I'm not speaking until she leaves."

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said. "Do I intimidate you?" 

"See the hostility! I'm the victim in all this!" said Charlie. "I'm not answering any more questions until she's gone."

Greg escorted her out of the ward, stopping in the corridor and laughing. "What was that about?"

"He wasn't very nice to Sherlock so I put him in his place."

"Put him in his place? The man was shaking at the sight of you."

"He shouldn't have been an arsehole to my fiancé then, should he."

She began making her way back to ward.

"Hang on," said Greg. "You can't go back in there."

"Why not?"

"He said he didn't want you there."

"Seriously? You're removing me from the case because the little banker man got his feelings hurt?"

"He also got attacked and almost blinded."

She sighed and looked away from him, almost sulking.

"Sorry, Margs."

He made his way back inside, leaving her to stand stewing in the corridor. She looked down towards the lifts where the doors slid open and William came rushing towards her.

"Sorry, I'm late, I know–"

"Don't worry about it. You might as well turn around and go home."

"Why?"

"The victim's scared of me. Doesn't want me anywhere near him."

"The... the victim is scared of you?"

"It's a long story." She walked back towards the lift. "Sorry you made a wasted journey. Were you busy?"

He shook his head. "Just at home."

"Oh, well now I don't feel as bad."

He laughed as they stepped into the lift. "So, how's the wedding planning going?"

"It's going," she replied. "You're coming, aren't you?"

"Mm, I don't think–"

"Hey! You need to come! I'm counting on you to bulk up my half of the guests."

They got out on the ground floor. He turned to face her with an awkward smile.

"I just... don't think Sherlock likes me very much."

"Oh, don't take it personally, he doesn't really like anyone who works for the police."

"You work for the police."

"Yes, but I sleep with him."

"Fair point."

*

Margaux walked into the flat and threw her keys onto the couch. She turned the corner into the kitchen, startled to see Sherlock sitting at his microscope.

"Sherlock," she began, her voice croaking with exhaustion. "It's almost 4am, why are you still up?"

"It's not the same," he said, his eyes never leaving the lens. "The paint. It's not the same."

"Well that doesn't surprise me. It's another cry for your attention. It's all for you. As most things often are."

"But there's no lead. No clue. It's not like Moriarty, where he would leave breadcrumbs to draw me closer. With Moriarty, there was a 'why'. There's none of that here."

She sat in the chair next to him and sighed. "Because it's not an invitation to play a game, Sherlock. It's a taunt. A boast. It's a 'look at me, Sherlock Holmes!'." She took his jaw in her hand and turned him to face her. "So, you need to not look."

He stared at her, his eyes red and tired. "I need to know the 'why'..."

"Right now, you need to come to bed." She stood up and took his hand with a smile, encouraging him to come with her. "We're taking your parents to see the wedding venue in literally four hours."

He looked down at the two samples of yellow paint sitting under the microscope. "They're not the same..." he muttered to himself.