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doflamingadonquixote · 2 years

Text

Even the devil was once an angel | [2/?]

Summary: You are a psychiatrist and decide to play a dangerous game with the worst of criminal minds. Or: you're a bit bored too.

Pairing: Jim Moriarty x Fem!Reader

Chapter word count:

Warning: +18, mind games, angst and smut, hurt/comfort, stalker!Moriarty (Jim Moriarty is his own warning)

Previous Chap: 1

James Moriarty decides to show up assiduously for every appointment. You find a change in the tenth session.

You didn't think the consulting criminal was so competitive when it came to winning a bet on his superiority. You had, by mutual agreement, arranged two days a week where he was to come to your office and at the appointed times.

You had no intention of accepting his offer to give you an entire attic just for his sessions. The egocentric little bastard had to be a real patient if he wanted to continue playing the game.

After several positive feedbacks in putting stakes in your relationship, you had ventured to put a time limit on your work.

You had asked for a year, a year without having the pressure and the unawareness that, at any moment, Moriarty might shoot you in the head.

He simply laughed at you and rejected your request with a: "Where would be the fun in that?".

By studying him, confronting him, listening to him you had come to the conclusion that he was seriously suffering from a psychopathic personality disorder.

He often enjoyed constructing stories. And with those stories he would put you in great difficulty.

He was so adept at lying that when he finally asked you: "Truth or lie?" You were faced with a Pandora's box that you didn't know whether you wanted to open.

Another thing that made you curious and confirmed your assumptions was the nervous jerks that lit him up like a fuse. You thought you heard your secretary knocking things off the desk, out of the office, when Moriarty's scream came suddenly.

Even so, with a few more sittings, you had managed to avoid touching any sore buttons that would upset the man in front of you.

He always sat at your desk, creating a position of authority over you and often played with the objects distributed on the surface.

You lowered your eyes and found the pencils neatly and straight, arranged next to the laptop. He had already been inside for several minutes and they were still there, neatly arranged.

Your thoughts were abruptly interrupted by a tennis ball bouncing violently against said pencils, breaking the order, and then landing on your lap.

You tried to hold back a smile as you lifted the toy and brought it before your eyes.

Another thing you'd discovered about Jim Moriarty was how much he loved disorder and chaos, and that anything that wasn't to his mental standards had to be torn down.

“So, doc, truth or lie?”

He rocked back against the swivel chair, terribly discombobulated as he let his back slide down.

You opened the notepad on which you had jotted down summary diagrams to help you determine the information he had given you during the session. He tried to peek from your position, raising his posture slightly, but you lifted the notebook so that he would not read.

“You're not a maths professor but you probably wish you were, considering the way you frowned when talking about the poor university performance, almost as if to remedy it.”

Moriarty crossed his hands over his belly covered by a dark blue linen shirt and gloated at your deductions.

“It's not true that you have contact with your family, your lack of empathy and your criminal record would prevent you from having relations with them.”

His offended sigh distracted you from your next remark. He had an exaggeratedly shocked expression on his face and his right hand had risen to rest where, you presumed, his heart lay.

“I'm offended, doc. I pride myself so much on the relationship I have built over the years with my little brother.”

Your eyes focused on the notebook to prevent the criminal from understanding your reaction and, to make it more believable, you made more of a circle around the word 'brother'.

Moriarty sneered as he straightened in his chair.

“But don't bother conferring with the old Ice Man. I've been very thorough in erasing traces of the past.”

You gave him a sad smile that hid the strong sense of disappointment.

“Ever heard of attorney-client privilege, Mr. Moriarty?”

He made a thoughtful groan but didn't add anything else.

You really believed that the therapy was progressing at the right pace. Moriarty had even gone so far as to turn his conversations into something very close to a confession.

But suddenly, the perfectly mapped out road you had built up to that moment collapsed in on itself and you with it.

That day you were quietly listening to the reflections of one of your young patients. He was one of those somewhat hesitant ones, who are never quite sure whether to say the right thing or not, so building up a sort of confidence had taken you many weeks.

And James Moriarty had probably managed in two seconds to overwhelmingly destroy it.

That day he entered your office with a frightening carriage, leaving behind your secretary's frantic pleas for him to politely stay out of the session and wait.

His footsteps were heavy and for the first time you found him locked in one of his best dark suits.

He crossed the threshold and dropped into his usual chair, placing his leather shoes on your computer on the desk.

“They're unbearably fucking boring!” He dropped his head back, colliding with the backrest and sighed audibly. “How can you be so blind to such a clear clue!”

Your confusion quickly turned to anger as you watched the young secretary look from Moriarty to you with a startled and agitated expression.

In addiction, the boy on your couch had curled in on himself, and he too had his gaze focused on the newcomer.

Swallowing the lump that had blocked your breath for a few seconds, you forced your body to react in the most natural way possible.

With an apparent calm, you stood up and offered your hand to your client who took it, albeit hesitantly.

“I'm sorry for the inconvenience, Thomas, but it seems I have an emergency to attend to.”

You walked him to the door, reassuring him that the session would not be paid for and to make an appointment as soon as possible with your secretary. You left him in her care and closed the door with a snap.

Showing menace towards the most dangerous man in London, and (why not) perhaps the world, wasn't the smartest thing you could do, but James Moriarty had quickly gotten under your skin, irritating you to the point of exhaustion.

Your fists clenched spasmodically and you could feel your nails pushing painfully against your palms. Your cold face changed to an offended and furious frown as you watched the man at your desk.

“I am quite sure Lucia informed you that I was busy.”

You finally caught his attention and he arched his neck to look at you.

“And I'm supposed to care about that?” He asked undisturbed, as he probed you from head to toe. He was probably enjoying your first human reaction to his person.

“It should.” You bit your tongue to avoid adding that you doubted his respect, however, and moved a few steps closer to prevent your words from reaching those outside the door.“He is a patient in real need of assistance and you have interrupted his time, Mr. Moriarty.”

He shrugged, sneering.

“So am I, didn't you hear what I said earlier?”

He was clearly poking at you now, and you were getting pulled in.

“To you this is all just a stupid game. A way to fill the void that your, oh so immense, knowledge cannot fill.”

You spat out the words in anger and judgment, which didn't suit you at all and was extremely unprofessional.

He raised his hands as if a weapon had been pointed at him and you feared his sniper would threaten you again at any moment.

“Forgive me, doc, for giving you that feeling. What can I do about it?” His voice was clearly mocking.

“Get those shoes off my desk and sit on the couch like any fucking therapy patient.”

Your throat suddenly went dry, preventing you from hurling yourself at Moriarty again and, in the several seconds of silence that sliced the air, the criminal got up and went to sit comfortably in the armchair you had so quietly suggested to him.

You remained staring at the empty desk for a few seconds until a shaky, uncertain breath finally left your constricted lungs.

You analysed yourself. James Moriarty had taken you by surprise. You had not pre-set your attitude, which helped keep the man from reaching your personal sphere as a human being and not as a doctor.

And by barging in like that he had managed to get around the barrier and intrude.

You raised a hand, massaging your forehead and pinching the base of your nose as if to regain some semblance of self-control.

“I apologise for my behaviour. I stepped out of character.”

Moriarty was looking at you intently and for the first time you thought he was taking you seriously.

Your back touched the chair you were sitting on a few minutes earlier and you sighed.

“The robot attitude wouldn't hold for long, I assure you. I like you, doctor. Maybe we can be friends.”

His comment made you laugh unwillingly.

“I'm your analyst, not your friend.”

“One doesn't exclude the other, does it?”

You opened your notebook but didn't comment. His words suddenly seemed very real to you, very meaningful. Moriarty had always been good with words, with his eyes, with his body language.

Stupidly, in the midst of his complaints about Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson, you wondered what it would be like to be friends with an internationally known criminal.

#jim moriarty #jim moriarty x reader #female reader #bbc sherlock #sherlock fandom #sherlock fanfic #sherlock holmes #angst and smut #hurt/comfort #terapist to friend #friend to lovers #male yandere #mind manipulation

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redskull199987 · 2 years

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Kidnapping of a Nobblewoman

William James Moriarty x female!reader

Word count: 1.8k

Warning:kidnapping, kind of SA, but not really idk? There is touchung without consent, blood, death, fluff at the end

Summary:You are supposed to accompany William to the University in Durham when something happens that the Criminal Mastermind didn't expect...

Masterlist

"Y/N, please hurry up," William said, looking at me encouragingly.

"I'm coming," I replied softly.

We were standing at the station waiting for the train to Durham.

William had a lecture there and I was to accompany him.

"The train should be here any minute," Will added, letting his gaze wander over the train tracks.

"I think I left my book on the bench," I mumbled, looking at him, "I'll be right back."

William nodded, "Be careful!"

I rushed back to the bench we were sitting on and yes, my book was still there.

I quickly took it and wanted to run back to Will.

But as I walked past a small alley, I could hear faint calls.

"Help!?" It was difficult to understand but clearly audible.

I hesitated, Will was standing merely ten meters away. I could get to him, but something in me stopped me.

I gripped my book tightly and headed down the alley.

"Hello?" I asked hesitantly. It was pretty dark here even though it was the middle of the day.

suddenly a tall man stepped out of the darkness.

I took a step back, startled.

He looked quite poor, wore normal peasant clothes and looked at me intently.

"Sorry," he said.

"Are you Lady Y/L/N, Earl Moriarty's fiancée?" he asked politely.

"That's me," I said confused, "Who are you?"

"Grab her," he whispered, and suddenly two big guys with daggers appeared behind him.

One grabbed my arm, but I dodged, having learned how to fight.

but I wasn't fast enough, he caught my wrist and pulled me to the alley.

"William!?" I yelled and watched him turn to me in shock before the kidnapper put his hand over my mouth and held a dagger to my throat.

"Shut up!" he muttered while his accomplice tied my hands.

"Y/N!?" I heard Will shout, but he was bumped into by someone who passed him and fell to the ground.

the kidnappers continued to drag me down the alley to a carriage and just as William got to his feet we drove off and he lost sight of us.

"Release me!" I yelled, trying to kick, but one of the kidnappers grabbed my neck and painfully dug his fingertips into my skin.

"You shut up, got it?" He raised a knife.

I weighed my chances. unfortunately there wasn't much escape, so I nodded and he lowered the knife.

His buddy took a piece of cloth and tied it over my eyes.

"Now shut up, little mouse"

"That wasn't one of our plans, Louis," William said to his brother, looking at him intently, "Y/N was kidnapped!"

His brother just looked down in silence, after all he knew William's fiancée and loved her like a sister.

"We'll find her," Moran interfered, who now entered the room with Fred and Bond.

"I'll start looking right away," Fred added and was gone again.

fear for his beloved was written all over William's face and everyone present knew that it would be difficult for him to keep a cool head and make a plan now.

"William," Louis said calmly, "We'll find her, but when we do, we'll need a plan."

he looked at him meaningfully.

"Yes,"William whispered and jumped up, "I already have an idea. Where's Albert?"

"Wake up," I felt cold water being splashed on my face.

Someone roughly pulled me to my feet and tore off the blindfold.

"you're going to the boss," he murmured, tugging at my arm until I gave in and followed him.

They took me to a large room with floor to ceiling windows, it was already night and the moonlight shone on the dirty floor.

"Lady Y/L/N!" a voice called out of the darkness, "Soon to be Lady Moriarty, won't you?"

You could hear the glee as he stepped out of the darkness.

"May I introduce myself?" he said politely and walked to a small side table next to the sofa and armchair.

"I'm Count Albus," he took a sip of tea, "and I'm facing bankruptcy."

I had to laugh.

"What's so funny? Does my suffering amuse you?" he scoffed, all niceties faded.

"No," I said quietly, "I'm amused that you squandered too much money on hunting children and thus led to your own downfall."

He looked at me angrily. I watched as he put the cup back and walked toward me. He raised his hand and raised his hand to punch.

the left side of my face felt numb after he finished.

I let my head hang low in pain, but he tugged at my hair and grabbed my head forcefully.

I looked into his eyes.

"Now listen to me! You and your fiancée together have enough money to fund all of London"

"So you want to blackmail him?" I suggested.

He slapped me one more time, before grabbing my hair again.

I felt a bruise forming on my lower lip and blood running down my chin.

"Unfortunately, yes," he whispered, eyeing me, "Right now, a ransom note is being sent to Lord Moriarty."

"Well, you'll have to wait a long time for an answer," I replied.

"He'll answer, I'm sure of that," he let go of me, "He loves you, truly. something very honorable and yet..."

The Count looked at me intently.

"Let's get down to the pastime," he murmured, hurrying toward me.

He roughly grabbed my neck and then pressed his lips to mine.

I tried to fight back, but his grip was unbreakable and he pinned me down.

finally Albus broke away. He licked his lips greedily. Blood on his own face now. My blood

"This is going to be fun," he murmured, kneeling in front of me. Since I was tied to a chair, there wasn't much of an escape from him.

This time he placed his hand on the back of my neck, his fingertips playing with my hair, which was now cascading in long waves over my shoulders.

Suddenly he roughly grabbed the back of my head and pulled my head to the side so he could have more access to my neck.

without warning, he quickly kissed up my neck to the nape of my neck. I writhed in disgust, but couldn't do anything.

"Well," whispered Albus, "Calm down, lady."

The kisses grew longer and more painful, he literally bit down and I felt his other hand wander to my waist.

Suddenly a shot rang out and a window to our right shattered.

Albus backed away, startled. I breathed a sigh of relief. Will and the others had to be there.

"That's it then," I muttered as more shots rang out and Albus' men screamed.

two rushed in but they promptly went down, Two bullets to the back of the head.

"What's going on here?" Albus asked, puzzled.

"Scotland Yard!" someone shouted from outside.

"Damn," Albus had gone completely insane now, he grabbed a dagger with an ornate hilt and ran towards me.

He untied my bonds, but before I could escape, he grabbed my arm and pulled me along.

"William!?" I yelled as he pulled me with him, the dagger pointed at my throat.

Immediately afterwards the door burst open.

william was standing in front of us, holding a crowbar in his hand.

A grin crept onto my face, he had found me.

"Count Albus," Will said politely.

"I am asking you to drop the dagger, please"

but Albus only pressed the blade harder against my throat, causing a drop of blood to roll down my neck.

"Back off!! " he shouted.

"Sorry," William whispered, lifting the crowbar, "You chose the hard way!"

he came up to us: "And now take your hands off my fiancée "

Leaping forward, he deftly slashed at Albus, causing him to drop the dagger.

I quickly jumped to the side as William swung again and hit Albus on the forehead. Immediately he fell to the ground.

from then on all hell broke loose.

Moran and Albert burst in, along with three of Albus' people. But they were shot immediately, since two members of MI6 also came along.

When the shooting started, William immediately pulled me towards him and protected me with his body.

"William!?" I yelled and we backed away.

"Y/N, are you alright?" Will asked worried.

"Yes," I whispered as he pulled me close and wrapped his arms around me.

I looked around. Dead bodies lay everywhere, five of Albus' people, all with a bullets between the eyes. and Albus himself, lying in front of the sofa, head smashed and blood dripping from his forehead.

"Y/N?!"

I took my eyes off the bodies and looked at William.

"Oh god, Will," I mumbled, burying my face in his shoulder.

Lady Moriarty kidnapped: Count Albus scandal solved

I read today's newspaper with an amused look and realized that this unexpected incident could still help us in our project.

"What makes you so happy, love?" William came up behind me and leaned his elbows on the back of the chair.

"It turned out to be a good thing, Will," I murmured, smiling at him.

He smiled back cautiously.

He slowly raised his hand and gently pushed my hair aside. There were still a few bruises there.

I caught William's worried look.

I quickly grabbed his hand: "I'm fine"

I looked up at him.

"Will?" I asked confused as he got up and walked around the chair. He slowly knelt down in front of it.

"Y/N", he literally put his hands on mine, of course he didn't miss the fact that my wrists were still bruised.

"I love you," he continued, "And nothing in the world is ever going to change that. I'm sorry that I was careless and let this happen. I should have come with you"

He sighed and looked down.

"William," I put my hand on his cheek and gently lifted his head so he was looking at me, "None of this is your fault, got it? If anyone has been careless, it's me. You saved me and I am eternally grateful to you for that. I love you too Will and it will always be"

A grin crept onto his face now.

He cautiously approached me, but I immediately pulled him towards me by his tie and pressed my lips to his.

he happily pulled me onto his lap.

"Will!?" I yelled as we both fell to the ground. Suddenly I was on top of him. But he wrapped his hands around my waist and rolled us over so he was now laying on top of me.

"Will?" I laughed as he began planting feathery kisses down my neck, careful not to hurt me.

"I love you Y/N," he murmured into the back of my neck.

"I love you too, Will," I replied, running my fingers through his long blonde hair, "And only you."

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iamsherlocked1479 · 2 years

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That's not how I'd do it

A Sherlock x Reader Masterlist

I have began to write a chaptered fic of YN as Mrs Hudson's niece and she lives with Sherlock and John. Chaos ensues, naturally. Extra info NOT BASED ON THE TIMELINE OF THE SERIES

The Detective platylist

Chapter One |

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Forteen

Chapter Fifteen

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castielli · 2 years

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How to request:

Send your request featuring the character you want, the plot (+ANGST, FLUFF…) and anything I need to know about the reader.

MASTERLISTS:

MOVIES/TV SHOWS

KDRAMA/KPOP

Fandoms I write for under the cut!

——————————————

NCIS

Timothy McGee

Jimmy Palmer

Nicholas Torres

CRIMINAL MINDS

Spencer Reid

Penelope Garcia (platonic🫶)

Luke Alvez

CALL OF DUTY (MW/WWII)

John Price

Soap MacTavish

Ghost Riley

Gaz Garrick

Alex Keller

Alejandro Vargas

Phillip Graves

Vladimir Makarov

Rudy Parra

Red Daniels

William Pierson

Joseph Turner

Robert Zussman

Frank Aiello

Drew Stiles

SHAMELESS

Ian Gallagher

Carl Gallagher

Lip Gallagher

Mickey Milkovich

Kevin Ball

THE WALKING DEAD (+TELLTALE GAME)

Rick Grimes

Daryl Dixon

Glenn Rhee

Negan Smith

Shane Walsh

Lee Everett

Kenny

Doug

Mark

STRANGER THINGS

Steve Harrington

Billy Hargrove

Robin Buckley (platonic)

Eddie Munson

Jim Hopper

Jonathan Byers

Peter/001

Jason Carver

Dimitri

THE UMBRELLA ACADEMY (I still need to finish the last season😊)

Viktor Hargreeves

Klaus Hargreeves

Diego Hargreeves

Number Five

Luther Hargreeves

Ben Hargreeves

SUPERNATURAL

Dean Winchester

Sam Winchester

Castiel

Crowley

Bobby (platonic)

Chuck

NOW YOU SEE ME

Jack Wilder

J. Daniel Atlas

Merritt McKinney

Dylan Rhodes

Chase McKinney

MARVEL (Avengers/X-men)

Wanda Maximoff

Tony Stark

Bruce Banner

Thor Odinson

Loki Laufeyson

Steve Rogers

Stephen Strange

Peter Parker (Tom/Andrew/Tobey)

Clint Barton

Deadpool

Bucky Barnes

Sam Wilson

Peter Quill

Quentin Beck/Mysterio

Eddie Brock/Venom

Druig

Ikaris

Charles Xavier

Erik Lehnsherr

Peter Maximoff

Wolverine

Scott Summers

Hank McCoy

Bobby Drake

Alex Summers

Phil Coulson

Marc Spector/Steven Grant/Jake Lockey

Scott Lang

Pietro Maximoff

Mobius M. Mobius

Matt Murdock

Shang-chi

STAR WARS

Anakin Skywalker

Luke Skywalker

Obi-Wan Kenobi

Kylo Ren

Poe Dameron

Finn

TEEN WOLF

Stiles Stilinski

Scott McCall

Derek Hale

Isaac Lahey

Jackson Whittemore

Peter Hale

Theo Raeken

Liam Dunbar

Jordan Parrish

Mason Hewitt

Danny Mahealani

Aiden Steiner

Ethan Steiner

Corey Bryant

THE BOYS IN THE BAND

Bernard

Harold

Hank

Donald

Cowboy

Alan McCarthy

Michael

Larry

Emory

WHITE COLLAR

Neal Caffrey

Peter Burke

Mozzie (platonic)

Clinton Jones

DIVERGENT

Peter

Caleb Prior

Four

HARRY POTTER

Neville Longbottom

Sirius Black

Cedric Diggory

Seamus Finnigan

Viktor Krum

Remus Lupin

Draco Malfoy

Tom Riddle

Charlie Weasley

Fred Weasley

George Weasley

Percy Weasley

Ron Weasley

Oliver Wood

FANTASTIC BEASTS AND WHERE TO FIND THEM

Gellert Grindelwald (Mads Mikkelsen)

Newt Scamander

Credence Barebone

Theseus Scamander

Albus Dumbledore (Jude Law)

HUNGER GAMES

Peeta Mellark

Coriolanus Snow

Sejanus Plinth

MAZE RUNNER

Newt

Thomas

Gally

Minho

911 (and LONE STAR)

Evan Buckley (Buck)

Howie Han (Chimney)

Bobby Nash

Eddie Diaz

TK Strand

Carlos Reyes

Paul Strickland

Owen Strand

Jud Ryder

Mateo Chavez

RIVERDALE

Jughead Jones

FP Jones

Archie Andrews

Hiram Lodge

Sweet Pea

Fangs

Kevin Keller

Reggie Mantle

Chic

Moose Mason

BROOKLYN99

Jake Peralta

Terry Jeffords

All the others (platonic only)

CHRISTIAN BALE

Patrick Bateman (American Psycho)

Bruce Wayne (Batman)

PEDRO PASCAL

Joel Miller (TLOU)

Din Djarin (The Mandalorian)

Javi Gutierrez (The Unbearable Weight of Massive Talent)

Javier Peña (Narcos)

Oberyn Martell (Game of Thrones)

Agent Whiskey (Kingsman)

Silva (Strange Way of Life)

Francisco Morales (Triple Frontier)

Marcus Moreno (We Can Be Heroes)

Dieter Bravo (The Bubble)

DETROIT BECOME HUMAN

Connor

RK900

Hank

Markus

Luther

Simon

Gavin

Josh

BARBIE

Ken (Ryan)

Ken (Simu)

Allan

SHERLOCK

Sherlock Holmes

John Watson

Jim Moriarty

Mycroft Holmes

FNAF (movie)

Mike Schmidt

Steve Raglan

SUITS

Harvey Specter

Mike Ross

LA CASA DE PAPEL

El Profesor

Berlín

Palermo

Denver

Río

I WON’T WRITE:

-Smut (for anyone)

-R*pe

-Female readers/GN readers

-Suic*de

-inc*st

-Crossdressing

-Romantic/Suggestive stories for underage characters (only platonic, basically)

If the character you wanted to request is not on the list, you can try and ask me anyways.

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ssanovak · 1 year

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Characters & Fandoms I write for;

I am willing to write pairing fics of a character x reader, or general scenario fics with reader inserts.

Reader will be male with he/him pronouns as a default, so please specify if you’d like a female or gender neutral reader!

I will write LGBTQ+ and straight readers & pairings, just let me know what kind of thing you want in your request! I will not write smut.

I am Autistic and have ADHD, I will happily write either of these into fics.

I will write mental health issues, I personally suffer from OCD, CPTSD, Depression, and have previously dealt with ED tendencies, so I can write those with relative ease, request other mental health stuff and I’ll give it a go if I can or let you know if I don’t feel able to write it.

Characters not on my list are probably either not there because I don’t feel I know the character well enough to write them or am not comfortable writing them as pairings, but it’s always worth checking just in case I forgot to add someone!

Criminal Minds

Spencer Reid

Aaron Hotchner (Hotch)

Jason Gideon

David Rossi (Dave)

Jennifer Jareau (JJ)

Emily Prentiss

Derek Morgan

Penelope Garcia

NCIS

Leroy Jethro Gibbs

Anthony DiNozzo Jr. (Tony)

Timothy McGee

Abby Sciuto

Jimmy Palmer

Ziva David

Ellie Bishop

Nick Torres

BBC Sherlock

Sherlock Holmes

John Watson

Mycroft Holmes

Greg Lestrade

James Moriarty (Jim)

Supernatural

Dean Winchester

Sam Winchester

Castiel

Gabriel

Crowley

I will probably add more characters as I get further into shows I am watching or if I find a new fandom to obsess over! Have fun writing requests!

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honeypiehotchner · 5 years

Text

Trust -- part thirty-one

Alright...here she is.

Thank you guys again for all of your feedback on the last chapter and about this story in general. It really did help me and I am endlessly grateful for you all xx.

You’re running. Somehow. Something is chasing you. Maybe. You aren’t entirely sure what’s going on, but you’re positive you are running.

Sprinting. The word comes into your brain and the world shifts. You’re sprinting now, like something – or someone is actually chasing you. The trees fly by your head faster than you think they should be (you can’t run that fast), but it doesn’t seem to bother you for the time being.

You come to a full stop. Turning in circles, you gauge your surroundings. You recognize these woods. They’re from a movie or something – something you’ve seen before, but you aren’t sure.

A stick breaks to the left of you, causing your head to sharply turn in that direction. You let out a sigh of relief when you see Sherlock standing there, now frozen with wide eyes staring at you.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you breathe, turning to walk toward him. “You nearly scared the shit out of me.” A relieved smile crosses your lips as you shake your head at him. “What did I tell you about sneaking up on me?”

Sherlock doesn’t move an inch as you move closer, now standing maybe a few feet away from him. “I don’t understand.”

“What do you mean you don’t understand?” You furrow your eyebrows. “I thought someone was chasing me.”

“That was me.”

“Yeah, what the hell were you chasing me for?”

“You’re the murderer,” he replies simply, now standing straighter, towering over you. “You’re the one who killed her.”

“Who?”

He gives you an even look. “You know.”

You take a deep breath. So, you’re caught. You should’ve known better. Should’ve known someone would go digging around in the file and eventually come for Sherlock Holmes to fill in the gaps, eventually putting you in prison.

“What now?”

Sherlock shakes his head, surprising you. “Now I keep you safe.”

~~~

It’s the sixth day since you were brought to the hospital, and you still haven’t moved.

The security guard Mycroft provided stands outside your hospital room door at all times. John swears there are two of them that rotate, but some hospital staff swear they never see the one guard move a single inch, so no one really knows the truth.

The press has gotten wind that you, Sherlock Holmes’s alleged “girlfriend” (though some are claiming the two of you are married since Sherlock hasn’t left your room, but many others are debunking that theory because well, he’s Sherlock Holmes) are in the hospital, and you have received countless arrangements of flowers and sympathy cards. Everything is scanned before it is allowed into your room, the cards forming a neat pile on the window sill for you to open whenever it is you wake up.

John hopes you’ll wake up today. It’s New Year’s Eve, after all.

Sherlock left briefly yesterday to shower and change his clothes, and he returned with his violin that he has been playing since yesterday evening. John isn’t sure if Sherlock is playing because it soothes him or if he’s playing because he silently hopes that if you hear your song, you’ll wake up. But the doctor imagines it is a bit of both.

At first some of the hospital staff were going to attempt to tell Sherlock he can’t play his violin in here, but then they became too mesmerized by his playing that they don’t mind it. Except when the tune turns solemn, and then the nurses all share a look of despair.

Sherlock Holmes may be a bit of a machine, but right now, in this hospital, he has to be the most human anyone has ever seen him.

~~~

“Are you going to play that at our wedding?”

“Of course,” Sherlock smiles, bringing the violin down from his chin. “What else would I play?”

“Well, I wasn’t sure,” you chuckle, suddenly feeling a swarm of butterflies in your stomach at the confirmation of Sherlock playing something at the wedding. “What are you calling it?”

“Not sure yet,” he sighs seriously, staring at the paper. “What do you think?”

“You’re asking me?”

“That is what I just did, yes.”

“Well, I don’t know,” you shrug. “The answer is inside your mind, though, that I’m sure of.”

~~~

Sherlock picks up his violin for the third time today. He’s run out of songs to play and has now started to compose on a whim, staring out the window at the falling snow as he does.

He tries not to think about the sound of your squeal when it snowed for the first time earlier this month. You apparently had never been granted the pleasure of playing in the snow when you were a child, so you immediately had rushed outside to play in it. He tries not to remember the sound of your laugh when he ran after you and got promptly smacked in the face with a snowball. It was a special laugh, one of yours that he hadn’t heard yet. It wasn’t so much a laugh as it was a mischievous giggle, and he hasn’t heard it since.

Sherlock clenches his jaw and swats the memory away, annoyed that he let his mind wander around again.

~~~

“Sherlock…” You groan, pulling the sheet over your head. “What are you doing?”

“Waking you up,” he replies, followed by the sound of your curtains abruptly opening.

“What for?”

“Because it’s time.”

You pull the sheet down, giving him a strange look. “Time for what?”

“For you to wake up.”

You curl the sheet underneath your chin, staring him down. “That’s awfully ominous.”

“Is it?”

“Yes!” You laugh, your arms stretching out in hysterics. “Yes, Sherlock, it is. What’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing,” he shrugs, then crawling into the bed beside you. “Nothing’s the matter.”

You roll onto your side, looking into his eyes. “Are you lying to me?”

“I would never lie to you.”

“You better not,” you smirk. “Kiss me.”

“Kiss you?”

“Yes, kiss your wife, for God’s sake.”

“My wife,” he smiles, wrapping his arm around your waist to pull you into his chest. “Does it make me an idiot if I enjoy the sound of that?”

“Maybe a little,” you admit. “But I like the sound of it, too.”

Your legs tangle with his as he kisses you slowly, cradling your face, and slowly reminding you of just how much he has grown to love you.

~~~

Sherlock switches to playing the song he wrote for you – over and over and over again, on one big loop. John and Mary share a look when they hear the beginning of the song for the fifth time with no sign of an ending.

Sherlock is facing the window, playing the violin when you open your eyes. You aren’t even sure you’re awake really, but you don’t dare move. You let him play, admiring the way his shoulders move as he sways with the music.

It’s something you’ve missed seeing.

He finishes the song (again), this time turning around as he begins to start it once more, only to freeze when he sees your eyes looking back at him.

You manage a small smile, murmuring, “That was beautiful, Sherlock.”

You jump when he practically throws the violin down, running to the door and yanking it open. You hear him shouting for John a second later, which makes sense, and your brother comes rushing in just a moment later.

“Oh, my god,” John breathes, practically collapsing at your bedside as he hugs you the best he can while you’re in bed. You weakly squeeze his arm, which is as much as you can do for now to let him know you’re okay.

“I’m okay, Johnny,” you whisper, closing your eyes again. You can’t really say the words above a whisper, and even then you’re mostly mouthing them, but he understands.

He pulls back from the hug, tapping your face to get you to open your eyes. You do, giving him a strange look when he smiles.

Mary is next to hug you and kiss your forehead before your doctor comes into the room, saying something about welcome back. You don’t really listen to him much. You stare at Sherlock, trying to wrap your head around everything, trying to remember what happened and what didn’t. The dreams you had while you were in the coma have proved to be vivid enough that you’re questioning if they were real. But one glance to your left hand confirms that they must have been just that: dreams.

You try to hide your disappointment and shock – mostly shock because you’ve never thought about marrying anyone in your life. Not even Tony. And the two of you were pretty serious.

You aren’t even sure why you feel disappointed. Sherlock isn’t the marrying type – you thought you weren’t either, but now you’re questioning that, too. For now, though, all you can do is take it for what you’re assuming it was. Just a dream. Nothing more.

Natalie, your nurse, comes in a moment later to check all of your vitals while your doctor does his rounds. He said everything looked wonderful, though, and that the tests they need to run can wait until tomorrow.

With Natalie and Mary keeping you occupied, Sherlock ushers John outside for a moment to speak with him. As soon as the door closes, Natalie smiles fondly.

“That husband of yours is quite the character,” she remarks. “He plays the violin wonderfully. Does he play it at home, too?”

“He…he does, yes,” you reply slowly, giving Mary a strange look.

“Well,” Natalie breathes. “He has slept right there in that chair for a week and has only left for a shower once. I’m telling you, he is one protective man. I need to get one like him.”

“Yeah…”

“Well, everything looks great. You’re not in any pain, are you?”

You shake your head.

“Good. If you start to feel any discomfort, just press this button right here and I’ll come around. Drink a lot of water and we’ll see about getting you something to eat soon. Okay?”

You nod.

“I’ll be off on my rounds, then. I’m glad to see you’ve woken up. I swear all of us were getting worried for that fella of yours. Thought we were going to have to admit him for worrying so much,” she winks. “You get some rest.”

You nod again, watching her leave. You look back to Mary, blinking slowly. This is real. You are awake now. Okay.

“Sherlock and I… We aren’t married, are we?” You blurt.

Mary shakes her head. “No, not at all. But they had to say you are because Sherlock wasn’t allowed to stay unless he was a family member or your spouse.”

“Oh…okay.”

“You weren’t in a coma for that long,” she teases. “You two didn’t elope while you were asleep.”

You know she’s trying to joke, but you can’t. Not with the dreams you had. The first was strange, of the two of you in the woods. But the others… They were all in Baker Street. Like the two of you had gotten married. Each time the dialogue was different, but the setting was the same. The message was the same.

“What’s wrong?”

You shake your head, staring down at the IV in your hand. “I had a dream. A few dreams, actually.”

“You were dreaming?”

“Yeah, it was different each time, but the same,” you pause. “We were married,” you whisper, turning to look at her. “I’ve never thought about marriage in my life.”

“Maybe you heard Natalie tell him he had to say he was your husband,” Mary offers with a shrug.

“Maybe.”

~~~

“Sherlock, what’s going on? Why did we have to come all the way out here to talk?”

John was a little more than annoyed when Sherlock drug him out of your room, but now he’s even more annoyed because Sherlock drug him all the way outside to the balcony down the hall from your room.

“Because I don’t want Y/N hearing this and I don’t want that guard reporting back to my brother about this, either.”

Now Sherlock just has John worried. “What’s going on?”

“He’s back.”

“Who’s back?”

Sherlock doesn’t reply. He just hands John the folded piece of paper that Mycroft gave him two days ago.

John stares at it. His eyes don’t widen, narrow, or do anything. His jaw clenches, his mind reeling. “There’s no way,” he shakes his head, looking up at Sherlock. “I mean – how can this be possible?”

“It can’t,” Sherlock says, keeping his eyes focused on the London sky, something he’s found himself doing a lot these days. “I watched him die. I watched him put the gun into his mouth and pull the trigger.”

“Alright,” John clears his throat. “Alright, so what are you thinking?”

“Gidon could’ve been an accomplice of Moriarty’s,” Sherlock mutters. “It would make sense. Y/N being thrust into our path just after my return and being targeted by an old cult leader she thought was dead. It would be the perfect way to get revenge on her and on me. Two birds with one stone.”

“Okay, so what if he was?” John shrugs. “Mycroft told me Gidon’s dead. Took a cyanide pill.”

“And he left that note behind,” Sherlock nods to the paper. “Why would he leave a note?”

“It’s what people do,” John says quietly. “They leave a note.”

Sherlock sends him a pointed, but sad, look. Sherlock’s fall will never not be a sore subject between the two men. Even in random moments when it comes to John’s mind almost unwillingly, he can’t help but still feel that same betrayal.

“But why,” Sherlock continues. “Why would he leave a note like that? Why would he leave a note if something wasn’t meant to happen?”

John’s eyes widen then, his eyebrows raising as he holds up the paper. “You’re saying this isn’t over?”

“The game is never over, John.”

“No, shut up,” John hisses. “Don’t start talking like that. What are you saying, Sherlock?”

“I don’t think it’s over,” Sherlock admits. “Something has to be coming.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock sighs. “I need you to call my brother.”

“What?” John gives him a strange look. “Why can’t you?”

“We’re not speaking at the moment,” Sherlock says, like the fact should be obvious to John. “Tell him to check his security details,” Sherlock pauses, adding, “again,” because he’s sure his brother will assure John that the security has been checked already.

“Okay,” John sighs. “What do you want me to do with this?” He holds up the note.

“Keep it safe,” Sherlock says with a nod. “And I’ll do the same with her.”

#Trust #bbc sherlock #bbc sherlock fanfiction #sherlock x reader #sherlock holmes x reader #john watson #mary morstan #sherlock #angst #coma #waking up from a coma #finally lmao #six days later #moriarty #jim moriarty #james moriarty #i o u #half-sibling!reader #female!reader

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lazydoodlesandfanfic · 6 years

Text

Sherlock’s Little Weapon (Moriarty X Holmes!Sister!Reader)

Characters: Moriarty X Fem!Reader, Sherlock X Sister!Reader

Universe: Sherlock

Warnings: None

Request: Sherlock having a younger sister (still an adult) who occasionally works with him and Moriarty taking a particular interest in her please?

Moriarty was a game player, and he liked to be in charge. He liked to make others squirm, frustrated and angry at his actions, but almost always unable to do anything about it, and the bigger the fish he could tease, the better. It’s why he had so much fun messing with Sherlock. However, even Moriarty knew when he had a real challenge. A rival, someone he couldn’t mess with without it turning on him. That’s where you come in.

You were Sherlock’s cute little sister. A child compared to your elder brothers (and sister), but a fully grown woman who knew her worth. You knew you were good, and you wore it proudly. Many would misread it as arrogance at first, until they saw you in action.

You were Sherlock’s secret weapon, and a weapon he only used when he absolutely needed you. Yes, he may be brilliant, but compared to you, he was an average Joe. You were a well-known but top secret investigator- actually paid mind you, to solve crimes by governments to solve the toughest crimes- some being unsolved for several years, even before you were born, and you always solved it within days of being assigned to it. You never failed to impress, even your big brother. What made you even more mysterious was your quirk- while Sherlock was rude, and Mycroft not good with people, you were very quiet- almost mute for most of your childhood. When you solved a crime you preferred to write your findings down and hand it over to someone to deliver so they could make the arrests rather than go blurting. It usually only contained a name, or a location on the sheet of paper, so no one could piece together your thought process to find out how you figured it out- not even Sherlock. Despite this, people tended to trust your instinct more than Sherlock- even Sherlock didn’t question your decisions.

That’s what made you stand out to James. In the game he was playing with Sherlock, he didn’t expect Sherlock to call on you, and to be arrested that evening. When he found out it was all thanks to you… it started his deep interest in you.

He got out, and now he was messing with Sherlock just to see him come running to you, and to watch you tear him down in no less than three days. He could be the boss, but when you were on the scene, you were in charge. Soon James didn’t care about getting caught. He wanted to keep trying till he found a way to outsmart you. He kept trying and trying, and he got more frustrated with him because you always outdid him without breaking a sweat, but it continued to entice him.

Sherlock was completely aware on what Moriarty was now putting his focus on, and he had no doubt that his little sister knew from the first time you had him locked up. It was probably because you had mentioned to keep your number close to him before you left. You knew what he wanted, you knew you were now part of this game. And while Sherlock did worry that Moriarty will turn this interest into an obsession… he knew you could handle yourself. He knew that you’d always turn out the winner. It was also fun for him to see Moriarty get his ass handed to him again and again by his dear sister.

Hope you like it! If you have any questions, please send them in!

*Not my gif

TAGS: @courtneychicken @graysonmalfoy @bellero @captain-peanut-at-your-service @likiyoshi-lijie @sebstanchrisevanchickforever19 @marveloussupernatural @aesthetjic @originalpottervengerlock @supernatural-pan @esoltis280 @imbuckypositive @holy-tea-cup

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multi-fandom-inserts · 6 years

Text

Kitty {Part 2}

Reader x Moriarty (eventually)

Part 2 to my Kitty series, I’m sorry it’s late but I hope you all enjoy it!

@eliza-hamilton-helpless - I hope you like it!

"Lights out, ladies!" a guard screams from the elevator out of sight from you before the lights begin to flick off loudly and the floor is engulfed in darkness with only strips of blue LED lighting at the side of the walkways, illuminating the correct way for the night guard to see when doing their rounds. At night, it's the only time when the large security doors past the glass walls are open, allowing the guards easy access to see us in our cells without wasting any time. Like in the corridor, the three metre safety gap between the entrance and the glass wall is illuminated by the blue lighting as well round the edges.

After a few minutes of silence, a faint but recognisable sound of light violin playing begins to echo through the corridors, the nights make you anxious knowing that the guards are the only ones there and it's almost like Eurus Holmes knows that, you begin to relax at the sweet and gentle sounds before you knew her name, she was just “The Girl with the Violin” and it was a wonder that if you can hear her through the corridors, maybe your cells are closer than either of you thought.

It's been three weeks since Jim Moriarty had visited you in Sherrinford and oddly, you haven't been able to get the Irishman out of your head, his velvet voice, intimidating and controlling nature and untouched appearance confused you and drove your mind crazy, no one if that pristine and together. Since his visit, the days had dragged by slowly which caused you to get irritable, Sherrinford had a certain aura about it, it'll begin to eat you alive if you let it and your extended stay and begin to take it's toll.

Your calm and contained nature and ability to hold your composure against the guards and Mycroft's torment had begin to fail you. The punishments started lightly: no dinner at first followed by no books or distractions and then the late night beatings started, your porcelain skin is now dabbled in bruises and cuts.

After a few hours, the first guard did their walk rounds, shining a flash light into your cell, waiting for a few minutes before logging something onto the small iPod that hung round their necks before departing. Eurus stopped playing – assuming you're asleep – bringing a daunting silence across the floor. Despite your aches and twinges of pain, you climb into bed with one hand beneath your pillow clutching on tightly to the four inch knife you'd carved out of a piece of your metal bed frame. The silence brings tiredness to your aching body and soon you feel yourself bring to drift off to sleep; that's when you hear the elevator door ping.

Your body freezes in the bed like a deer caught in the headlights as you listen intently, silently praying they were heading towards Eurus cell but no, the footsteps of an unknown guard echo louder and louder, approaching your cell. It was too early for another walk around so you could only assume that it was a guard coming to give you a beating.

You snatch the small piece of metal and climb into your small nook away from prying eyes by the glass wall, that's when the stranger walked into the safety gap, walking towards the glass wall at the front of your cell. From your nest, you couldn't see all of the persons features, he was tall – just six foot or under – with a muscular figure, he held himself upright and proper, exactly like a solider. He was seemingly younger than most, early thirties maybe even late twenties with dirty blonde hair and a large, neat scar running across his right temple from the hairline above to the top of his right ear.

The man stood cautiously by the crystal clear glass, peering into the cell like Moriarty had three weeks prior, with a swipe of a key card, the glass wall slid to the side, revealing a doorway for him to enter. He stepped in confidently before edging around the cell, peering at every corner, gap and hiding place. Gently nudging the books scattered on the floor with his foot.

Then he speaks.

“Here kitty kitty, kitty...” he says in a sing-song voice with a odd stern tone. Your head twitches to the side, that voice, you know that voice from somewhere. You ignore his patronising call as you continue to watch as he walks, how he moves and twitches around the cell before leaning leisurely against the wall opposite to where you are perched. That's when he moves into the light, your heart quickens as your blood turns to ice.

Overwhelmed by a feeling you couldn't understand, your legs and arms retract allowing yourself to drop from the high corner onto the cold hard floor. “Well, well, Sebastian Moran.” your voice is cold as you speak a name you hadn't said in five years.

The man watches you with hawk-like eyes as you stand four meters in front of him, he smirks playfully at you as his eyes gobble up your image, your inmate uniform was a simple, black ballet shoes, white trousers and short-sleeved top, you chose to wear a tight long sleeved black top beneath.

“Are you here to kill me?” you ask, Moran was a old flame, well – it's complicated, Sebastian is like you, a gun for hire, before you were captured and placed into Sherrinford, he was contracted to kill you but you got to him first, you know that underneath the stolen guard uniform, in the spot below the top of his right shoulder there’s a bullet wound from your sniper.

“I wish.” he replies bitterly before pushing himself off the stone wall, “Unfortunately you're coming with me, alive.”

You laugh evilly, loud enough that Eurus could probably hear you. “No I’m not,” you say challengingly, Moran looked angered by your response, and with a sign, he lunches himself towards you, covering the four metre gap between you quickly. He snatches your body round the middle, shoving you into the floor, the knife is knocked from your hand and disappears across the room. Your entire body screams in pain as your skull cracks against the stone floor and the air is knocked out of your lungs.

As Sebastian attempts to get to his feet, you throw your head forward to crash against his nose, spilling blood across his face, he falls backwards giving you time to get to your feet, quickly you throw punches and kicks in areas you know he won't think to protect. Suddenly he grabs your leg and twists it sharply. You yelp a little as your body twists unnaturally. You both get back to your feet, blood trickling down Moran's nose as your lip oozes.

You spit blood towards him, “Is that the best you can do, Moran?” you comment with venom causing him to smile, like before we move towards each other quickly, using your light weight frame, you push your feet across the glass wall, using it as leverage to gain momentum. You punch him hard knocking him to the side as you twist round, scaling his body, driving your knees and elbows into the soft areas of his back before wrapping your legs around his chest and your right arm round his throat before squeezing your legs and arms tightly.

He clawed at your forearm, drawing blood as he attempts to escape, throwing elbows backwards with fury. You smirk as the man eventually fell to his knees, but just as you thought he was going to pas out, Sebastian snatched a handful of your hair at the base of your skull before using his body to throw you over his shoulder, he angled his body so he was positioned between your legs, his weight pushing you down as his forearm rested against your throat.

“I can see why he chose you.” Sebastian pants, his warm breath on your throat as he touches his nose with yours, your breaths become jagged and uneven as he puts pressure on your windpipe. Your eyebrows furrowed.

“Moriarty put you up to this?” you ask,

Sebastian smirked, he moves his face from looking into your eyes to by your neck, his warm breath touches your neck, “He wanted to see what you're made of.” he tells you as he nibbles your earlobe causing you to struggle beneath his body but it didn't work. Sebastian grabbed your throat tightly as he removed his weight from you, rummaging in your pocket for something, he them removes a small metal disc, no bigger than a ten pence, he rests is on your neck before a sharp pain shoots through your neck as the item latched onto you. He then removes a remote with four lights on, settings of electrocution.

“This is going to hurt,” he tells you before pressing the button, starting the first setting of electrocution, your teeth grit together as pain shoots through you, it hurts but it's bearable, that's when Sebastian turns up the power, you hold in your screams but the whimpers make their way out of your mouth and nose, soon you felt yourself beginning to fade away, “Don't worry, you'll see him soon.” the masculine voice said before you were engulfed into darkness.

#Jim Moriarty #moriarty x reader #sebastian moran #sebastian x reader #Sherlock Holmes #eurus holmes #reader insert #female reader insert #imagine

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radioangst · 2 years

Text

Detailed Masterlist

In case you're a minor, have triggers or you just want to know what you're going to reade I made this just for you!

OBEY ME

All (Demon brothers + Undateables)

All of them as benders

Lonely (Belphegor version)

Demon brothers

Demon brothers accidentally killing their s/o

(Un)dateables plus Luke

(Un)dateables plus Luke accidentally killing their s/o

Solomon

Trust - Solomon Birthday Collab

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

NARUTO

Team 8

Boyfriend/girlfriend alphabet (A - Z)

Shino Aburame

SFW & NSFW headcanons

Original Team 7

Original Team 7 with a younger sibling

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

BNHA

Traffic light trio (Bakugo + Izuku + Shoto)

The Traffic Light trio with a s/o with a pet that looks and acts just like them

BBFF (Bakugo’s best friends forever = Bakugo + Deku + Kirishima)

BBFF with a body painter s/o

Tamaki Amajiki

Tamaki Amajiki with an intimidating male s/o

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

TWISTED WONDERLAND

Dorm Leaders

Dorm leaders with a s/o who greets everyone with a kiss (on the cheek)

Dorm leaders with an affectionate s/o

Dorm leaders with Naruto! s/o

Vice dorm leaders

Vice dorm with a s/o who greets everyone with a kiss (on the cheek)

First years

First years with a batman!mc

Lilia Vanrouge & Family

Lilia Vanrouge getting called “dad” (accidentally) by MC

Leech Twins

Leech Twins with a s/o with a dead twin

Other groups

Rook, Leech Twins, Jamil, Epel, Riddle with a poet s/o

Kalim Al Asim

Kalim Al Asim with a s/o who’s his polar opposite

Floyd Leech

Floyd with a s/o with ophidiophobia - one shot

Jack Howl

Jack with a Little Red Riding Hood! Reader - one shot

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

BLACK BUTLER

Butlers (Claude + Sebastian + Grell)

Butlers with a librarian bookworm s/o

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

BUNGOU STRAY DOGS

Chuuya Nakahara x reader x Big brother Dazai

Regret is a bitch - Angst birthday gift

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

TOKYO REVENGERS

Draken

Beliefs - Twelve days of Christmas collab

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

ATTACK ON TITAN

Levi

A grumpy Prince Charming - Prince Charming collab

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

MARVEL

James “Bucky” Barnes

Exchange

His Peggy

Druig - “Eternals”

Druig x unnamed female pt. 1

Druig x unnamed female pt. 2

Drunken Mistakes

At the rescue!

Kingo - “Eternals”

It’s better to have loved and lost

Sprite - “Eternals”

Sprite with platonic Male!Eternal!Venti!Reader

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

MIRACULOUS LADYBUG

Luka Couffaine

I’ll wait for you

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

GENSHIN IMPACT

Zhongli

Home

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

CHRISTMAS EVENT

Christmas Treats: White Chocolate (love confessions)

Pt. [ 1 ] - Severus Snape x fem! Professor! Reader

Pt. [ 2 ] - Harry Potter x fem! Reader

Pt. [ 3 ] - Hermione Granger x male! Reader

Pt. [ 4 ] - Ron Weasley x fem! Reader

Christmas Treats: Ferrer Rocher (rocky relationships)

Pt. [ 1 ] - Zoro Roronoa (x (y/n) ) & Sanji Vinsmoke (x Mc)

Pt. [ 2 ] - Izuku Midorya (x (y/n) ) & Katsuki Bakugo (x Mc)

Pt. [ 3 ] - Osamu Dazai (x (y/n) ) & Chuuya Nakahara (x Mc)

Pt. [ 4 ] - Naruto Uzumaki (x (y/n) ) & Sasuke Uchiha (x Mc)

Pt. [ 5 ] - Sebastian Michaelis (x (y/n) ) & William T Spears (x Mc)

Pt. [ 6 ] - Sherlock Holmes (x (y/n) ) & Jim Moriarty (x Mc)

Christmas Treats: Candy Stick (soulmates/childhood sweethearts)

- Between Dreams and Nightmare there’s a very thin line (Shota Aizawa x reader)

Who’s been packed?

Shigaraki Tomura (BNHA) for @krystalwithakay

Who’s getting/received a gag gift?

Draken (Tokyo Revengers)

#selfreview #masterlist #animeangsteng #radioangst

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doflamingadonquixote · 2 years

Text

Even the devil was once an angel | [1/?]

Summary: You are a psychiatrist and decide to play a dangerous game with the worst of criminal minds. Or: you're a bit bored too.

Pairing: Jim Moriarty x Fem!Reader

Chapter word count: 2714

Warning: +18, mind games, angst and smut, hurt/comfort, stalker!Moriarty (Jim Moriarty is his own warning)

Next Chap: 2

I. The day we met

The first time you meet James Moriarty, he pretends to be someone else.

💥💥💥

That morning London showed leniency to its citizens, letting the clouds clear from the gloomy day of the day before and giving way to warm sunshine that broke the dry and cold temperatures.

The little park outside your window was teeming with so many different people. Mothers who accompanied their children to school, engaged couples who stopped along the road to exchange affection, elderly people who let themselves be carried away by their pets.

For a brief moment you identified in one of those people, away from the twisted world you floated in, gasping for air to try not to fall down again.

How pleasant it must have been to lead such a simple life. Follow a policy that doesn't put your life at risk for even a second.

You heard the unmistakable sound of an email and turned on yourself in the mobile chair, taking your mind away from your fantasies and returning to reality. You opened the mail and read its contents.

You absentmindedly ran your fingertips over the computer keyboard, quickly deciphering the message and dwelling on the unmistakable initials of Mycroft Holmes.

Although it sounded more like an order than a real request for assistance, you forced yourself to respond passively and affirmatively about your presence at the appointed meeting place.

Just before you could send the mail, a soft knock came to your door.

Let your eye scroll one last time on the encrypted script you used and then with a click you send your reply back to the sender. You immediately closed your email-box and invited your patient to come in.

Your secretary had warned you that same morning that a new patient had requested a consultation and since she had determined from the tone of his voice that it was urgent she had placed him the same day.

The white door clicked and this little man appeared on its doorstep and snapped his neck from right to left, trying to locate you.

When he found you, his lips parted in an embarrassed smile and he moved from one foot to the other on the door while he seemed to assume an excited and anxious attitude that made you raise your eyebrows in a funny way.

“Good morning,” he stomped forward and reached over your desk, “Richard Brook. I made a meeting this morning with your assistant.”

With a smile, you grabbed his hand and noticed an unusual nervous tremor. The grip was weak and his fingers were smooth but before you could linger too long, his hand slipped away from you.

“Of course, I've already been informed. Nice to meet you, Mr. Brook.”

You rose to your feet and with your heels you noticed that you were slightly taller than the man. You went around the desk, approaching him and with one arm pointed to the real leather armchair not far from you.

You avoided touching him, raising a hand behind his back only to urge him to move forward but without creating real contact. You felt too much agitation in the air. Probably an unexpected gesture from you would have put him on the run.

“Oh, yes, thank you.” He makes an odd leap forward as he runs a hand behind his neck. “Please, just Richard.” He added as he dropped to the soft dark leather.

The room offered a wide space, occupied only by a mahogany desk and an office chair, the welcoming chair for patients and a small single armchair where you sat immediately, closer to study your client.

He was wearing a one-size-fits-all gray T-shirt and ripped jeans of a faded blue. He waved his sneakers over each other, often making your gaze fall down.

“Anything makes you comfortable, Richard.”

You forced your gaze back to him, focusing on his hazel eyes and his dark, undone hair.

Everything about him showed little attention to himself but inevitably your eyes rested on young, well-manicured hands. His nails were short and freshly trimmed, no bite marks along the surrounding flesh and cuticles.

Richard caught your attention and casually placed his hands between his thighs, hiding any other signals.

An alarm bell rang in your brain, warning you that you had a great actor in front of you.

Before he could notice your moment of evaluation, let the most sincere smile slip on your face and closed your eyelids to prevent him from reading a fake.

“So, Richard. What would you like to talk about today? Is there a reason for your presence here?”

You brought your hand to your chest and hips, mimicking a search for something and stood up. You had to get back to your desk as quickly as possible.

The man followed your movement, his mouth slightly open to speak.

“What a careless, I forgot the folder. Forgive me a second...”

You had just passed the chair when the reloading click of an unmistakable weapon rang behind you.

“Unusual for the government's personal psychiatrist to forget something so elementary. Reeeeeally disappointing.”

It was the low pitch slowly rising into a childish moan that sent a shiver down your spine.

It wasn't the first time you had dealt with psychotic killers but it was definitely the first time anyone had found you in the undercover job.

You wore the best rigid and impenetrable mask you could find in that unexpected situation and forced your eyes to focus only on the weapon that was pointed directly at you instead of looking for the cameras that Mycroft had placed in your office. If you only had a vague idea who he was you were sure he would easily catch your eye.

The rigid and anxious body of the man who had entered the office seemed to have completely melted away, giving way to one full of arrogance and sadistic fun.

“Beginner's mistake, right?”

You frowned at his remark but luckily the guy was protagonist enough to explain without having to ask for anything.

“The hands. I didn't want to ruin them. I'm a prima donna on this.” He held his right one up in front of his face, looking curiously at the nails. “I must have underestimated you a little too much.”

He laughed a little at your neutral expression, almost wanting to break it just for the sake of seeing you scared or angry.

“It seems that my boys are doing a great job with bugs...” He dropped his back against the chair as if he were the owner of the place and waved the gun to point to the whole office before pointing it at you again.

You felt that if you remained silent for a long time, the man would have shot you without thinking twice.

“Who are you?” It was a stupid question, the first thing you thought of saying without sounding nervous.

The amusement that lit up his face turned into an expression of complete coldness. His eyes blocked your every chance of reading, darkening and narrowing dangerously.

“No, no, no...” he moaned, looked away from your figure but before you could even think of moving a muscle, he jumped up from his chair and took two big strides in your direction.

It took all your willpower not to flinch from that sudden outburst that had dragged him within inches of you. The barrel of the gun pressed hard just above your breasts, giving you bursts of pain from the excessive pressure.

“Haven't you figured out who I am yet ?!”

The high tone of voice made you clench your jaw and painfully bite the inside of your cheek to avoid jolting. The difference in height didn't give you any advantage and the more you looked into the depths of those dilated pupils, the more you became aware that it was an animal ready to jump on your throat.

You thought about it for a few moments and then sighed loudly. It couldn't be anyone but him.

“My assistant does careful research on every patient who crosses my threshold. Before letting you in, she must have necessarily identified you and this means that the results she found on Richard Brook were reliable. However, you staged a little theater, committing yourself to make me believe that you are exactly the desperate and melancholy little boy without keep in mind my professionalism.”

You watched his irritated expression slowly crack. You took that as a good sign.

“The ability to create a well-recognized false identity, the art of knowing how to play a role, your knowledge about my work, the fact that I have stand in the way of only one subject in the last two years...” eyes from bottom to top, connecting your gazes again. “I can't say it's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Moriarty.”

You were incredibly angry with Holmes for not showing you at least half a photo of the man you were dismantling the entire criminal link to.

Knowing the identity of Moriarty was reserved for very few, true, but if there was even the slightest chance that the criminal could identify you, you wanted him to have been reported to you.

James Moriarty gave you a smile before turning his back to you and spread his arms in a theatrical and dramatic gesture.

“Din din din! Looks like someone just spared a bullet.” He commented enthusiastically.

Without being seen, you turned your head to the desk and thought of the Walther suspended and away from you under the desk. You took a couple of steps back, pretending to have pain in your joints and being forced into a movement to stretch your legs.

But the criminal didn't seem to care because he slipped the gun between his waistband and jeans, stretched like a cat with his arms up, and began wandering around the room, studying the various photos and documents leaning against the gray wall.

“I thought you were just another puppet in the hands of the government, doctor.” He said your title as a strange mockery as he grabbed your psychotherapist qualification off the wall. “But I have to change my mind, you seem to be vaguely competent in what you do.”

The rational and conservative part of you suppressed the compelling and suicidal urge to retort and humiliate him.

“He seems to be very knowledgeable about me. I thought there were no documents certifying my work with the government.”

You took another cautious step back and finally felt the surface of the desk beneath your fingers as you slowly arched your knees to feel down.

“What a stupid conclusion, doc. I can call you doc, right?”

You finally feel your fingers closing around the grip of the gun but you see Moriarty's free arm rise high and the sound of a snap of fingers resounds in the room.

A few seconds passed where you couldn't figure out what had changed but then the figure of the criminal turned and focused on you and at the gun that you were holding by your side.

Exasperated, he rolled his eyes.

“I feel offended, doc. I thought we were having fun here.” He rests the frame that he was holding back in its place, adjusting it to the maximum of obsessive and then holds out a hand to you, in a clear gesture.

When you look down on your hand you find the red dot of a sniper rifle and a tired smile is painted on your lips. Did you seriously have any chance against this man who was 10 steps ahead of you?

“You can't blame me for trying, can you?”

Your voice came out more amused than it should and Moriarty noticed it because he returned to smile at you with that maniacal expression as you put the gun in his open hand.

You had learned a lot about James Moriarty. Mycroft Holmes had told you about it, back then when he had entrusted you with several members of the Mexican cartel to be questioned and 'persuaded' to gossip about their highest bidder. You had been told of the criminal's incredible danger and you were also aware of his unstable voluptuousness in changing his mind, opinion and actions.

You were certain that if the vocabulary was aware of the person, under the word psychopath you would find his face.

To buy time, it was enough to play his own game without unbalancing.

“We are not all great geniuses, Mr. Moriarty, but I assure you that we can do very well even without being.”

Interminable seconds of silence passed and your thoughts wandered to your young secretary a few meters from you, regardless of what was happening inside your room. If the man had shot, would she have run to see what happened or would she have run away?

You were hoping for the second one, you really didn't want to have a woman on your conscience not aware of your real job.

James closed his hand on the weapon but also grabbed your fingers in the process. You still felt that the sniper was aimed at you but Moriarty had an interested and heated look in his eyes.

“I can't deny it. John Watson seems to be a great addition to the balance of the Holmes and you...” he chuckled, maniacally as he absently stroked your fingers over the gun, the barrel of the gun pointed at you “... you definitely pissed me off doing that magic number on my precious buyers and sellers.”

Then, without warning, you felt the cold surface of the Walther forcefully push under your chin, like a dangerous caress. The fingers of James' right hand landed on your face and he used his thumb to force against your lips, violently, squeezing the soft flesh against your white teeth.

“I wonder how much your language proficiency is really worth.”

An unhealthy thought won you over. Jim Moriarty was really a rare case to study, a level of psychic disorder so severe that it could no longer even be considered pathological but that he maintained a healthy and real awareness of himself and the surrounding environment. You had dealt with psychopaths or schizophrenics but they all had a different, almost abstract, unreal conception of the world.

And he had a weakness. He liked to play.

You must have been a bit crazy too to propose what you were about to propose to him.

“How about betting then?”

The pressure on your face eased, the gun lowered a few centimeters but you didn't dare to take your eyes off the man who was holding you in his hand and under fire. His body reaction had confirmed that you were riding the right wave, though.

“I can give you a demonstration of how I do it. I guess you are thinking that your clients are stupid enough to be manipulated by a simple psychotherapist. If you really think you are immune to all sorts of my therapy, you risk nothing.”

You felt his fingertips absentmindedly caress your skin just below your dark circles and for a second you had the terrible feeling that he could snap and pull your eyes out of their sockets just for the sake of making you scream and apologize for your insolence.

But instead of doing so, a long groan of perplexity vibrated from his throat as his lips slowly curved into a crooked but satisfied smile.

He unexpectedly pressed his hand with the gun against your cheek and the free hand on the opposite side. You felt the cold metal push until it left temporary marks but you were too busy with his face hovering over yours to be distracted.

“You have a special subject to study, what do I have in return?”

“A temporary distraction...” his face remained impassive at your words so you forced yourself to add more sarcastically than rationally: "and the satisfaction of being able to shoot me in case I have shown you that I'm not as good as the government describes me.”

You were still alive and your head wasn't leaking brain matter so, somehow, he must have liked your answer when he left your office.

#jim moriarty #jim moriarty x reader #female reader #bbc sherlock #sherlock fanfic #sherlock fandom #sherlock holmes #angst and smut #hurt and comfort #terapist to friend #friend to lovers #male yandere #fanfiction

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redskull199987 · 2 years

Text

The Woman

Sherlock Holmes x female!reader Request

Word count: 1.4k

Warning: nudity, guns

Request:by anon

Summary: Miss Adler unexpectedly helps you and Sherlock with your complicated relationship...

Masterlist

"Why exactly are we doing this?", I asked myself, while trotting after John. He was holding his Laptop, talking to Sherlock.

"No idea", John mumbled under his breath.

"What!?", Sherlock said.

"Eh nothing", I quickly grabbed the Laptop and walked away a few meters to talk to Sherlock in private while John kept listening to the Inspector.

"Sherlock, why didn't you just come here yourself?", I asked, keeping my voice low.

Sherlock only yawned, waving me off.

I sighed:"You're tired, sure"

He only chuckled:"Just get back to John and we can continue"

I only waved him off too before walking back to John and the Inspector.

"Bring me to the River", Sherlock said. I said as he told.

"The Grass, please", he continued and and made my way further to the River.

"Yeah yeah, I'm on my way", I said but suddenly the call ended.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, what's going on?", I asked while inspecting the Laptop.

"Sir? Ma'm?", Someone said and stepped closer to us. The young man looked us up and down.

"Sorry, Sir and Ma'm. It's for you?", he said

"For us?", I mumbled while John proceeded to take the phone, the man was holding.

"Oh no no", He said and put the phone away, "The Helicopter"

I looked at him in disbelief but John and I followed him a little bit perplexed.

"This can't be real", I mumbled to myself.

"Me neither, but here we are", John chuckled.

We had just visited the Buckingham Palace, reuniting with Sherlock. And now we got a new case.

"Alright, John", Sherlock said and pulled us both aside.

"Punch me!", he said. I looked at him perplexed.

"What?", John said, just as confused as I was.

"Sherlock, what are you-", I began, but Sherlock interrupted me.

"God damn it", he said and jumped forward punching John in the Face.

"Sherlock", I shouted, while John charged forward and punched Sherlock in the face too.

"John!", I yelled and tried to pull him off of Sherlock, but he kept hitting him.

"John!", I finally managed to get him away.

"Are you alright, Sherlock?", I asked and helped him up. He slightly leaned into me for a second.

"Yeah, thanks Y/N", he mumbled and looked at me. I felt my heart skip for a second before Sherlock's grip around my arm loosened.

"What is you're Plan, Sherlock?", I asked, but he only chuckled.

"He can't be serious, can he!?", I whisper yelled and looked at John while handing him the bowl of water.

"Apparently he is, so come on", he mumbled and the two of us made our way over the room where Sherlock and Miss Adler were.

I couldn't believe my eyes, when I saw Miss Adler slightly hovering over Sherlock, wearing nothing but her earrings.

My jaw dropped and suddenly I didn't know where to look at so I turned to Sherlock. His face was calm and his eyes told me, that everything was fine.

So I looked back up and I saw Miss Adler staring straight at me.

"Oh sweetheart", She said and walked over to me,"It's fine, you can look wherever you want"

I gulped while she stroke my cheek.

"Ehm, thank you?", I asked.

"Miss Adler", Sherlock suddenly got up and pulled Adler away from me. He carefully pushed me behind him. I felt his hand grip my arm and he lightly squeezed it.

"It's alright", Sherlock said, "John, wait outside and watch the door"

I proceeded to follow John outside, but Sherlock pulled me back inside.

"You stay", he whispered. I nodded and slowly sat down, while Adler eyed the two of us.

"Interesting", she mumbled, "You seem to like her, a lot"

"Oh yes, she is my best friend, along with John", Sherlock smiled and started to look around the room.

I sighed at his words. A best friend, that's what he thinks of me.

Miss Adler chuckled:"Oh don't worry, honey, he'll realize it very soon"

Sherlock eyed the two of us with curiosity, when suddenly the fire alarm went of. I got up but Sherlock took my hand:"It's alright"

I nodded and he turned back around to Miss Adler.

"Thank you for telling me where the safe he", he smiled and walked over to the fireplace, fidgeting with the edge. He finally managed to reveal the safe while John joined us again.

Sherlock tried to get Miss Adler to tell him the code, but he wasn't so lucky.

"Let's talk about her instead", she said and pointed at me.

"About me?", I asked and pointed my finger at myself.

"About her?", Sherlock repeated and walked over to me.

"Yes, don't you see?", Miss Adler chuckled, "You see the slightest chance something could happen to her and you're already on the run to save her"

"Sherlock", I mumbled, "What is she-"

"Tell me the code", Sherlock interrupted me.

"Oh I already did", She smiled.

Suddenly, a bunch of armed men charged inside the room and pulled us all apart.

"Oh you're-", Sherlock started.

"Oh shut the fuck up", A man, seemingly their leader, said.

"Oh Nice. Americans", Sherlock smiled but he carefully side-eyed me.

"You open the damn safe", the man said.

"I can't", Sherlock said and looked down.

"Do it", The man repeated, "Or I'll shoot her"

He suddenly pointed the gun at me and I wanted to back off, but someone grabbed my arms and held me in place.

"Sherlock", I mumbled, "Do something"

"I-I can't", he explained, "I don't know the code"

"Oh come on, we know that she just said that you already have it", the man said while pointing at Miss Adler, "And you have three seconds"

"I don't know it", Sherlock shouted and looked at Miss Adler.

"3...",the man started to count. I inhaled sharply.

"2...",he continued.

"Sherlock!", I yelled. He looked at me, frightened. I've never seen Sherlock frightened before.

He briefly closed his eyes and turned around, tapping a few numbers before the safe beeped and opened.

The man looked at me and put down his gun.

Sherlock didn't turn around yet, but suddenly he shouted:"vatican cameos!"

Immediately, I recognized the code word and ducked while John punched the Man who was holding me.

I got up and kicked the leader who tried to kill me before. He fell to the ground, unconscious.

I looked down at him, slightly amused.

Suddenly I felt Sherlock's hand on my shoulder. I turned around and looked at him.

"Are you alright?", he asked.

"Yeah, thank you", I smiled.

"You see?", Miss Adler suddenly said,"I said, he'd realize it."

She smiled at me before coming over to us.

"Seems like it", I mumbled.

"So, give me the phone", she said to Sherlock.

I felt how Sherlock slowly slipped the smartphone into my hand, behind our backs.

"I'm sorry", He said and walked over to her.

"Oh, you should be", She smirked and suddenly hit him with her whip.

"Sherlock!", I exclaimed and leaned down to him. He looked disoriented.

"What did you do to him?", I asked Miss Adler but she suddenly leaned down and ripped the phone out of my hand:"He'll be alright"

"No!", I shouted and wanted to take the phone back but she pointed her whip at me:"You better stay where you are, sweetheart. Sherlock would kill me if I destroyed that pretty face of yours"

I gulped and backed off. John suddenly walked in, right when Miss Adler wanted to jump out of the window.

"Seems like he knew where to look at", She smirked.

"What?", John asked and looked at me. I only shrugged.

"Am I supposed to say it?", she smiled.

"It was her.", she smiled, "Her measurements"

My jaw dropped and looked down at Sherlock. He gave me a tired smile.

I could only chuckle and helped him get up:"Come on Sherlock. We need to talk"

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blackspoon99 · 3 years

Text

You Told Me So Pt. 8

Sherlock X Female! Reader

TW: Violence, injury, kidnapping, mentions of death

Sherlock was pacing frantically around the flat. He needed to think. He knew from the beginning the man from the cargo ship couldn’t have taken you. No. It had to have been someone else. John had already called Lestrade. He had confirmed that you left Scotland Yard on foot just after Sherlock.

The only thing he could think to do was call Mycroft. He dialed the number and waited for him to pick up.

“What is it Sherlock, I was in a meeting.”

“Mycroft, I need your help”

“Well, this is a first. The great Sherlock Holmes calling me for help. It must be serious”

“Enough Mycroft. Y/n is missing. I know you keep track of all of our whereabouts. Help me, please”

“Understood.” Mycroft’s tone changed when he recognized the desperation in his brother’s voice. “One moment.” There were a few seconds of silence then Mycroft was back.

“Sherlock, I’m sorry. Somehow, we’ve lost all surveillance on y/n for the last few hours. I have no idea where she is. If you want, I could try—”

Sherlock hung up the phone and flung it at the wall in frustration. He had nothing to work with. No bread crumb trail to follow. It was like you had vanished off the face of the earth.

Suddenly Sherlock and John heard a chime from across the room. With that single sound, Sherlock had been able to tell exactly who had taken you. With that realization, he immediately felt sick to his stomach. It had come from the replica of Jennifer Wilson’s pink phone, which always sat on the mantelpiece. Sherlock lunged for it and quickly unlocked it. A text alert appeared followed by 5 chimes.

“Five pips,” John said, under his breath. The text contained a video file.

John walked over to Sherlock. With a shaky hand, Sherlock pressed play. More than a Woman by the Bee Gees blasted through the speakers of the cell phone. None other than Jim Moriarty danced into the frame.

“Hello, Sherlock. Do you like this song? I think it’s pretty appropriate given the circumstances.”

Jim grabbed the camera and turned it towards you while singing along mockingly to the chorus.

More than a woman, more than a woman to me

“Say hello y/n” there was a moment of silence. “Oh, come on, don’t be rude, say hello to Sherlock.” You didn’t move or speak. You must have been unconscious. Your head was bowed to the ground, arms suspended above your head with your feet just barely grazing the concrete. Sherlock’s jaw locked and his eyes narrowed as he continued to watch the video. “I told you to stop messing with my things Sherlock. I warned you. Now one of your pets will have to pay for the consequences of your actions”

Moriarty faced the camera once again. “You know, you trained her so well. This one reaalllly loves you I can tell. I’ll bet she’d die for you and you know what?” He said, pretending to take a moment to think “She just might. I told you I would burn the heart out of you. And poor little y/n, she thinks you don’t care about her. I heard her say it.” Jim said sporting an overdramatic pout. “But we both know that’s not true”

“You’re so cruel Sherlock,” Moriarty taunted. “You adopt all of these pets off the street and turn them into targets. You let them care for you and follow you around. And then you just leave your pets vulnerable, abandon them, leave them behind where anyone could show up and hurt them. Is that how you repay her loyalty?” He turned the camera back to you.

“Although, I will say I see the appeal. I think this one’s my favorite.” He said grabbing your chin and pointing the camera in your face. Sherlock inhaled sharply when he saw your bashed-in face.

“Dear God,” said John, his voice breaking on the last word.

Moriarty continued. “I could just keep her for myself. Although you and I both know toys are soooooo much more fun to play with when you know they don’t belong to you. Don’t be too long Sherlock, we’re waiting for you.” The video cut out.

John balled his fists and finally exploded with anger. “JESUS CHRIST SHERLOCK” he snapped. “None of this would have happened if you hadn’t let her walk herself home in the dead of night! I told you this was putting her in danger, but you didn’t listen. You’d better find her, Sherlock or so help me-”

“Would you SHUT UP JOHN! I can’t focus with you talking. He left a clue. There’s a text.”

The text was a picture of Primavera by Botticelli. Sherlock immediately recognized it as your favorite painting.

“Shut up”

“I didn’t say anything”

The room felt like it was spinning. “I said SHUT UP. I need to think. I need to do it right now!” Sherlock shouted. He put his hands on his temples and tried to enter his mind palace.

When he opened his eyes, he was in the morgue at St. Barts. There was a body on the table, its identity was hidden with a sheet. Sherlock hesitantly approached the bench and lifted the sheet. Sherlock opened it to see you, beaten and broken, eyes glassed over and lifeless. He shouted out in horror and fell backward. When he sat back up, he saw images of you all around him.

“No. No!”

His mind was creating visualizations of all of the ways he could find you dead. He could feel his heart pounding. He felt dizzy and light-headed, like all the air had been sucked out of the room. You were likely going to die, and it was his fault. Sherlock closed his eyes and desperately tried to shake the images and refocus. He needed to concentrate.

He tried to calm down. Eventually, his breaths began to slow, and he opened his eyes. There you were, standing before him again, completely unharmed with a soft smile on your face.

“Come on Sherlock, this way.” You said, grabbing his hand and pulling him along.

Both of you were now in the London National Gallery. Sherlock remembered how you’d dragged him and John to the museum last year to see your favorite painting on display through a special event. You were now standing in front of the painting, still holding his hand. You looked up at him and gave him a smile while gently squeezing his hand. Sherlock studied the image in front of him as he tried to remember something, anything, about the painting that could help him. Finally, he recognized something.

“Zephyrus!” He shouted opening his eyes. He was once again in Baker Street. “Zephyrus, the biting wind of March, kidnapped the nymph, Chloris. He’s in the painting. I think I know where to find her.”

“Where?” John asked, grabbing their coats and sliding his handgun into the left pocket of his jacket.

“James’s Park tube station! Zephyrus is also called the West Wind. Moriarty would have focused on that aspect of the story. There’s a carving called the West Wind above the station.”

#bbc sherlock #sherlockxreader #sherlock holmes #sherlock x reader #sherlock imagine #sherlock holmes x you #sherlock holmes x reader #sherlock x you

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con-fection · 3 years

Text

ASHES TO ASHES | jim moriarty x reader | part 2/13

Word count: 4.7K

"Sherlock," John says, for what is quite possibly the third time in a row. He sighs in frustration, his eyes darting between Sherlock's phone, which is set on the kitchen counter and has been ringing incessantly for the past half hour, effectively disrupting the peace in 221B, and Sherlock himself, who is positioned on his armchair, his elbows on his knees and his hands interlocked in front of his face.

"Not now, John. I'm thinking." Sherlock shakes his head, his eyes narrowing slightly, focusing in on something imperceptible.

"Right, well, I'll get it shall I?" John says, mostly to himself. He rises from the sofa, striding over to the kitchen to grasp the phone. "Hello? Oh, hi Greg. No, no, he's here. He's thinking. Yes, I'll let him know. Yes, thanks. Bye."

John turns around, eyeing Sherlock and waiting for any form of reaction. He doesn't even blink. His spine remains ramrod straight, but the tips of his fingers are twitching slightly, tapping rhythmically against his knuckles. He'd been trapped in a cycle of thinking and tossing away clients since he had last seen Moriarty - it was rather disturbing.

"Sherlock," He tries again. John really is one of the only people that Sherlock depends on, or even tolerates, and he's probably one of the only people that can tell when something has really got to Sherlock. Moriarty is under his skin, he has been in some way for years, starting with the murder of Carl Powers, and culminating with the bombs.

"Not now, John. I'm - "

"Thinking. Yes, I know that." John snaps slightly, huffing. The frustration is evident in his voice, but he shakes it off quickly, disregarding it in favour of a calmer, more patient tone. "Greg just called - "

Sherlock finally blinks, his eyebrows drawing together in confusion. His gaze finally diverts from his interlocked hands to John. "Who?"

"Greg Lestrade, the man who you've worked with for literal years. You have known him longer than you have known me. You have a case." John explains.

Much like any knowledge of the solar system, Lestrade's name is simply deleted from Sherlock's mind, redacted on the basis of it being irrelevant. To John, it seems painfully rude, but to Sherlock, it's an everyday practice - he constantly filters out information that he deems not to be useful enough, disregarding it and then replacing it with something new, something more useful. Something smart, something interesting. And as far as Sherlock is concerned 'Greg' is neither of those things.

"Why didn't you just say so?" Sherlock looks mildly surprised, letting his hands drop and standing up, rising from his armchair. "And I think you mean that we have a case, John."

"Yes, alright, we." John begrudgingly agrees, tossing Sherlock his phone. The taller man catches it with ease, before shrugging his coat on and stuffing it into a pocket.

---

"So, ah, what happened?" Is the first thing that tumbles from John's mouth as he and Sherlock enter Lestrade's office at the police station. The door swings shut behind them, but he can still sense Donovan's burning stare at his back, piercing through the door.

Lestrade is sat at his desk, a collection of pictures strewn around him, haloed by sunlight spilling in from the window behind him. Some of the pictures have been pinned to a corkboard on the wall, connected to each other by thumbtacks and neon-coloured string. He looks rather thankful for Sherlock's presence, his shoulders sagging instantly in relief.

"Right, well, murder and arson." Lestrade says, turning one of the pictures around. Sherlock and John quickly crowd around it, both vying to see the charred skeleton of a house.

"That doesn't look much like London." John says, squinting slightly.

"Well, it's not really London London, you know? It's only London technically." Lestrade supplies, shrugging slightly.

John nods. "So, it's in your jurisdiction, but barely. And, ah, when exactly did this all happen? Do you have like an estimated time of death?"

"This morning." Lestrade says. "The fire started pretty early - we can be relatively certain that the victims were killed in the night or this morning. Our killer was pretty quick about it. We're not sure if anything's missing yet."

"Strange fire pattern," Sherlock remarks, his eyes flitting over all of the pictures. "I assume our perpetrator used an accelerant - most likely gasoline, which they would have poured throughout the house judging by the consistency of the burning. I'm guessing that the fire began in the basement?"

Lestrade nods. "It's probably the worst room in the whole house. They didn't bother as much with the victims."

"So the basement's more important, then?" John guesses.

"Or the most convenient room to start the fire in," Lestrade says. "Right, these are our victims." He rises from behind his desk and strides over to the board, pointing to three pictures depicting three women. The first is probably in her mid-thirties, and she's wearing this slinky black dress with matching silk gloves. Her pale blonde hair is arranged in waves, and she's smiling to display perfectly white teeth.

"That's Verona Archer, and those are her two daughters Aubrey and Alora."

"Twins?"

"Yes, both of them are nineteen, on their gap year. A shame really, from what I can tell they were all very well liked." Lestrade confirms.

John nods slowly, his eyes travelling over to Verona's daughters. They're identical - the pictures are different, one depicts a young blonde girl wearing a sparkly pink dress, and the other depicts a blonde girl that is her mirror image in every way riding a white pony and waving to the camera. "And their father?"

"Ah, their dad died when they were three, of kidney failure. Verona remarried - he died nine years ago, in a car crash. Poor woman, losing both of her husbands." Lestrade answers. "Here's what the Archer family look like now." He grabs another three pictures off his desk and pins them underneath the pictures of the women whilst they were alive.

They're almost impossible to distinguish in death. Their bodies have been charred, their skin turning shrivelled, red and twisted. There's blotchy patches of red and white travelling down their arms, culminating in blackened fingertips that have crumpled to reveal bone. A few strands of their blonde hair has survived, but it's marred with thick blood and ash.

Their bedrooms, too, have been completely burnt. There's dark black smudges running up the walls, smoke stains pooling on the ceilings and floors, their belongings burnt, singed or reduced to piles of ash.

Their faces have been mostly obliterated in the fire, the bedsheets around them singed. There's a matching neck wound on each of them, one that's hard to see as a result of how badly their bodies were burnt. The remaining flesh on their neck has bubbled up into blisters and stuck to the sheets, almost melting off the bone. There's a glint of pale cartilage visible, poking out from between pieces of mangled, burnt skin.

"Their necks were hacked open," Sherlock observes. "There's no hesitation marks, from what I can tell. This wasn't some robbery gone wrong - they were sleeping. They wouldn't have even seen their attacker coming. This looks like a meat cleaver - I'd wager that you could find the murder weapon in their own kitchen. That alone should imply that this was unplanned, and yet, it seems to thoughtfully executed. Delightful."

John blinks rapidly. "I'm sorry, Sherlock, did you just say - you know what, never mind."

"He really hated them - he resented the Archer family more than anything. Do we know if any of the women had recently rejected a man? Broken off a relationship, perhaps?" Sherlock asks.

Lestrade shakes his head. "Not that I'm aware of, but I've got people looking into that avenue - forensics is going through the girls' phones right now."

"He?" John repeats, confusedly.

"About ninety percent of arsonists are male. Most of them are also white and have a low IQ, typically ranging between seventy and eighty. They're almost always either under eighteen, or in their late twenties." Sherlock says. "We can narrow down our search once we get to the scene."

John sighs, exchanging a long-suffering glance with Lestrade. "Sherlock, I hate to break it to you, but there's not much left to see."

"Not for you, but there will be for me." Sherlock says, glancing at John.

"But we're looking for a man, yes?" Lestrade asks.

Sherlock narrows his eyes, his gaze flitting between all of the pictures. "Most likely, yes. But we can't rule out a female suspect yet. It's always possible that it's a scorned female lover rather than a male one, or perhaps she could be acting out of jealousy, if those Archer girls were so well liked."

"Erm, will we even be allowed in the crime scene?" John enquires. "I mean, I imagine it would be quite dangerous, with the house literally crumbling, and all."

Sherlock scoffs, "You're more than welcome to stand outside and watch, John."

---

Central London isn't quite what you expect it to be. The bus ride is a nightmare - the incessant chatter of the other passengers around you sets you on edge. Their conversation is all so mundane, so pitifully boring that it makes you feel almost resentful.

These are people who have always had their freedom - who haven't had to kill and burn their way out of a gilded cage. And they use it to discuss things as asinine as the weather. You long for the depth that you had always been denied, the warmth, the love, the meaning.

It's so strange, that you can sit among them, an outsider - a dark Cinderella - in the midst of rodents that have yet to turn to carriagemen.

You're glad when you get off, and you can escape their dull conversations. Though, the streets are much louder. There's not any pretty, delicate fragments of birdsong to be heard here. There's the occasional squawk of some hungry pigeons vying for food, but no birdsong. The air is rife with pollution - contaminated, tainted by smoke. It's all cigarette smoke or the chemical-smelling kind that billows up from factory chimneys in plumes of white and grey smoke.

It's nothing like the kind you had smelled only earlier today - it's not the corpses of your step-family being reduced to charred remains. That was far more pungent, far sweeter, if only in the way it made you feel.

There's a constant urge to look over your shoulder. You still feel intensely victorious, and full of a pride that burns just as brightly as your house had done mere hours ago. Yet, amongst those addictive, elated kind of feelings, is a sliver of paranoia.

You don't want to get caught, not now. All pictures of you, all evidence even of your existence, had been destroyed first. It had to go, you had to be free to start afresh, to reinvent yourself as the princess rather than as the maid.

Cleaning the house constantly had been so useful. It had taught you a lot about cleaning up after yourself, about making sure that there would be no evidence you were even there. All those surfaces had shined brightly, but so had the knife when you lodged it into their throats.

The streets in London aren't as nice as you had thought they would be. In every alleyway lingers a different shifty person, eyeing passersby carefully, likely determining who they would try to pickpocket next.

There's so much noise, too.

There's the drunken ramblings of men who are going through a midlife crisis and day drinking. They stumble through the streets, seemingly having gravitated towards one another, forming packs of aimless, rowdy men who just want to escape from their lives and live something that's more interesting.

Then, there's the noises of the cars. There's so many cabs, all identical in their sleek, black appearance, hurrying through the streets. And then there's the people hailing them, standing in the streets and raising their hands, calling out loudly.

"Taxi!" Yet another man yells, and you flinch instinctively, automatically turning around to look at him. He's nothing special, nothing dangerous.

In fact, you're probably the most dangerous person on this street. And yet, you remain hypervigilant. There's only the remnants of all that adrenaline in your system, but still, you remain awfully flighty. You are more than aware that soon it's going to wear off and you're going to be absolutely exhausted.

If you were any normal, entirely sane person, by now you would have been concerned at the lack of guilt.

But it wasn't like these deaths were accidental, or spur of the moment attacks. They weren't self-defense.

They were retribution.

They were violent acts of revenge designed over years and years. It was premeditated in every sense of the word. The only thing that could really, truly bring you warmth on those cold nights in the basement wasn't those scratchy blankets. It was the thought that one day you would take them out of this world, and that they would burn for everything they had done to you.

Over the years, the plan itself had taken a great many differing directions. You had planned versions where you would burn them alive, torture them for days on end, or even use something as simple as a poison to achieve your aims - that would have been remarkably easy considering that you did all the cooking. But ultimately, those fantasies had to be short-lived. They fell victim to practicality. Poison wasn't readily available, and the longer your step-family lived, the more likely they would be to escape or attract the attention of any neighbours.

It was your own version of Cinderella. And although you hadn't much planned for after the murders, you knew that if she got to rule a kingdom, then you would, too.

But first, you wanted to find a hotel room. One with nice blankets and decent heating and light walls that didn't remind you whatsoever of that basement. You'd been trawling for a while, ever conscious of the amount of cash you had, and the fact that eventually, you would have to gain some form of employment and find a more permanent housing situation.

The third hotel that you look at is the one you decide is just right. The first had been far too expensive, and the second one had looked like it shouldn't even be in business with how dilapidated it was. It's pretty enough, a grand white towering structure with flowers in all the windows and delicate borders around the windows. The price, which would be steep elsewhere, is decent for London.

You push the door open - it's a glass door with cursive, swirly golden writing emblazoned across it, and a little overhead bell jingles. The lady at the desk's head immediately turns your way, and she gives you a bright smile.

The entrance is spacious, but sparsely furnished, a few simple chairs and tables scattered around, but nobody's using them. Security seems relatively lax here, you can't see any cameras yet, and despite the hotel seeming acceptable to you, it's probably not one of the most popular establishments in London.

You approach the lady at the desk - your eyes immediately darting to her nametag. Emily.

"Hello, how can I help?" She asks, smiling. Her voice is dripping with that faux-sweetness that is innate to anybody working in customer service. It's cheery, and terribly fake - but you can't really bring yourself to feel any contempt for her lack of genuity. For her it's protection, and just a part of her job. It's not malicious.

"I'd like to book a room, please." You reply.

"Sure," She says, her fingers darting to the computer keyboard. "Do you know how long you'll be staying with us for?"

"A week, I think." You decide that it should be enough time for you to get everything together.

The top priorities for you now were evading the police and finding yourself some new documentation so that you could work, and move on with your life.

Emily nods, her finger tapping away and clicking for a few, silent moments. "We have you booked in room 125." She briefly ducks below the countertop, emerging with a keycard in hand.

It's blue, with a curvy lime green stripe swerving up through it. It's not the most impressive graphic design you've ever seen, and it doesn't really match the rest of the hotel, but it's good enough. You take it from her with a smile. "Thank you."

"Enjoy your stay!" She calls out after you, just as you've started to head further into the hotel.

You don't bother to acknowledge her comment. You simply keep walking, wandering around the bottom floor of the hotel lobby. There are these tiny, light-up signs plastered everywhere, giving the guests directions. It doesn't take you long to reach your room once you start following them.

Room one hundred and twenty five is incredibly boring.

The entrance-way is frustratingly narrow, with a cramped bathroom on your left, and a wardrobe on your right. It opens up to a relatively small space - a double bed against the left wall, a TV mounted just opposite it, a desk and some windows with terrible, thin curtains that do nothing to obscure the light.

It's so terribly basic, and the whole place smells like cleaning supplies - that alone makes you recoil. It brings you back to scrubbing each and every surface again and again. It makes your fingers twitch with the urge to just tear it all apart - to pull the curtains from their rails, knock the sparse furniture over and destroy it.

It feels so fake. It's all orchestrated to look appealing - but to you it appears bland and disingenuous.

The smell of bleach permeating from the bathroom makes you flinch. It's so sterile. There's no life in this place. There's nothing real here.

You have to constantly tell yourself over and over again that this is temporary. For a fleeting moment, you feel some kind of pain, a sharp pang of longing for your home - it had been a prison in every sense of the word once both of you parents were gone, but still it was familiar, the safe haven of your childhood where your mother would read you bedtime stories.

In your story, Cinderella would get her palace. Your happily ever after wouldn't be marred by the fact that a few people had died at your hands.

This hotel room is temporary - something to be used briefly and once you've moved on, never to be dwelled upon again. For now, you just have to lay low, and establish your new life here. The hotel room, with it's bland white and beige decor is hardly the fruition of all your planning. It's just another stepping stone.

It's only saving grace is the mattress and the heating. You're all too happy to kick your shoes off and lay face-down on the bed, letting all of the tension in your body go. The sheets, for all that they smell like cheap detergent, are petal-soft beneath your fingers. They're nothing like the ones in that cold, awful basement.

---

It doesn't take long for Sherlock to become a man obsessed.

They had first visited the residence of the victims - the scene of the crime. The Archer home had been destroyed, completely reduced to rubble and ash - even Verona Archer's car had been caught in the blaze, though the damage to the car was inconsequential next to the damage to the house and the lives lost within it.

What had once been a grand, elegantly decorated four-bedroom house was now barely standing. It's roof had caved in, and there were slate tiles strewn throughout the top floor and around the garden. Some beams of wood had been exposed, and many of the bricks had simply tumbled over, left with dark scorch marks over them.

It had been necessary to wear hazard gear within the house, and there was still one fire-engine waiting on the street, just in case the house were to be set aflame again. That was a common procedure, at the very least. A few neighbours would come out every once in a while, looking at the burnt remains of the Archer house in awe and horror.

There wasn't a whole lot actually left of the house.

Sherlock had torn his way down to the basement first, and quickly discerned what most of the items were - bookshelves, and lots of family photographs that didn't survive the blaze. But, most of the items in the basement were really irrelevant. It was the pile of scorched blankets that drew his attention.

"This is where the fire started, then, is it?" John asks, peering down at the blankets - they've melted together in some places, fusing to one another under the extreme heat. The entire house smells awful - the sickly scent of burnt human flesh mixed with gasoline - but the blankets smell awful, too. They were probably, back before they had been reduced mostly to ash, some sort of plasticy-material.

"Of course it is." Sherlock says, flitting around the basement and moving to inspect every little thing. "The Archers weren't the only ones living in the house. They were allowing someone to live in their basement."

"I thought they had four bedrooms?"

Sherlock shakes his head slightly. "Mm, no. One was Verona's closet. They had left their guest to sleep in the basement. The blankets are mostly polyester - they're well-used but they don't match anything upstairs. I think our guest has been down here for quite some time. The basement was a mess before the fire. Ms. Archer keeps things down here that she doesn't particularly like, but can't bring herself to throw away, just in case they become useful later."

"Wait, are you saying that the Archer girls - who, may I remind you, the mother being a grieving widow twice over, and her teenaged daughters - had been keeping somebody in their basement?" John asks, incredulously. He looks up from the pile of blankets and to Sherlock, in utter disbelief.

Sherlock scoffs. "Yes, John. That's exactly what I'm saying. Their guest was probably closely related to them. It's even possible that Verona had a third child. I'm almost certain now that our arsonist is a woman."

"A woman?" John frowns, "I thought you said most arsonists were men?"

"They are. They also tend to have a low intelligence - but she is neither a man, nor is she stupid. No, she's smart. She's smart and she's hurting right now. They're not going to find any evidence. She won't have left any. She's wanted this for a very, very long time." Sherlock whispers. "The rest of the house will be useless - the stairs are liable to give in if we try them. The basement was the only part she cared about. The burning was about obscuring her identity, not her crimes."

Naturally, the next place they turn to is the morgue.

All three bodies are already lain out on metal slabs when Sherlock and John enter, the latter wrinkling his nose. The house had, of course, smelled worse. But the actual scent of a charred corpse right in front of him was still incredibly sickening.

Molly greets them both with a smile, "Hi, Sherlock, - "

Sherlock brushes past her, his hands clasped behind his back. He circles around the bodies, his eyes darting over their wounds, their burnt, blistered skin, and the protruding bones.

The pictures had made Verona, Aubrey and Alora seem to be in even better condition than they were.

Their flesh had sunk, plastering itself to the bone in flaky pieces. They were more a mass of bloody body parts, sullen skin and ash than a real human body. There were a few persistent strands of platinum hair that had survived both the fire and the murder, clinging to their burnt scalps.

"That - oh, my god, the smell," John says between coughs, bringing a pale hand up to clasp it over the bottom half of his face. It was more a gesture of self-soothing than any actual attempt to block out the pungent fumes, but he does step back and momentarily avert his eyes.

Molly winces slightly, her cheery visage disturbed only slightly. "Yeah, I've tried pretty much everything. There's not much you can do for them. Ah, they died in their sleep, at least, so..."

"From the uh," John gestures to his throat, drawing a line across his neck horizontally with his pointer finger.

By far, the most disturbing part of the burnt cadavers is their necks. There's a grand, gaping hole in the charred flesh. It pulls away from itself, ribbons of burnt skin dangling into the throat cavity, and tiny pieces of ripped, hacked skin flaring upwards, soaked in crimson blood. They've been almost decapitated - their heads only very tenuously linked to their shoulders via the back of their necks.

It's much worse in real life - the crime scene photographs hadn't quite captured the depth of the cut.

"Yeah," Molly confirms with a grimace.

"No hesitation marks," Sherlock whispers. "Just as I thought. The twins were killed first. Aubrey, then Alora not soon after. Verona was saved for last - she was the culmination of all of this, the main target, if you will. Our perpetrator hated the twins, yes, but she hated Verona much more. You won't find any gasoline on their bodies. She put the gasoline on the floor, but not her victims. She wanted to obscure her identity but avoid damaging her work as much as possible."

"Okay, but we still don't know who the culprit is, or better yet, where they are." John says.

Sherlock shakes his head. "No, we know lots of things about her. Petite, early twenties. She hates the smell of disinfectant and she hates the cold even more. We can make the assumption that she may not even be Verona's daughter at all - perhaps one of those husbands had an affair, or more likely, a previous marriage that produced Verona's step-daughter."

"So, once again, the Archer girls were keeping a... step-daughter in their basement? And she killed them?" He questions.

"Oh, yes, she absolutely did." Sherlock grins. He sounds terribly fascinated, almost breathless - it's a kind of intrigue that John has only ever seen Moriarty produce in him. It's the kind of intrigue that never ends well. The kind that leaves Sherlock invigorated as he tries to unwrap every tiny mystery, whilst John is probably in some sort of danger.

"Right..." John's voice trails off, dying slowly as he watches Sherlock's eyes light up.

The consulting detective paces around the room, stalking around the bodies, grinning and muttering softly to himself. Moriarty's game is still afoot, but whilst they're waiting for his next move, Sherlock is going to indulge himself with another clever little side quest.

"She was smart. You're probably not going to find her - I mean I can tell she's probably gone to a major city, most likely London, given the proximity and her lack of resources. But, there's not going to be anything about her that's distinguishable from any other girl living in London." Sherlock announces.

"So that's it then. Case closed?" Molly asks, confusion colouring her tone as she folds her arms over her chest.

Sherlock pauses in his stride, and narrows his eyes, going so far as to look mildly affronted. "No, of course not. We're going to find her."

"Of course we are." John groans. "Was it not enough to just identify the unstable murder-arsonist lady?"

"No, John. Don't be silly." Sherlock scoffs. "We're going to find out everything we can about our Cinderella."

John frowns, looking to Molly who still looks equally puzzled. "Cinderella?"

"What else would you call a step-daughter mistreated by her step-mother and step-sisters?"

"I don't think that Cinderella killed her step-family and burnt their house down." John points out, sighing. "She's meant to go to a ball, meet a prince, not try to decapitate her family."

Sherlock dismisses John easily, "Perhaps not in the original version, no. But in this one? Absolutely."

#jim moriarty #jim moriarty x reader

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