#Jim Moriarty x reader

[actually-mentally-ill]

“I can fix him!”

Him:

[alessiathepirate]

Sherlock (BBC)

CROWN JEWELS: Jim Moriarty x fem!reader

Summary: Be careful what you say - especially around a man like Jim Moriarty.

Notes: English isn't my first language. I apologize for any mistake I may have made while I wrote this short story.

I have been working on this since summer and now that it's finally done I think I'm ready to share it with you guys. I really enjoyed writing it and I hope you'll enjoy reading it.

Also a silent thank you for my friend who told me to keep going even after writer's block hit me hard. <3

Warnings: swearing

•••

Jim Moriarty likes to leave a lasting impression.

That was her first thought about him ever since she first met him - ever since she first heard him talk and saw his body language. The man talks with his whole body - especially when he's in an angry or mischievious mood -, expresses himself with his arms' and shoulders' movements and with his many different gestures. The words he uses and the way he builds up sentence after sentence makes one to stop and listen. And he can make all of that look elegant and strangely enough, gentleman-like.

No matter what he does or talks about, how many times you have already met him, he's someone who you can never get fully used to and that alone always burries that lasting impression. It causes many different feelings and thoughts about the man, making the brain work and think about him and his every little gesture and word long after he's left.

But how long can that impression last?

Long enough for her to remember their first meeting weeks after it had occurred. Long enough for her to build up a whole complicated characterization and profile of him. Long enough for her to be able to quote his words exactly as he had said them.

As she sat in her own armchair in 221B Baker Street, watching the news on the telly about Jim Moriarty himself; the remains of that well known charm of his being slowly built up the memories of their first meeting.

She was in the exact same position, sitting in her own armchair - what Sherlock and John thought she finally deserved, so she won't have to sit on the chouch or on the 'chair of shame' (as she liked to call that) when they have a case to solve -; but instead of watching the telly, she was reading, falling head first into the world of the book, enjoying the peace and quiet which occurred pretty rarely in 221B. But despite the fact that she was way too interested in whatever she was reading, she still noticed the noise of a door opening downstairs, followed by the noise of someone coming up the stairs.

She looked up from the book, picking up her bookmark as she listened to the quiet tapping as someone's shoes met with the steps. She has spent enough time in 221B to be able to differ everyone's steps: Sherlock's, John's, Mrs. Hudson's, even Lestrade's and potential clients' - but these steps didn't sound like any of those.

Sherlock was always quick as he came up, too excited about the cases he had to solve and way too happy to be free from boredom. John was either slow when he came up, looking through the letters they've got or quick and angry, done with Sherlock's new case or with the certain experiments he was doing in the flat. Mrs. Hudson's were always high pitched, Lestrade's quick and heavy as he ran upstairs and the clients' were slow, reluctant and quiet.

These steps were slow, that was true, but there was something unusual about them, about the sound when they met with the wooden staircase. These were slow and quiet, but confident and elegant - these were something new and not usual and boring.

She put her book down and looked at the door what was wide open - because no matter how many times either she or John closed it, Sherlock always left it open. They gave up pretty soon, accepting the fact that their only protection against a robbery is Mrs. Hudson and the door downstairs.

The stranger was soon standing in the doorway, looking around the flat so calmly it looked like he owned the place and he most definitely didn't even think about knocking.

He didn't look like a client. He was way too calm and confident, way too elegant to be one. No, he was something new and unique, someone who you immediately notice even in a room full of people because of the lingering elegance and confidence - because even the air changes when he steps in the room.

After looking around the flat his gaze stopped and he looked directly at her for the very first time. She held his gaze, not giving in on the sudden game, but her stomach tightened in fear, a fear she only felt when she was in a room with Sherlock Holmes, knowing he'll deduce her and know about the things she doesn't want him to know.

"Hi..." The greeting was so short and simple for a person like him, that she tilted her head a little in confusion. His voice was also slightly high pitched when he pronounced the 'I', but she quickly realized it was intentional.

"Sherlock isn't home... if he is who you are looking for." she said to him, thinking there was no way this man didn't come here to see Sherlock Holmes.

"I know. That's why I'm here."

For a moment she thought about telling him that John isn't home either, but then decided against it. He clearly isn't here to talk to John Watson. He's here to talk to her...

"I see." she looked away for a moment to think about what to do with him, but no idea came to mind. "Well then please have a seat. Although I wasn't expecting guests."

He accepted the invitation, taking a seat in Sherlock's armchair, while she tried to figure out who he was and what he wanted. Meanwhile the stranger leaned back and made himself comfortable, enjoying the situation and the fact that he is sitting in Sherlock's armchair.

He knows whose armchair he's sitting in - the realization hit her, only making the 'who is he' more interesting.

"Yes, you were." he spoke up so suddenly she had to shake her head a little.

"Excuse me?"

"You were expecting one guest or you were counting on one specific guest at least."

She looked at him again, pressuring her mind to think. He is someone important and he knows that as well. That was obvious. But important for who? Not for John. John wouldn't tolerate him at all - but Sherlock would. Sherlock would even appreciate all this act.

She tilted her head a little in realization.

"Moriarty? Good to know that now that name has a face." she noticed how his expression didn't change, even if he smiled at her realization - he was expecting it, for her to realize who he is. "May I know why you wanted to see me?"

"Just wanted to meet the ordinary people Sherlock keeps around."

"Ordinary?" she laughed. "You think ordinary people could live with Sherlock Holmes?"

"That doesn't make you less boring."

"Nor does it make you less annoying." she quickly answered, leaving the annoyance out of her voice. "Playing around with Sherlock, coming here uninvited. Next time send a message at least so I can prepare some tea."

His eyes shined up for a second as if for a short amount of time he was looking at something more interesting.

"Doesn't he annoy you? Keeping you from living on your boring, ordinary little life."

"Not really. I'm never bored at least. He keeps the boredom away."

"So loyal. Ordinary people can be so amusing, I should get myself one."

She just smiled at that.

"You really like to get under people's skin, don't you?"

"Of course I do, I mean that's the funniest part, isn't it?"

That's when she first noticed how he uses his body language when he's having fun - how his arms and shoulders are moving with him.

"I guess you're right. That can be funny, you should try it out more with Sherlock. It's enough if you play one note wrong on the violin."

But that wasn't his only memorable visit. No, all of his visits were more than memorable if she wanted to be honest. She could tell all of them apart, she could tell in which month they had accured...

He visited her many times, but he always sent her a message beforehand. A short one. Something like: 'I'm a street away dear.' or 'I hope the tea is ready.' But later on they became something more: 'I'd like to see you today.', 'I have a gift for you.' or 'You'll be out tonight.' She didn't dare to ask how he knows her number, how he knows so much about her - where she'll be, what she likes. It would've been unnecessary words and she wouldn't have gotten an answer.

So she kept her questions to herself - and she also kept their meetings for themselves. Even if Sherlock noticed the change in her behaviour and happily pointed it out, causing John to ask who she's meeting up with. Even if Mycroft pointed out that she had been out at night. Even if Mrs. Hudson nearly jumped out of her skin in happiness when both brothers accused her of dating someone.

But the most interesting one--

... the most interesting conversion they've ever had was special. Oh so very special.

He came without telling her about it beforehand, just like the first time they'd met. She was sitting in her armchair with her laptop in her lap, going through a victim's personal data to make a profile while Sherlock was too busy working on a much more interesting case. Apparently a triple suicide in one place isn't that interesting, at all.

She didn't hear him come in, but she noticed him standing in the doorway - because the door was once again, wide open. He just stood there in his Westwood suit, gloating in the fact that he had the element of surprise.

She looked up at him as she raised an eyebrow.

"You didn't call this time."

"I had business around here. I just decided to come in."

"Liar." she accused as she put the laptop aside and offered him Sherlock's armchair. "You knew they went out on a case, otherwise you wouldn't have come here. You enjoy working behind his back too much."

He took the offered seat and after he leaned back, he started to talk:

"Remember what I told you when we first met? About the loyal ordinary people?"

"Of course I do." she answered, half-offended that he thought so little of her. "You wanted to get yourself one."

"Yes, well you see dear, I changed my mind." once again, his body moved with his mood. "Maybe I shouldn't get myself an ordinary one, I mean they would bore me so easily. I think I'd be perfectly fine with a not so ordinary one."

She looked at him, trying to read him like she did so many times before that, but this time other than that smirk, she couldn't find out anything else. So she turned to examine his words, that's what was also interesting about Jim Moriarty, what he said and how he said it.

A not so ordinary one. How on Earth will he get one?

And then she realized that for Jim Moriarty, the hierarchy of the world is about ordinary and extraordinary people - and in that momemt he added the not so ordinary ones to the mix too. Even if he didn't like Sherlock, he accepted that he was like him - too clever, extraordinary. John was only, simply ordinary. Nothing more, maybe less. But he talked to her a lot. A whole lot without getting bored, without thinking about speaking to Sherlock directly so he could annoy him instead of her. He didn't gloat that he knew her and talked to her daily. For him she was middle class, she was that not so ordinary person.

She chuckled and stood up, deciding that she couldn't sit that through without moving.

"Oh no, you can't possibly think that I'd leave Sherlock for you." she shook her head in disbelief. "I mean I wouldn't be loyal, would I? What happened with loyality?"

"Ordinary people are loyal and loyality is boring." he leaned forward to pour some tea for himself, not really caring that Mrs. Hudson prepared that for John and Sherlock, and most definitely not him.

"Well then I must be really boring, because I won't just leave Baker Street."

"You don't have to leave to show you aren't loyal, darling, we've been talking for months without you telling about it to them." he leaned back again and took a sip from the tea.

"Yeah, well it's still a no thank you very much." she said as her chest rose and fell rapidly, her brain working as she thought about what he just said.

"No?"

"No. I mean why would I?" the question was left unanswered. "I'd only consider it if I'd-- own the fucking Crown Jewels."

She tried to think about something unrealistic to say, to show that her decision is unbreakable. But looking at him, she clearly chose the wrong thing.

Moriarty looked pleased instead of angry - and that grounded her into reality. She said something wrong. She could basically hear the cogs turn in his head.

"Well, in that case," he said as he got ready to leave. "I'll see you around, darling."

She was left there angry and sad, but the thing she didn't think about?

That a few days later she'd get a letter.

•••

"Goddamn it Sherlock, I told you to put the microscope away! I almost knocked it down and that's the only one we own!" she shouted as she put the said thing aside, saving it from a disaster.

"He's not home!" came the answer from John, who was sitting in his armchair watching the telly - or rather trying to find a channel worth watching.

"He's not?" she asked in disbelief. "And he went without either of us?"

"You know him. Once he wants to go somewhere he goes there with or without us."

She opened one of the cupboards to find two clean cups - the kind which hadn't met with blood, eyeballs or some kind of acid beforehand - and once she found some, she began to make some tea.

"Is the forest fruit one okay? We ran out of black tea."

"Yes, thank you."

"You owe me." she threatened jokingly. "Anything worth watching? We could watch some crime show now that Sherlock isn't here to spoil it." she offered.

"Good idea." came John's answer - she enjoyed watching shows and movies with him since he was the only normal person in the flat - him and maybe Mrs. Hudson, but even Mrs. Hudson's life was extraordinary. "One'll begin after the news."

"Fantastic." she said as she finished preparing the tea and walked into the living room with a silver tray.

And then John turned the news on - and she almost dropped the tray.

There he was. On the screen, in handcuffs as the officers took him away and he was smiling - more like grinning. It only took her a second to realize where he was - the Tower of London, where the damn Crown Jewels were kept.

God damn him. Both of them. Both Moriarty and Sherlock -- even John and Mycroft. All of them had to mess up her life and make it more exciting and interesting instead of boring. God damn her that she liked it.

The Crown Jewels. What did she say to him the last time they met? 'I'd only consider it if I'd own the fucking Crown Jewels.'

John looked surprised too. Not as much as she was, he didn't know she had been talking with the enemy. He didn't notice her shock thankfully and even if he did he must've thought it was a normal reaction.

"Moriarty-- that's Moriarty." he explained.

"I know." she said without thinking.

Before John could ask her how, she heard Mrs. Hudson call out her name from downstairs. She put the tray down quicker than usual, some tea was even spilt, and she was out of the flat in a heartbeat. She ran down the stairs, her heart beating fast.

"What is it, Mrs. Hudson? Did something happen?" she asked.

"Oh, not at all dear, it's just my hips. John was kind enough to give me some painkillers, but I couldn't really walk up the stairs right now." the woman explained with the usual enthusiasm. "But a letter arrived for you a few seconds ago. The postman must've forgotten about it in the morning."

And there it was, in Mrs. Hudson's hand. An envelope, a beige coloured one - the very elegant kind.

She took it from her quickly and just by the envelope itself she knew who sent it. The penmanship was perfect. Her name was written on it in black ink, the letters were slim and long.

"Who is it from dear?"

She tore it open, her fingers ripping the paper and she took the folded letter out. With uneven heartbeat, she began to read it:

'My dear,

I hope you'll enjoy the show I put on in the Tower, I know I'll most certainly do.

The diamonds in the envelope are from the Crown Jewels, forgive for not being able to give you the whole thing, but otherwise the police would be knocking on your door. Still, now you own parts of them. Nine diamonds to be exact, I sincerly hope all of them are in the envelope - otherwise I'll have to skin someone after my trial.

A promise is a promise. Now consider my offer. I'll pick you up at 7 p.m. as soon as I'm out.

- J. M.

P.S.: I hope I'll see you in court.'

John shouted her name from upstairs, wondering why she ran. She ignored him and looked inside the envelope.

Nine diamonds. Nine of them, some bigger than the others, were shining in it.

Mrs. Hudson saw them too and she gasped in surprise.

"Oh my, you didn't tell me you had found yourself a man dear."

"I didn't know it up until now either, Mrs. Hudson."

"What is it?" John was standing on top of the staircase, looking at them with confusion.

"She has a boyfriend." Mrs. Hudson said happily, clapping her hands together.

"She has a what?"

"I don't have a boyfriend." she argued, her eyes still on the diamonds.

"What is it then?"

She didn't know how to feel or what to feel.

Deep down she felt like a real woman. A woman someone, a very special someone, wants to court. A woman who's looked at as someone interesting, important and worth stealing for. She was flattered. Truly.

On the other hand she felt scared and confused. Jim Moriarty was still Jim Moriarty, and she was still the girl from Baker Street. With him she'll never feel completely at ease or safe, there'll always be a wall standing between them what they'll never be able to cross.

But still...

He was so interesting.

She looked up at John as she put the envelope in her pocket.

"I have a date."

Mrs. Hudson laughed in happiness.

She turned towards the stairs, her brain completely blocking John's voice out as it worked and worked, trying to figure Jim out.

Jim. He was already Jim in her head.

Then a strange question appeared in big letters in her mind like a neon sign:

Why nine?

[entitled-fangirl]

A deer in the headlights.

Jim Moriarty x reader

Summary: Jim comes home early and scares the reader, prompting a panic attack.

Words: 811

Warning: panic attack, but hey, comforting criminal Jim! Also... criminal Jim.

Author's note: I don't own the character Jim Moriarty! And you know I couldn't resist using a Fleabag gif. Andrew Scott has my <3

Masterlist

................................................................................

She sat on the couch of their shared home, her legs pulled up to her chest. Her arms wrapped around her legs, holding her book out for her to read. It was a cute sight, seeing her so comfortable in their home. 

Jim opened the door, his hands immediately moving to loosen his tie. He shook off his blazer, hanging it over one of the dining room chairs. He was quiet, almost silent. It was one of his favorite attributes of himself, being practically silent when he moved.

She hadn’t noticed him yet, her gaze focused on the book in front of her. He decided to have a little fun with his darling deer. 

He stalked up behind her. Her long hair was hanging off the back of the couch. Even as the conspiring smirk showed on his face, he couldn’t help but admire her. He continued his plan, his steps careful and meticulously done. 

He got slightly distracted staring at her hair, the tile under him squeaking. He froze, as did she. Her head moved up, her eyes looking straight forward at the wall like a deer in the headlights. He knows her so well, he can practically see the look on her face, knowing that she is now contemplating her options. 

As if instinct, his little deer jumped up, her book falling to the ground as she sprinted to their shared room. Jim smiled. He loved a game like this. He ran behind her quickly. His longer legs catching up to her.

The stairs slowed her down, her shorter legs moving quickly. He followed quickly behind her, not caring to be quiet anymore. As his foot hit the top step, she was within his reach. 

His hands wrap around her waist, pulling her to him. She let out a small squeal in fear. He smiled, resting his face in the crook of her neck and shoulder. Her hair covered his face, but he didn’t mind. It gave him an extra opportunity to smell her sweet scent. 

Her body completely froze. Her fear was an aura surrounding her at this point. Jim finally noticed her quick breaths, and her hands that had his in a death grip around her waist. She was very scared.

His grip loosened immediately. He turned her around to let her see him. Her eyes were glossy with unshed tears and they carried an uncertain look to them. He had seen this look. She was having a panic attack.

Her eyes may be looking at him, but she didn’t see him. She was in her own little world. A world of fear.

His heart dropped. His hands naturally moved to her face, cupping both of her cheeks, and pulling her face to his. Her hands jump to his, her death grip continuing. 

“Shh… it’s alright…. Shh….shh…,” he said in a comforting tone.

It seemed to calm her slightly, her body recognizing his touch, even if her brain didn’t. The tears began to fall from her eyes, another sign of her body relaxing further.

He smiled gently at her, his voice low, “Little deer, it’s alright. You’re safe…. You’re safe.”

Her body lets out a soft sigh, shaky from the tears. Her voice came out broken from the hiccuping of her diaphragm, “J…James…?”

He laughed at this. His deer was so precious. The thumb on one of the hands resting on her face began to gently move back and forth, giving her a feeling of comfort. “Yes. I’m here.”

He hated seeing her this way, but he also loved it. How she always ran into his arms when she was scared. Like now.

She let out a sob, her arms moving around his neck, pulling her to him. She began to cry harder into his chest. His hands moved to her waist, wrapping around her.

“I’m sorry, deer. I didn’t know I would frighten you like this. I wouldn’t have done so, had I known. Shh… it’s alright...,” he continued.

As her tears began to settle down, she pulled away from him. She pulled one of her arms to her face to wipe the tears, but he stopped her, his hand wrapping around her wrist. The other hand moved to her face as he gently wiped the tears for her. 

She sniffles, “You’re home early.”

He let out a loud laugh at this, “You silly girl. Of course I am. I told you I would be.”

Her eyes met his, “I forgot. I’m sorry.”

“Do not apologize, little deer. You should know by now that I would never let anything happen to you."

She nods slightly, moving back into his embrace, to which he happily obliged. The feeling of her in his arms was his favorite.

One of his hands moved to the back of her head, playing with her hair. “I will call Seb, and tell him to consider me off for the rest of the day. It is you and I for tonight. No interruptions. No phone calls. Could you even begin to forgive me, angel?”

He could feel her smile against his shoulder. “Of course, James.”

He sighs, kissing the top of her head, “Thank you, little deer. Now, let’s go relax, huh?”

She lets him lead her the rest of the way to their room to make up for lost time.

.............................................................

[heroin-vaccine]

His Favourite Person

jim moriarty x reader

Summary: You have a nightmare, but the consulting criminal is there to calm you down.

Warnings: it's angsty at the beginning, but turns into comfort/fluff at the end, death (not really though, just in a dream), gun usage

A/N Hello! It's just a small piece I wrote after not writing any fanfiction for 7 years. I hope I did our dear Jim justice. Let me know what you think! Please keep in mind that English is not my first language.

You watched as he pressed the gun against his scalp. A smirk evident on his lips, like he wasn't bothered in the slightest by what he was about to do. Your heart raced, panic was written all over your face. No. This is not happening.

"Jim!" You tried calling his name, but he didn't hear you. You tried louder and louder, but it was like you weren't even here. Like you were just a ghost.

You wanted to run to him, to do something, but some kind of invisible force was holding you back. You couldn't get closer. You couldn't stop him.

Before you could yell out his name again, it happened. He pulled the trigger, a loud noise from the gun firing hit your ears and his body fell motionless on the ground, blood pooling around his head.

"No..." A whisper fell from your lips. Your hands were trembling, your heart squeezed.

"God, please no." Sobs started to rack your body, as knees your hit the hard ground beneath. The world around you began to fade. This is not happening...

You wake with a gasp, your eyes shot open. Despite the immobilizing panic your eyes quickly scan the room you're in and you recognize it as yours and Jim's shared bedroom. It was just a nightmare. Your eyes and cheeks were wet, and it felt as if your heart was about to jump out your chest. Despite the slight relief of realization that what you saw was indeed not real, you just couldn't calm down. You needed to see him.

Just when a thought of searching for Jim crossed your mind, you felt a hand on your shoulder, making you jump a little. You looked up, your frantic gaze meeting his concerned one.

He was still dressed in his day clothes, indicating that he probably didn't even went to sleep that night, even though it must be awfully late by now. Still, it wasn't a surprise, as Jim's sleeping patterns were a complete mess. He was either going over business with his clients or conveying orders to his employees or planinng his next move. His mind almost never stopping, which resulted in the man rarely getting any sleep at all.

His brows were furrowed, dark eyes scanning your face. Assessing your state it seemed obvious that it was a nightmare that has shaken you up so much.

"Hey, it's ok. It's ok." He spoke softly, his distinguishable accent pouring from every word. He sat down on the bed beside you and took you in his arms. You pressed your face into his chest, hearing his heartbeat; a clear indicator of him being alive. Your arms came around him, and you inhaled deeply, trying to calm down. The slightly faded scent of his cologne has grounded you further.

"I'm here." He said as he left a small kiss on your head. Seeing you in such a state bothered him. The sight made him frown. Many thought that Jim Moriarty didn't feel anything, that he was heartless. And while it is true for the most part, you were the exception. The only thing that mattered in the long run. You were partners in crime, most of the time; literally.

He propped his chin on your head, his thumb rubbing your back in a calming motion. Finally all the emotions started to slowly evaporate. Your heart rate started going back to normal, as you soaked in Jim's touch, his warmth, his scent, his whole being.

You were the only person who's distress bothered Jim. You're his favourite person afterall. The only equal in this world full of ordinary people. And he will always be there for his one and only other extraordinary person.

[renx01]

Out of Sight - part 1

Summary: Moriarty is your boss. After he helped you out of a precarious situation when you were still a minor, you started working for him. Now, he has a new job for you. Get close to the Holmes brothers to keep an eye on them for him. Pairing: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Mycroft Holmes/Reader & Jim Moriarty/Reader Fandom: BBC Sherlock Word count: 1492

Masterlist

Jim Moriarty is a tricky man to work for, yet you do. After meeting you while you were a seventeen year old that had gotten involved with the wrong crowd, he had seen potential in you. So, after some training from his right hand man, Sebastian Moran, you became one of his best. He even gave you a nickname, Spike, after your personality. When you initially started working for him, you were quite spunky and talked back whenever you felt like it. Now that you’re older and have worked in his organisation for a couple of years, you’ve mellowed out a bit when it comes to business and listening to Jim. Now, you’re a ruthless assassin that will do whatever you’re told to by a certain Irishman in the blink of an eye. Currently, you’re on your way to his estate out of town. The sleek car that picked you up is quite lavish, something you’d somewhat grown used to as he tends to enjoy showing off. You watch the trees flash by you as the car speeds up while music plays through your earbuds. It had been a while since you last were at the estate, as you’d been out of the country for business the past couple of months. The car eventually comes to a halt and you quietly get out.

‘My dearest Spike,’ Jim smiles when you step into his office, ‘it has been a while hasn’t it?’ ‘It has, sir.’ You smile back at him. ‘Business in Hong Kong has been settled without too much issue.’ You glance at Sebastian entering the room. ‘The target has been eliminated and you are now in control of the biggest criminal network.’ Moriarty’s smile turns into a grin. ‘That is wonderful to hear, I didn’t expect any less from you.’ His face suddenly becomes serious again and he turns to Moran. ‘Sebastian, do you have the files I requested?’ The other man only nods before putting the files onto the desk. ‘Good, good.’ He starts looking through before his eyes turn to you once again. ‘Spikey dear, come here. I want you to look through these documents and photographs today, I have a new assignment for you.’ You approach the table and file which is filled to the brim. There’s mostly pictures of and reports about consulting detective Sherlock Holmes. Jim walks around the desk and stands next to you on your right, while Sebastian is already on your left. ‘I want you to get close to Sherlock Holmes and his Brother, Mycroft.’ He points out a picture of the two of them. ‘Keep and eye on them for me. Gather as much information as you possibly can, I do not care how, as long as you don’t reveal your identity.’ Turning to him, you finally look the shorter man  in the eye. ‘Of course sir.’ Sebastian shoves another file into your hands before he starts talking. ‘We’ve arranged for a new identity so you’ll be able to fly under the radar. Name: Charlie Moore, age: 27, occupation: intelligence analyst at Scotland Yard. Any other information you may deem necessary can be found in this file. You’ll move into 221C Baker Street tomorrow morning. We’ve already arranged for you to be able to stay there.’  That night you spent looking through the files that were given to you. Sherlock and Mycroft both seem quite interesting in their own rights. Sherlock is a high functioning sociopath that seems to get a thrill out of showing off his intellect and skills to others. His skill is quite incredible, but nothing you hadn’t seen from Jim before. Besides, deduction is a skill a person is able to learn, quite easily in fact. You’d been taught by Sebastian when you first joined Moriarty’s organisation, though your skills have been sharpened over time, with some help from the Irishman himself when he thought you could do better. Now, you rival Sherlock’s speed and skill when it comes to deduction. Still, you understand why your boss is such a fan, that is what he calls it anyway. You think it’s more of an obsession. Contrary to his brother, Mycroft doesn’t seem to enjoy showing off as obviously as Sherlock does, yet he does enjoy flexing his power from time to time. The files you possess show how Sherlock’s newest acquaintance had been picked up by the man’s secretary multiple times and driven to an ominous location so he could talk to John. Supposedly, he offers money to those that get close to his brother, so you’d be keeping that in mind. It does become clear, however, that Mycroft didn’t just hold a minor position within the British government. Clearly he, like your boss, constantly keeps an eye on the consulting detective.

The following morning you arrive at Baker Street using a cab, so as to not have any suspicions arise. You have two suitcases, mostly holding clothes, books, and other essentials. Your larger weapons have already been delivered to and hidden in your new flat, so you don’t have to worry about those. After knocking on the door, you’re greeted by Mrs. Hudson, your new landlady. ‘Good morning dear, you must be the new tenant.’ She smiles brightly. ‘Yes, very nice to meet you Mrs Hudson.’ You smile back and stick out your hand for her to shake it. She does so before letting you in. Before she leaves you be in the flat, to which some basic furniture had already been delivered, courtesy of Jim, she warns you about your upstairs neighbours. ‘I do hope you’ve read the warning about the noise carefully dear. Sherlock can be quite a lot with his antics.’ Despite not being too worried about the noise, having had to deal with plenty of situations which were significantly worse than a single man could accomplish, you make sure to assure her you’ll be fine. ‘Yes, of course Mrs Hudson. Noise does not tend to bother me very much and I’ll be away for work during the day, so I suppose I should be fine.’ You smile at her again before closing your door and starting to unpack. It is Sunday morning, so you want to try and unpack most of your things before the start of the workweek, tomorrow is your first day at Scotland Yard after all. Before you start unpacking though, you put in your earbuds and put on Radiohead’s album In Rainbows.

The day went by without much issue, or noise from the upstairs neighbours. Probably because Sherlock was on a case, as your employer had let you know. During that time, you’d hidden the last of your weapons in places which aren't deductible and gotten your image in check. Your persona was quite a boring one to be fair, and while there’s always a hint of truth in them to make it believable, your own life has a lot more excitement and risk. Still, that is something you have to intentionally hide from the brothers and their acquaintances. Looking at your watch, you decide it’s time to go to the shops, as you’d be likely to arrive once Sherlock’s already back and you’d have a reason to introduce yourself. ‘Bye Mrs Hudson. I’ll be back in a few.’ You close the door behind you and head out. When you return with a bag of food, you’re met by two men standing at the door. You immediately recognise them as Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson. ‘Excuse me, could you please step aside so I can get to my flat?’ You deliberately make your voice softer and quieter than it usually is as to come across as somewhat shy. The doctor steps aside without much hesitation while the detective just turns around and starts trying to deduce you. ‘You must be the new tenant. Nice to meet you, I’m John Watson.’ The short man smiles at you. You shake his hand before introducing yourself and turning to the taller man, though he isn’t much taller than you. ‘Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective.’ He looks you over once again. ‘You’re in the police force but no officer, your nails are too clean for that. You’re dressed as if you have a new job despite it being a Sunday, you’ve only brought clothes you wear to work, which means you don’t go out much or meet people in your free time. You prefer listening to music and reading books to social interactions.’ You feign surprise but are glad, those were all the markers you’d set for him to read. He turns around and heads up the stairs to 221B. ‘I’ll see you at Scotland Yard tomorrow.’ John quickly turns to you and apologises for his friend’s behaviour before following him up the stairs. He’s certainly a character. Didn’t notice a thing though. -S

I told you so, and that’s why I wanted you to do this. -JM

I’ll keep you updated. -S

[inspirationfandream]

Andrew Scott x Ana De Armas crossover

[asgards-princess-of-mischief]

Last Updated: 2024-04-03

Disclaimer: I am not the author of these stories, just sharing my favourite BBC!Jim Moriarty stories. Find the authors' links below. If you want your work removed, message me privately.

Legend: 〔E〕 ⇢ Erotic/Steamy | 〔F〕 ⇢ Fluff | 〔A〕 ⇢ Angst/Hurt 〔M〕 ⇢ Minor Angst/Hurt | 〔C〕 ⇢ Comfort | ♥︎ ⇢ Established Relationship | 𑁍 ⇢ Pregnancy/Children | 🚫 ⇢ Content Warning

✑ Little Holmes￨Prt. II￨Prt. III by deerstalkersanddangerousthoughts • 〔E᜶A᜶F〕 • ♥︎ •

✑ After You Love by lacelynpage • 〔F〕 •

Summary: "You meet the most puzzling person at a café..."

✑ Complicated [Soulmate!A.U.] by megs-mostly-random-fandoms • 〔A〕 •

Summary: "This was not at all how you expected meeting your soulmate would go..."

✑ Devil is a Gentleman, the by keravnous • 18+ • 〔E〕 • 🚫 •

Summary: "You started working at the National Gallery a couple of months ago. Today, the whole staff has gathered to give one of the most benevolent private sponsors a tour. What could possibly go wrong?"

✑ Doomed by make-me-imagine • 〔A〕 •

Summary: Jim never thought he'd fall in love. He never thought he was capable of it, so how can he convince you he loves you

✑ Landslide￨Prt. II by frost-queen • 〔A〕 •

Summary: When John and Sherlock attempt to use you as leverage against Jim, it forces you to come to terms with who exactly you've fallen in love with...

✑ Suprise Sweetie by frost-queen • 〔F〕 •

Summary: "Imagine going out on a date and Jim... surprises you by showing up and claiming you as his."

✑ You're Alive by make-me-imagine • 〔A〕 • ♥︎ •

Summary: You mourned Jim after he shot himself on that rooftop. Hurt, angry and confused you can't understand why he did it and why he never told you who he really was… Needless to say, when he miraculously appears in your apartment, doesn't get him the warm welcome he expected.

✑ Always by ladyalicesbookstore • 〔A〕 • ♥︎ •

✑ Deadly by bonniebird • 〔M〕 •

✑ Fight, the by writings-of-a-british-fangirl •

✑ Give Me a Show by rreader • 18+ • 〔E〕 • ♥︎ •

✑ Hostage by megs-mostly-random-fandoms • 〔E᜶F᜶A〕 •

✑ Like Father Like Son by thranduilsperkybutt •

✑ Midnight Swim by geeks-universe • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

✑ Miss Me? by justauthoring • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

✑ Moriarty's Secret by megs-mostly-random-fandoms • 〔A〕 • ♥︎ •

✑ Now Pet by lacelynpage • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

✑ Perfectly Serious by fandom-writers •

✑ Privilege by bonniebird • 〔M〕 •

✑ Problem by oneshots-imagines-and-that • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

✑ Rooftop Reservation by movedtosalamooneder • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

✑ Secrets by magicalthoughtsendinterribkefics • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ • 𑁍 •

✑ Sleepover by thepokyone • 〔F〕 •

✑ Swoon by bonniebird • 〔F〕 •

✑ We'll See by writings-of-a-british-fangirl •

✑ You Look Like You Need a Hug by make-me-imagine • 〔F᜶C〕 •

✑ Dating Jim as John's Sister… by charliesmdawn • 〔F᜶A〕 • ♥︎ •

✑ Dating Jim Moriarty... by lacelynpage • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

✑ Living w/ Jim Moriarty... by oneshots-imagines-and-that • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

See Also: Navigation || James 'Jim' Moriarty Master Index

Authors: @bonniebird || @charliedawn || @deerstalkersanddangerousthoughts || @fandom-writers || @frost-queen || @geeks-universe || @justauthoring || @keravnous || @lacelynpage || @ladyalicesbookstore || @magicalthoughtsendinterriblefics || @make-me-imagine || @megs-mostly-past-random-fandoms || @movedtosalamoonder || @oneshots-imagines-and-that || @rreader || @thepokyone || @thranduilsperkybutt || @writings-of-a-british-fangirl ||

[therapyandprozac]

Always! Wake Me Up!

This is my first fic in a while. I had my partner proofread and they liked it, I hope you do too! I wrote this very late at night and didn’t add a name so this is an any fandom you wish fic, basically this can work for any character.

****

     He has always been the sweetest to you, especially after a scene where he’s basically been beating you for 30 minutes. You're cuddled together on the bed, he’s half asleep up against your back. His foot is touching yours, so you try something that you saw on TikTok. You move your foot forward, just barely out of the way of his toes. It takes about 30 seconds for his half-asleep brain to understand what happened. When it does he jolts his foot back onto yours. You giggle quietly and try again, pulling your foot slowly away he reacts just as quickly but a little more aggressively this time. You decide to test your luck and pull away one more time. 

     Deep in the chest of your boyfriend, forms a dark growl that rises up into a rough “Mine!” As he fully twists your leg under his. Your eyes go wide and you squish your legs together, feeling your anticipating pussy send shivers up your spine. He falls back asleep and you keep squeezing your legs together chasing and craving an orgasm. 

     Your breathing increases and stutters, when behind you “Well,” vibrates through your body. You go stiff as a board pretending nothing happened when you notice pressure on your ass. You turn bright red and hot “He’s hard! I must have been rubbing against him, oh god, oh god.” You think in a panic. 

     “Mmm, my love.”

     “Yes.” You whisper, covering your eyes with your hands so fast. 

     “You woke me up.”

     “I know, I’m sorry!” You bury further into your hands. 

     “No, you're not.” With a smile on his lips that you hear but can’t see, you curl into a ball of embarrassment. He chuckles and pulls you up and over his legs so you’re straddling him. “Does my baby need more?” He says as you bury your face into his shoulder. “Mmm you were just tied to the vibrator for an hour Darlin, I even lost count of how many times my pussy came tonight.” He said moving his hand possessively to your clit and teasing you. Your shoulders drop against him as you moan and your body involuntarily shakes. He laughs and waits for you to sit back up. His voice is rough with sleep “You want more?” he asks. You nod your head from behind your hands. “Words, angel.” He says gently pulling your hands away from your face. 

     “Yes, yes please.” You whisper avoiding his gaze. 

     “You’re so hot mmm, I want you to ride me.” He says running his fingertips up and down your thighs, you nod pleadingly. “Mm, that's my good girl.” 

     You groan, beginning to grind against his dick. You sit up on your knees to line him up, using his tip to play with your clit. You tease him by just barely taking it in, just the head over and over until he groans impatiently and pulls you all the way onto him. You yelp and moan as your hand falls to his chest, he has an evil smile and tired eyes. You lose just about all shame as you grind your hips up and down on him. Taking in everything he gave, feeling it rip out and rush back in. He was the perfect size for you, enough to fill you good and tight but big enough to cause that slightly painful stretch you’ve grown addicted to. 

     You never lasted long on top, because you knew where your g spot was and exactly how to use his dick to fuck yourself senseless. Gasps and moans escape your lips as he just smiles that coy smile, loving watching you bounce on him. It isn’t long until you are so close to coming you beg for help and he chuckles. He grabs your hips in his hands and starts rolling thrusts up into you. You collapse your face back, buried in his shoulder, moaning uncontrollably.

     “Please, please, please!” You gasp so close. He moans but doesn’t say anything. “Mm please, daddy please let me cum.” He groans sitting up pushing you flat on your back. One more dark chuckle as he loses himself in your pussy. Thrusting, pushing and pulling, so fast you’re eyes roll to the back of your head. He hits deep and hard as you cum, short circuiting your brain. He groans but keeps the same speed and your pussy is crying from overstimulation. That beautiful rain before the sun, the pain overtakes your writhing body before it shifts, and it feels like heaven is running through your veins again. 

      “Ahh mmm daddy, daddy please cum inside me please!” You choke out between moans. He groans and keeps plowing into your sweet cunt until you cry out in ecstasy, cumming for the final time tonight. You can feel him pulse as he cums violently inside you. He is groaning and grunting while still pushing and pulling in and out of you. He has his arms to either side of your head as he slows, his breathing shutters as he pulls out of you. 

     “Mmm, I can’t believe you almost didn’t wake me up.” He whispers in your ear. “Always. Wake me up!” He growls.

[unusuallysubtext]

Your Sherlock Life

Guys, I'm pretty free tonight. Or any time. Send asks with an intro of yourself or an oc and I'll pair you with BBC Sherlock characters (romantic or platonic, whatever you want), and headcanons.

If youre stuck on what to write, here's a list of (hopefully) helpful stuff:

Love language (either platonic or romantic: gifts, holding hands, touch, forehead kisses etc)

Dying your hair/piercings/nails

Fashion style

Ideal home (type of house/family dynamic)

Things you're into (hyperfixations)

Things you're good at (hobbies, skills)

Ideal future (marriage? Kids? Having a little bakery in the middle of london?)

Let me know if you want a male/female/doesn't matter pairing.

[badsweetangel]

Infidelity (Sherlock BBC x Reader)

Sherlock BBC characters' reaction to finding out you've cheated on them.

Warnings: Toxic relationship with Lestrade, Moriarty is a threat in himself, slight power play.

Sherlock

He feels alienated. He has to deal with his jealousy, because he likes constant validation, so if you take it away from him he feels displaced. He doesn't suffer much from the deception itself, because everyone knows what it's like, but he does suffer because it couldn't be enough. Once everything is over, they just look at each other from afar, suddenly he sketches a smile, but he can't trust you anymore.

John Watson

Actually, I think you could get over it. If it was a one-time thing, he would try hard to understand if you wanted to explain (after some time alone, of course). And if he feels your reasons are valid, he would give you a second chance. However, there are never third chances.

James Moriarty

Okay, he's done it before. However, if there's a mutual agreement of monogamy, I think his revenge would simply be to take away his protection. Everyone knows you're involved with him and many might actually hate you. So, he wouldn't be there to protect you anymore. You better avoid cheating on him, he's a dangerous man.

Mycroft Holmes

You can't. Yes, that simple. You can't cheat on him. He knows where you are all the time and even if he didn't send people to follow you, he would still know. He has a very marked power over you and I really doubt you would expose yourself to something like that. In the super hypothetical case that you could, he would simply disappear from your life.

Greg Lestrade

You remain in a toxic relationship where he knows what's going on, but neither of you discuss it directly. He would just want to win your favor over and over again. Please don't cheat on him, he's a good man.

[actually-mentally-ill]

why are some of the hottest tv men always the biggest criminals 🧍‍♀️

like how am i supposed to hate you when you’re ripped, tall, dangerous, blue-eyed with a leather jacket?

[keravnous]

it's a man's world ; jim moriarty/reader (smut, 18+)

part i | playlist:you're moriarty's favourite toy

Jim likes to show off his possessions. Especially, when all the the small flies in his web are present.

word count: 10,1k

warnings: kinda non-con, power play, gun kink, public, degradation, oral (male receiving), facial, grinding on the tip of his shoes/getting yourself off, corruption kink if you blink, name calling ; sebastian moran has a cameo bc I am still mad we didn't get to see hiddleston in that role, irene is also there (besties alert), death, blood, light misogyny if you blink/power imbalance, jim has his whole army of super-criminals around for an annual gathering so beware of the stereotypes , i googled bri-ish roadman slang for this so please forgive me

inspired by that one "hello james" spectre scene

v said moriarty strikes them as the "expressive type", sooo I'll blame this on you bestie

You look down on the thin fabric in your hands. This surely isn't all, there has to be more.

You carefully drop the dress onto your bed and scram through the box and its expensive wrapping paper once more to find it - empty. Nothing, except a matching pair of longsleeved gloves and a thong in the same soft nude colour.

The material is just as sheer as the dress is, a soft rose tone, interwoven by hundreds of small crystals. They sparkle in the dim light of your bedroom.

This is a joke. He's gotta be joking.

You pick up the dress - if one can even call it that - again and give it a closer look. You are very sure that this isn't supposed to be worn on a night out, this is a bedroom-exclusive. It's long and sleeveless, with a deep neckline and a halter-neck, closed with a string of what looks suspiciously like multiple diamonds dangling from it.

You walk over to the closed door, leaning against it. You can hear Mister Moran and his colleague chatting quietly on the other side. Should you ask?

The fabric is light and soft in your hand and you tilt it in the dimly lit room. It sparkles and you can see through nearly completely, your painted nails shining through. You definitely should ask.

"A-are you, uhm, Mister Moran are you there?", you lean your forehead against the cold wooden door, taking one or two deep breaths. The low murmur ebbs, your cat meows and then there's footsteps, followed only a second later by a soft knock on the door. It rings in your ears.

"Are you ready, Miss?"

"Yeah, uh, no. I have a question, I reckon."

Silence. "Alright, Miss."

You swallow.

"A-are you sure, that this is all? All h-he bought, I mean."

There's a slight chuckle. "I was reassured by Mister Moriarty that the package is complete, Miss. So yes, this might as well be it."

"Jesus", you huff.

"Please, do hurry up."

"I am not leaving the house like this", your mouth is quicker than your brain and you can hear Moran freezing behind the door.

"I fear, that will be non-negotiable."

"I will not-"

"Don't keep him waiting."

You burst out a dry laugh, one, that catches in your throat. "I am nearly naked in this."

The other side falls silent. Where there was shuffling and rustling before and someone talking to your cat, is now dead silence.

Moran clears his throat. "I have my orders, Miss. We are already running late."

You shake your head. "Call him, then. I am not-"

"You do not wanna do this", the tone of his voice now has you falling dead silent in a heartbeat, a sudden cold creeping up your spine, "We may offer you a coat. Now, please, do get ready."

You swallow. "Are you certain?", your voice is a lot more silent now, giving away your blooming surrender and anxiety.

"Yes, Miss. I am afraid I am."

You nod and let go of a shaky breath, hand slowly lowering on the door. Its wooden surface is cold beneath your touch.

You know a warning when you hear one.

__

Even though Mister Moran and his colleague (the one talking to your cat), just as the driver, had been very respectful and discreetly kept their gazes away from you, you can still feel your nervosity rising. Jim hadn't told you where you would be meeting him - actually, until roughly an hour ago you didn't know at all that you'd be leaving the house tonight.

You had come home from work and ordered some food from your favourite Indian restaurant, readying yourself for a cosy night in - as the doorbell rang. It hadn't been the delivery service, but three men in black suits, with concealed weapons and a beige, large gift box.

You take a look out of the window as the rainy city passes by. London is pretty when it's dark out, warm lights and people rushing by, as used to the rain as they are to breathing. The driver hammers down on the gas and the engine roars, as the lights switches from red to green.

"Where are we going?", you ask as you pass Hyde Park. Moran sits next to you, the middle seat between the two of you is empty except for your ridiculously small purse. His eyes are fixed on the road ahead, visible between the two front seats. The rain patters on the roof and runs down the thick window panes, while some female singer's sultry voice, most likely from the 50s, fills the warm air. You fumble with the expensive rings on your fingers. Moran had discreetly handed them over to you while you were doing your make-up. They are made of crisp and bright, huge rose diamonds and - you recognize one of them. Monique told you, months ago, that it was sold at Sotheby's for an eight-figure sum, showed you pictures and you joked about who could possibly be rich enough to own such a piece. Now it sits between multiple other diamond rings on your ring finger, gleams in the light.

"Brompton, Miss. We will arrive shortly."

You know the district more from the colourful front pages of the tabloids - spotting their lurid guise when hurrying by newspaper stands on your way to the tub - than seeing it in person. The area is significantly above your pay grade anyways.

"Brompton?", you echo only to then - desperately scrambling for any conversation to not fall into uncomfortable silence once more - add, "Must be difficult to get a table anywhere there, I reckon. How did he managed to get a reservation?"

"Reservation?", he turns his head around and looks at you, eyebrows raised in confusion. O-kay.

"Yes?", you blink at him, once twice, "I- I thought I'd meet him for dinner?"

"No", comes the curt answer.

Oh, that's - well, odd. Jim usually takes you out for dinner and fucks you senseless on the backseat of his Aston Martin. It has become kind of a routine the two of you have fallen into, fucking once or twice a week, making you feel less lonely and taking care of the ache between your legs.

You catch yourself still looking at Mister Moran, not knowing what to say next. So much for keeping up small talk.

"May I remind you, that today is the 15th, Miss", he suddenly says, looking straight ahead, expression pretty much unreadable.

You fall silent for a moment, your eyebrows drawn together in confusion - you have no clue what that's supposed to mean. "Yeah, and -", you startle, "Oh shit. It's not his birthday, or is it?"

Now it's his turn to be silent, visibly confused. You are certain that a minute passes by, before his gaze quickly drops to the passenger seat, where the other man in a black suit sits. His eyes meet Moran's in the rear-view mirror.

"She doesn't know", the man murmurs. It's the first time you hear him speak all night, except the muted words that passed through your closed bedroom door when he was talking to your cat.

"That she doesn't, indeed."

"Where are we going?", you can hear yourself ask again, sounding far away in your own ears, rising anxiety hardening your voice.

Mister Moran looks back at you. For a split second - you won't actually be certain later that you did not in fact imagine it - a small smile tugs at the corners of his lips.

"Mister Moriarty is hosting a very special party tonight, Miss. It is not his birthday, may I add. It's more like a - well, a gala of sorts."

Oh.

You already open your mouth to ask A gala, why? What for? as the car comes to a halt in front of a massive bronze gate. A hundred years ago or so it would've gleamed golden in the warm hue of the street lights but it has turned into a dirty green-ish since then. The driver rolls down the window and exchanges some hushed words with the porter, who quickly opens the gate. It rolls open lazily, giving way to a long gravelly path. The engine roars and the car rolls forward, as you take in the scenery passing by your window.

Behind the massive stone walls, a neatly trimmed park awaits, with large trees and lush, green grass. The leaves bend under the heavy rainfall and the grass shimmers in the old lamplights lining the path. The park is divided by grey gravel that crunches under the wheels of the armoured vehicle, as it makes its way through the avenue of linden trees and warm lights.

The house - mansion, more like - that comes up on a plaza after a few minutes looks like it may have been built in the 19th century, with its adorned sandstone walls and large balconies. You didn't know such places existed, resting carefully hidden away smack in the city.

"Is this his property?", you breathe out, all anxiety swallowed by awe, as the car takes a turn around the fountain in front of the entrance portal, the engine slowly dying down. Moran hums deeply in his throat and nods. You blink.

You remember the first time you met Jim at the museum. He had something about him, apart from the way he treated you, that screamed power with every movement, every word, every gaze. He looked like money, breathed money. It's still a mystery to you, what his profession is - just as it is a mystery to you, which profession could possibly make someone that wealthy. It's got to be old money but then again, Moriarty wasn't and still isn't a name that rings any bells in that regard.

You come to realize again that you still don't know much about him - you don't know what his job is (something important by the looks of it - government, finances?), you don't know what his favourite food is, you don't know what music he likes to listen to - jesus, you don't even know where he lives.

You take another look out of the window. Now might be your chance. You're grasping at straws but maybe Moran will be of help.

"Does he live here?"

"No, Miss."

You want to know more, Where then - Does he life alone - Am I just an affair - Is he here often, but someone opens the car's door on your side. Cool air sweeps into the vehicle and you are greeted by the friendly face of an elderly man. He wears a livrée and white gloves, reaches out with one hand to help you out of the car. There's another man in a livrée, a little younger, holding a large black umbrella.

"Good evening, Miss - Mister Moran, good to see you, as always", he has a strong Irish accent, "Mister Moriarty is awaiting your presence in the Grande Hall. May I show you the way, Miss?"

You nod, taken aback by the sight that opens up to you as soon as both your feet stand on the gravel. There are at least thirty men - armed men - alongside the massive stair case. They look like they are guarding the place - straightened back, guns at the ready. You don't know much about firearms but you do watch the news so it's not that difficult to spot an assault rifle when you see one.

"Oh, don't be bothered by them", the elderly man smiles and seemingly means it, "They are here for everyone's safety. No need to be nervous, Miss."

Your hands close in around your purse until your knuckles turn white, arms wrapping tightly around your own figure. You don't necessarily feel safer with a few dozen of heavily armed men sporting semi-automatic weapons.

A thought creeps up on you, a little voice whispering in the back of your head, growing louder with every second that you look at the armed security guards. This is not what a private gathering of an investment banker or finance mogul looks like - there's only really one possibility left and you'd really rather not think about it.

"Shall we?", the elderly man turns towards the entrance and you don't really feel like having much of a choice left. Thus, you nod and make your way over the gravel and up the stair case. The gravel crunches wetly underneath the heels of your shoes and Moran follows right behind you, carrying his own umbrella. The armed men lining the staircase don't look at you, fingers resting on the trigger of their guns, suits wetted by the rain. Your head swims a little and you feel your fight or flight kicking in. But there's nowhere to run, with thirty automatic guns surrounding you and Moran right behind you.

"Oh, but where are my manners!", the elderly man suddenly stops and rips you out of your thoughts, his smile tearing the dark clouds apart. He looks genuinely friendly and it calms your nerves the slightest. "My name is Charles, Miss. I am Mister Moriarty's butler - since Dublin, may I add", he sounds proud and you wonder why, since you have no clue what happened in Dublin - but Charles seems to think, that you're familiar with whatever happened back then. Luckily, Mister Moran also seems to be a psychic.

"He has served as Mister Moriarty's butler since he's been a little boy."

"Exactly", Charles nods and beams, "I was once responsible for the whole family. The master was still a child when his parents had this horrible accident."

Something tells you, that it maybe wasn't much of an accident.

"I was responsible for his brother as well, but he moved out early", he starts to climb the stairs again and you hurry to follow, trying not to be hit by the steady downpour of rain.

"It was right after that boy from his swimming class drowned, such a tragedy", the elderly man suppresses an exhausted groan as he reaches the top of the stairs and Moran is quick to pass by and hold open the door. You can't help but notice that they all - the driver, Moran, the colleague, the butler, the small militia - seem to work like a well-oiled machine. They could be blindfolded and still find their place on this large, strange chess board. You enter behind Charles and are greeted by a warmly lit entrance hall. The walls are high and covered by old tapestry, adorned by solid golden panelling. There are low hanging, gigantic chandeliers with sparkling stones and seating groups of Mies van der Rohe's design classics. The low glass tables are full of empty champagne glasses and opened bottles, a few cigars still gleaming.

There's no one here.

"The meeting is already in progress", Charles says - more to Moran than to you, "He will not be pleased that she's late. Not to mention your absence, Sebastian."

"Well, he didn't really give us much time to prepare accordingly, now did he?", Moran smiles and it looks charming but is so so cold that it runs a shiver down your spine. There's something very predatory about him, something you noticed earlier, too. It's in his movement, his voice, his stern gaze - he's like a bloodthirsty animal on a leash. It hits you like a train: the sudden realization that he's one thing and one thing only - dangerous.

"Well, of course", the elderly man bows a little and nods, turn around to you, "May I take your coat, Miss?"

Your hands are shaking, as Charles offers you a hand. You really rather wouldn't. The thick, dark wool was like a shield and you don't feel comfortable taking it away. Your gaze is caught by Moran.

"You're late", he simply says and you actually fear him and thus, you comply.

You take a deep breath, anxiety crawling up your spine as you slowly take the fabric off. Charles is very respectful, keeps his eyes on the ground and so does Moran.

You are certain, that they aren't only doing it for you, for your comfort. They are doing it for themselves as well, frightful and knowing of what would happen if you were to tell Jim, that his men can't keep their gazes to themselves.

"Thank you", you can hear yourself say through the thundering of your heart, power surging through your veins at the thought that somehow, only just a little, they are at your mercy, too. It makes your head spin, the strangeness of the thought mingling with the surge of adrenaline that comes with it.

"You're welcome, Miss", Charles takes your purse, too and you want to protest - Don't take it away, I need to hold onto something - but you don't, inner resistance already beaten to death, spitting blood and crawling on the floor of your brain, "Sebastian, why don't you bring her inside?"

Moran nods - "Over here, please" - and offers you his arm. You carefully place one hand in the crook of his elbow as he walks you over to the massive wooden doors that nearly reach the ceiling. There's this feeling again, that you felt at the museum all those months ago, as your colleagues straightened their backs, checked their clothes. Like it's a familiar automatism you do it now, too - shoulders rolling back, your free hand straightening the dress. The diamonds lightly bounce against your naked back, reminding you of how little of a garment you're actually wearing.

"Don't disappoint him", Moran says before he opens one wing of the massive doors. There's warm, dim light streaming out of the room and you can hear someone speaking. As you enter the room, Moran carefully lets go of your arm.

There are a few dozen people sitting around a huge oval mahogany table, its polished surface shining in the dim lights of the huge, low hanging chandeliers. It's mostly men, just two of them are women. A young man, wrapped in street clothes that probably cost more than your yearly rent, is currently leaning forward on the massive wooden table, box braids falling into his face at the sudden movement. He's the one you heard speaking, thick south-side accent swirling around his sentences.

"-wasteman, y'know like, from my ends, innit? I'll hook'em up wiv you, guv -"

The door behind you falls shut as Moran closes it. Their heads snap up at the sudden sound and around to you.

"Whew, shit", the man next to one who had been speaking - wrapped in expensive street wear as well and in even more expensive jewellery, shimmering in the light - leans forward, "Fuckin' peng ting."

There's someone clearing their throat, the sound echoing from the walls. You know the sound, by heart. The man's head snaps around.

"Shit, sorry Big G, she wiv you?", there's no further reaction coming from Jim and the man raises his hands in a defensive manner, voice breaking a little, "Aight, man, aight. Cool, imma back off, don't be vexed."

You don't know what to do, hands folded uselessly in front of you.

The room is larger than you would've ever imagined and your first guess is, that it had been a ball room once, a couple of hundred years ago. Now, there's only the large, oval table standing right in the middle of the room. The walls are high, with dark wooden panelling that only breaks to give to way to a long gallery, which has balconies reaching into the room. There are, what you guess are at least a few hundred people, standing up there, vanishing in the dark of the gallery. Their gazes burn on your skin.

You look back straight ahead. The table in front of you is a few dozen feet long and at the end, hidden partially by shadows, sits Moriarty. You don't have to see his face to recognize him, feel his gaze on your body.

"That won't be necessary", his voice cuts through the silence and you blink as you realize, that he isn't talking to you, "You" - he lazily points to another man sitting at the far end of the table, right infront of you and you can only see the back of his head - "Wasn't that supposed to be taken care of by your people?"

He's scrambling for words, obviously coming up with an excuse, but you don't bother to listen, gaze flickering over the people sitting at the table. One of the women is still looking at you and you catch her gaze.

She has a stern, cold look in her eyes - the one of a matriarch, with her dark hair pulled back neatly in an impressive updo, lips painted dark red. You can't help being transfixed by her as she slowly tilts her head and - smiles.

You blink. Is she -? She is, expression thawing a little as she looks at you with a mixture of pride and approval. Her gaze and its implication pools around your brain, seeps into it and sets a fresh wave of adrenaline free, that runs straiiight into your legs. She's encouraging you.

Your body takes over your brain as you start to move. The sound of your heels meeting the polished wooden floor echoes from the wall as you make your way over to Moriarty. Step by step you can feel yourself growing more and more confident, arms gracefully resting at your sides as you strut through the room. You can feel a couple of eyes following you and, as you pass the lady with the red lips, she nods.

It has pure, raw power pumping through your veins, erupting in your stomach and spreading between your shoulder blades, has your chin rising up a little. You come to realize, that he's brought you here for a reason and you're ready to meet - no, to exceed - his expectations.

As you come closer you can see what's on the table in front of him. A notepad and an expensive fountain pen, a glass with what looks like hard liquor and -

a gun.

There's a gun on the table, in an arm's reach.

If you'd be a little more familiar with firearms, you'd be able to classify it as a Glock. It is loaded, clip snugly pressed to the base. It's his gun. It's got to be.

You swallow. He has a gun. The next thought makes you go dizzy, knees going a little weak: he most likely knows how to use it, too.

Moriarty doesn't look at you as you approach him, eyes still fixed on the man at the end of the table. The man, who had been stumbling over words and rushed excuses, falls silent as you make your last few steps over to Moriarty.

"Go on", Jim says to him, hand gesturing lazily and he already sounds bored.

You know that a bored Jim, is a dangerous Jim. They all look at him, frightened, tense. There's only one person not transfixed by Moriarty.

It's the lady with the red lipstick. She's still smiling, eyes roaming over your face. And then her lips move, mouthing something, passing on Jim's words to you - go on.

There's this feeling surging through your veins like electricity again - power. And like a puppet on her strings, you straighten your back, leaning down towards Moriarty, one hand resting on his shoulder, arm flat on his back. He's warm beneath your touch, breathing slowly. The gloves on your hands and their little crystals shimmer in the dim light, like a nebula against his dark blue suit, the diamond rings its little planets.

"Honey", you rasp, tongue taking over brain, "I'm here." Your lips dance over his cheek as you speak and his slight stubble prickles on your lips. You press them down, the sound of a soft, short kiss filling the quiet room. His scent wraps you around like a thick cloud and you close your eyes, take it in. It's your favourite cologne of his- warm and rich, vanilla, musk and herbs. It makes your stomach tingle and has raw, utter want pooling in your lower body.

There's a warm hand sneaking up your hips and waist, that rubs along your curves and then forcefully grabbing your figure and pushing you back. A small surprised noise escapes your throat and then he's looking at you - finally.

Moriarty's eyes roam over your body, thumb caressing your ribs, right below your breast. He hums deep in his throat and then presses his thumb against your left tit, lets it bounce a little. The material of the dress rubs over your slightly hardened nipples and the sensation pulls at your strings, sends shivers down down down your spine to your loins. Jim hums once more and your blood sings with it: sings with the unspoken praise, with his unspoken approval.

You hold his gaze, cheeks growing a little warm with his attention, as he suddenly speaks up.

"You, I said go on", Jim snaps the fingers of his free hand in the direction of the man on the other side of the table. His other hand is roaming over your tit, coming to a rest on your shoulder and then presses down.

"Kneel", his voice is deep and you blink, transfixed by his gaze. He looks cold, colder than usual, his face hardened and unmoving, gaze distanced and demanding. You swallow, ears ringing.

"Kneel", he says again, a lot more forceful this time and you obey, slowly but surely - like your body isn't yours anymore - sinking down on your knees right beside him, facing his side. The diamonds dangling at your back clink as they are being thrown against each other by the sudden movement.

Jim's eyes hold your gaze on the whole way down and for a short moment, they gleam. Boredom torn at the edges with excitement.

His hand crawls up your cheek, warm but it makes goosebumps spread across your body like his touch is freezing cold, patting you a little. And then he smiles, before looking away and at the stranger, again.

Your heart is racing as you follow his gaze and notice that they all stare at you. Not just them, the people on the gallery as well. The lady with the red lips still smiles, lowering her head a little in approval.

"I told you to go on, didn't I?", Jim sounds cold and one of your hands, obediently resting in your lap, darts out, stretches itself out on his left thigh.

His gaze momentarily drops down and to your hand, adorned by crystals and diamonds and then towards you. The look in Moriarty's eyes and the fact that he doesn't swat your hand away makes your stomach flutter. He looks away again and you take the chance, let your eyes roam over the sharp profile of his face, across his cheeks as they take in his slight stubble, dark lashes and the one loose strand of hair that falls into his face.

"I-", the man clears his throat, "We are certain that within the next month - that there will be a solution to the issue, w-within in the next month."

Jim leans back in his chair, spreading his legs a little. He's silent for a long moment.

"The next month?"

"Yes, Sir."

"And d'you think, that will do?"

Silence. And then: "N-no, Sir."

"Good. Then why exactly aren't you doing something about it?"

"There's nothing I could-"

Moriarty's expression shuts him up. He falls silent and so does the room.

"This keeps happening", Jim sighs dramatically and then lets his gaze roam over the gallery, where a hundred or so men and women stand, looking down at him in obedience, "Look at them. They would kill to sit where you are. And yet, you disappoint me."

Moriarty tilts his head and looks at the man on the other side of the table.

"I think, I'll do them a favour", he sing-songs and then suddenly, with a speed you didn't expect, grabs his gun. It clicks and then the gunshot rips through the silence, bullet tearing through the man's forehead with military precision.

You jump at the sound and can barely contain a sharp scream escaping your lips, starring down the hall at the now dead body.

The man slumps in his chair and then sacks forward, his upper body falling onto the table with a loud thud.

No one flinches at the sound. You're the only one.

He killed a man.

Shot him.

In cold blood.

Didn't even think about it.

You want to scream, to run, to -

There's a little noise on the gallery. "Come down", Jim sighs, "And do better. I hate wasting bullets." There's a slight rustle upstairs, like they're fighting, but you can't really hear anything else over your heartbeat thundering in your ears.

You want to throw up. Your hands start to shake, palms growing wet with cold sweat.

"Oh poppet, are you afraid?", he sing-songs, pouts at you playfully, "Don't be" - there's someone screaming upstairs, right after what sounded like a knife being drawn - "Daddy would never hurt you", Jim's hand darts out, fingers spreading over your scalp and slowly caressing your hair and the skin beneath, rubbing his hand in a soothing, circular motion. It messes up your hair but it feels - good.

"Are you quite done up there?", he raises his voice - bored bored bored -, "I've got better things to do."

His hand drops to you neck, rubs over it, thumb carefully pressing against the nape of it. It does calm you down, surprisingly so.

You turn into puddy under his soft touch, head spinning and breath slowing down, the thundering of your heart turning into a slow rumble.

"Good girl", he whispers, "I'd never hurt you."

And with the way his voice rings in your head, like it's slooowly starting to creep its way into the curves and alleyways of your brain, you start to believe him.

You hum - safe with him safe with him safe with him - and lean into his touch. The sound of a pair of sharp footsteps echoes from the tall walls and as you look up, a man hoists the slumped body up - blood drips down the dead man's forehead and it squeaks as he lifts him from the red puddle on the dark mahogany - like he weighs nothing, throws him out of the chair and onto the ground. The body falls to the floor like a heavy pillow. This time you don't flinch.

"Here I am, Sir", he has a French accent.

"I can see that", Jim sighs and the gun clicks again as a bullet snaps into the barrel. The gun dangles from his hand as he gestures with it.

He doesn't need to say more, the French man understanding immediately what is asked of him. "I can assure you, that we have the most secure routes from Mexico to Marseille. That means roughly - uh, how do you say - cent-soixante tonnes de poids a month."

"160 tons a month, Sir", the other woman says and you can hear papers rustling, "We had 70 tons coming in over Felixstowe last month."

"Any contesters to that?", Moriarty sing-songs and looks around the room, slowly lets his gaze wander over the balconies. There's only silence.

He seems content. "Sit", he gestures with his gun and you hear the screeching of a chair on the other end of the room, "Looks like we won't need this anymore." You watch the stranger sitting down, a servant rushing over to clean the table. The cloth quickly soaks up the blood, white linen replaced by red red red. "Merci", the man says and the servant bows, before hastily returning to the shadows of the room.

Moriarty's head turns towards you, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Would you mind to open up f'me, sweetheart?"

You look at him, blinking - once, twice. Your eyes dart over to the gun he's still holding. You know what he wants. His gaze bores into you.

Your head's a little dizzy, like your brain is wrapped in hot cotton candy that slowly but steadily seeps into every single remaining pore of your body. Your stomach flutters a little at the thought, the implied danger has your breath hitching in your throat.

You know what he wants. And - as you come to realize - you start to want it, too.

And thus, you nod - "As you wish, Sir" - and part your lips, tongue darting out willingly, as he smiles and pushes the barrel of the gun into your mouth - safety still off, his finger on the trigger. The metal is still warm by the fired shot and heavy on your tongue, the taste of it spreading in your mouth.

Moriarty presses it in deep, the movement forcing you to lay your head back, until you can feel it hit your palate and you suck in a sharp breath through your nose. It gets you hot all over and you know, you should be afraid since he just bloody shot someone but you can't bring yourself to care. Your blood sings with being at his mercy, with the way he looks down and at you - all glory and gore, a king with no crown.

They all stare at you, but you only have eyes for Jim - looking up at him through your lashes, gun resting between your lips.

He hums deep in his throat, clicks his tongue. "Mhm", he rasps, "Atta girl."

You beam. "Keep it warm f'me, yes?", Jim tilts his head a little and you nod as best as you can.

His left arm rests calmly on the arm of the chair, slightly bend with the gun resting in your mouth, trigger pressed against your chin. Your heart races in your chest, gaze set on him, who orders the next henchman to report on his business.

There's something about him, how leisurely he lounges in his chair, how casually he handled that gun, how he shoved it into your mouth that makes your loins grow hot. Jesus, you're fucked.

"Edith."

"Yes, Sir", it's the woman again, "Next on the agenda is the usage of the Aquarius Software since we took over the NEA company last march. Since then, we've gained access to at least ten different governments, their respective leaders and a handful of influential politicians - just in the past two months. But maybe we should hear Mister Sharev about this, if you wouldn't mind, Sir?"

"No, no. Go ahead", Moriarty's hand tilts the gun and shoves it even deeper in your mouth and you gag around the barrel, saliva gathering around it and dripping down your chin. Your eyelids flutter and you relax your chin, taking a few deep breaths through your nose. Your hand, still covered by the thin glove, slightly presses into his thigh, desperate for leverage.

It's like someone put a spell on you, with the way you look at him, watching how he tilts his head as the CEO starts to announce his company's goals and aims to furthermore undermine the world's leading governments. His thigh is still warm beneath your touch and you can feel his muscles clench a little beneath the thick, expensive fabric of his slacks. Odd. Your gaze drops down to your hand and - he's hard. His dick is hard, pressing against the dark blue of his pants.

You wish you could move your head, just to look at it . The palm of your hand starts to tingle, as a familiar pulling sensation pools in your lower stomach and travels further down, right between your legs.

Long forgotten is the dead man lying on the floor and bleeding out, shot with the gun you got between your lips - all you can think about is feeling him. Jim's leg is unbearably hot beneath your fingers and you experimentally let them wander up his thigh a little.

Jim doesn't react and thus, you feel tempted to try further, fingers dancing over his thigh where the flesh grows warmer, on its way up to his crotch. Your fingers dart out and you find what they seek, digits dancing over his hard dick, pressing firmly against the dark blue fabric and straining it. You wish you could really look at it.

Your eyes flash up to Moriarty's face and you can see him grin and it sets a wave free, hot shivers running from your scalp down down down over your back to your loins until they're ignited in your crotch and erupt in wetness between your legs.

Your fingers close around the bulge, his cock hot and thick and long, pulsating underneath your hand and your eyelids flutter. You can feel saliva gathering on your tongue as you come to realize that you miss its taste. The gun still presses against your tongue and your brain surrenders itself to the wetness pooling between your legs and the steadily growing want crawling in your stomach, clawing at your skin. It's better than nothing and your brain willingly conjurs up the illusion.

Your tongue rubs alongside the rough surface of the gun's barrel, metallic taste slowly being replaced by your brain with Jim's usual musky and salty taste. You whine, thighs clenching a little, as you suck the barrel deeper into your mouth. Your tongue finds the muzzle and rubs over it, imagines it to be smaller and warmer, giving away first drops of cum, not thin air.

The man is still talking but you can't be bothered to listen to him. The thought of Jim's dick makes you wet, aching for him to just touch you, fingers running over his clothed dick, thumb rubbing over its bottom. You can feel it twitch beneath the expensive fabric.

Your head starts to move, back and forth on the gun barrel like it's Moriarty cock and you feel him up as you do, hand closing in again, massaging him through his pants until -

"Shut up for a second", and Sharev does, clasps his hands in front of him, "Someone's down here has been a bad bad girl." He turn his head around and pouts at you playfully and leaning in closer.

"You want the real thing, don'tcha?", he murmurs and slooowly pulls the gun out of your mouth. There's a string of saliva connecting it to your lower lip that eventually riiips and dribbles down your chin. His dick is hot and pulses against your palm, underneath your thin gloves. Your jaw already hurts a little, a bit sore with keeping your mouth open but you nod, a small whine escaping your throat. There's nothing else left on your mind but his dick, feeling him, tasting him, making him feel good and being rewarded with bitter-sweet praise.

"Look at you, little dumb whore - can't even listen to the grown-ups talking for half an hour."

His thumb strokes over your swollen lip, corner of his mouth tilting up a little, while it wanders up up up, over your cheek and into your hair where he grabs a fistful of it and pulls. It stings, as he roughly manoeuvres you in front of him and you scramble on your knees, hands darting over his legs and the chair for any sort of leverage.

"Off you go then, sweetheart", he hums as you're finally kneeling in front of him.

It feels like someone pulled the plug to your brain as you dash forward - ready to please please please. There are a few hundred pairs of eyes set on you - on your body, visible and exposed in the sparkling dress, eyes hungry and hair a mess - but you don't care, can't bring yourself to. What are they going to do? Tell someone? He'll have them executed. The certainty of the thought makes your blood sing, your thoughts swim and you look up at him.

Moriarty's expression is unreadable, masked by his usual coldness, corners of his mouth tilted like he's bored.

Don't be boring don't be boring don't be boring his sing-song echoes in your skull and as your hands make haste with the fly of his slacks you come to realize: you turned into his private version of a pavlovian dog. Drooling, panting, desperate for attention and praise.

You don't even flinch as the damp barrel of the gun suddenly presses down - riiight onto the middle of your forehead. He could blast your lights out right now, execute you on the spot. It should terrify you, grab you by the throat and pull you out of that fucking trance he's lured you into but it just - doesn't.

Instead, you moan.

The sound echoes off of the walls and Jim chuckles, low and deep in his throat.

"Oh, ain't you just pretty", he grins and it gets you going, spurs you on and makes your cheeks turn red as your blood sings with the only thought your mind's able to conjure up - worship him worship him worship him.

One of your hands, still wrapped in the expensive gloves, darts out and takes his hard dick out of his pants, his boxers. It's hot and heavy in your palm, tip glistening with precum.

A thought creeps up on you. He let's you do this, he let's you suck his cock in public, puts on you in the spotlight. He could've picked someone else; you're convinced he could've - but he didn't.

He chose you.

Your eyelids flutter as you become aware once more of all the eyes boring into your back and it turns you on, knowing that he's showing you off, publicly marking you as his.

Moriarty hisses as the soft material of your gloves starts to stroke him, lips curling up in a smile, all teeth and gleaming eyes. He's looking down at you, brown eyes so so dark and you feel like falling into the void, barrel of the gun pressing down harder on your forehead.

Oddly enough, you trust him.

"Atta girl, suck Daddy's cock real good", he sing-songs, mischievous grin tugging at his lips and you obey to him, saliva pooling around your tongue as you lean in, licking a fat stripe from the base of his dick to the top.

"Sooo", he nearly sighs as he watches you taking the tip of his dick into your mouth, before he looks back up at Mister Sharev, "My secretary was so nice to inform me about the status of the current project. All still in order?"

"Yes, Sir. We are currently-", you can't bring yourself to listen, with the taste of his dick fogging up your mind in rapid speed. You swirl your tongue around its tip, lips wrapping around the warm flesh before they wander lower, peppering his dick with wet, open-mouthed kisses, tongue darting out and licking along the thick vein on the bottom.

The gun at your head shifts, leaves your forehead and presses against the side of your skull instead, has you groaning against Jim's cock. The present danger has your blood singing and the desire to please - be good, be good, be good - blooming in your chest, as pleasure shoots riiight between your legs.

Your lips move further down, hand darting out and pulling his boxers lower which has him chuckling deep in his chest, a low rumble that barely reaches you through the haze. The barrel of the gun presses down more firmly, has dull pain shooting through your skull and Moriarty spreads his legs a little further, giving you more space. He's enjoying this and it makes your head swim, heart missing a beat or two, spurring you on. Your tongue follows the newly revealed trail, dancing over his balls, before you wrap your lips around them, sucking on them. His neatly trimmed pubic hair prickles on your cheek and you moan quietly, as his scent wraps around you, a musky, salty taste filling your mouth pulling you down down down into his lair.

One of your hands holds Moriarty's dick, thumb gently rubbing slow circles over its tip, precum wetting the soft, sheer material of the glove. You suck one of his balls into your mouth, heavy and warm on your tongue, hand stroking his cock. He's still talking, voice steady and cold like you aren't kneeling between his legs, sucking him off and it makes you hot all over. You lick a fat stripe over his balls, growing wetter at the sudden twitch of his dick, the way the thick vein pulses against your palm. Your lips wander back up, tongue spreading your saliva on his hard dick as you realize that you need more.

The thought has you whining, gloved hand giving Jim's dick one last stroke before you dive in, tongue resting on your lower lip, welcoming his cock home. You take him in deep, lips wrapping around him, saliva pooling on your tongue. You move your head around him, moaning against his cock as you suck him off, feeling his vein pulsing and dick twitching on your tongue. Suddenly, like you're momentarily snapping out of it, his voice reaches your ears.

"And 221B?"

"We're at it, Sir. The doctor's security system is rather underwhelming, even for government standards." You have no bloody clue of where or what 221B is, even though it rings a tiny little bell waaay back in your mind, but gets Jim fucking going.

"Good", his voice is deep and coarse and his dick hits the back of your throat as he rolls his hips once, twice, has you sputtering around his cock.

"Hold still or I'll shoot you", Moriarty says plainly, barrel of the gun painfully pressing against the side of your skull, as his slim fingers press onto your neck, holding you in place. Your nose is buried deep in his trimmed pubic hair and his musky scent wraps around you, as you try to breathe through your nose. His cock hits the back of your throat once more and you gag, tears filling your eyes at the sudden lack of oxygen.

You try your best to relax your jaw but he doesn't give you a break, rolls his hips, ruthlessly fucks into your mouth. You can feel saliva pooling at the corners of your mouth, obscene and wet squelching sounds filling the air as he pushes himself deeper faster and faster. Your hands press into Jim's thigh in a desperate attempt to hold onto anything, fingers digging deep into the muscular flesh beneath the dark blue, until their knuckles turn white. It has his hips bucking and a growl rumbling in his chest, his throat. It momentarily takes your breath away and one of your feet kicks a little, as your slowly but surely are running more and more out of breath - dress rustling and diamonds on your back clinking. The rising anxiety of hypoxia, mixing together with his scent and the feeling of his dick fucking your mouth raw, using you has you spiralling deeper and deeper into cloudy subspace, hazy lust taking over your brain. It has your body going a little limp, your throat relaxing and wet pussy clenching around nothing.

Be good be good be good - and you are, fingers relaxing and instead of clawing into them, now moving along Moriarty's thighs and up up up, over his lower abdomen. You know you're making a mess of his shirt but you also know that he likes it, likes your hands roaming over his body whenever you suck his dick or ride him. He likes it when you worship him. And thus, you feel him up, feeling his muscular stomach contracting with each thrust into your throat.

The hand on your neck fists into your hair, pulling you away from him.

You're panting, chin wet with your spit dripping down your chin, lipstick smeared as you look up at him with teary eyes, mascara blotchy around the edges. His cheeks have the faintest of a flush of redness and there's a little sweat on his forehead as he presses the gun against your temple.

Moriarty gives himself one, two firm strokes and your eyelids flutter as thick, hot ropes of white hit your face, a few drops going into your eye. He groans as he comes on your face, intense gaze boring into your eyes, tip of his dick resting a few inches away from your eye. Small tears run down your right cheek as you blink the cum away. They mingle with it and run down your soft skin, dripping down on the dress.

"Ain't you m'pretty little slut?", he asks, gives your clean cheek a little slap and you nod, while he takes his flattening dick in the other hand and rubs it along your cheek, smears his cum across your face and lips. "What d'you say, hm?"

"Thank you, Sir", you croon, hands roaming over his knees and thighs, looking up at Jim, beaming with his praise. You're still wet, pussy aching and pulsing between your legs.

"Be a good girl and put it away", your hands move to his pants, carefully pulling his boxers up, straightening his shirt and closing the fly of his pants, while he shoves one foot between your knees instead, gun still pressing against your skull, "C'mon, take what y'need."

The tip of his shoe is pressing against your wet thong, material coolly pressing against your hot skin, right beneath your clit. You don't have to think twice, brain lost to the hazy fog of pleasure and you roll your hips back a little. The hard, polished leather rubs over your clit and you gasp, hips stuttering a little. One of your hands darts out, grabbing his knee. The pain of the hard surface, mixed together with your absolute need for stimulation has your abdomen clenching.

You bite your lip as you experimentally roll your hips forward, clit brushing over the leather and you can fell your pleasure crawling up up up, spreading in your chest, making your skin tingle with want. It's not enough, the lack of touch and the way you just need more and thus, your free hand wanders up your thigh, cold rings tingling your skin through the thin fabric as you run them up your leg and higher higher higher, over your stomach up to your tits. You grab one of them and feel yourself up, kneading it while you grind down on Moriarty's shoe. You eyelids flutter and you pant with the way it feels, hard and cold and degrading, but also so so good, has fresh wetness pooling between your thighs. Your pussy's swollen and hot and aching, sensitive the the smallest touch and the sudden stimulation has you moaning, breath speeding up.

Jim tilts his head a little, looking down at you. He seems amused, one hand lazily dangling from his armrest, as he watches you getting yourself off on his expensive leather shoes.

"Such a pretty show for our guests, hm?", he chuckles at the sight and you blush, redness and warmth spreading on your cheeks and your chest at the thought that they all still watch you but you can't bring yourself to care. You just don't, with pleasure spiking high and Jim - his words, his demeanour, the gun - fogging up your brain.

It's an intoxicating combination that has your pick up a faster rhythm, grinding down faster on the leather. At first, it stings a little but has pleasure rolling over your body nonetheless and you gasp, as lust floods your system once more.

You throw your head back in pleasure, missing the table by mere inches, a high pitched and needy whine escaping your lips as you rut down onto his dressing shoe.

The gun vanishes from your skull, only to press against the bottom of your chin a second later, keeping your head laid back. Your eyes roll up up up and your hands dart out, fingers spread wide on the polished floorboards behind you, as their tips hold your bodyweight. Your back's delightfully stretched and your upper body is on full display to him, chest heaving with every breath you suck in as you roll your hips on his shoes, hard nipples pressing against the sheer gown.

His other foot rises up and presses down onto your chest with quite some weight, has you deepen the stretch and a high pitched whine erupting from your throat, born out of lust and pleasure and the slight pain that ignites your back. It's delicious and shoots down down down right between your legs, has fresh wetness pooling in your thong, dripping down onto the black leather of his shoe. You know exactly what you look like: draped in an expensive dress and millions worth of diamonds like a billionaire's wife, but rutting against him like a cheap whore, a bitch in heat instead. You know it gets him going as much as it has you squirming, squirting on his shoes. The gun's still pointing at you and if he were to shoot you now - bored, bored, bored - he'd paint the floorboards and the table red.

Your hips stutter as you wet the expensive material at the thought - at the utter power Moriarty has over you - has fresh wetness running down the leather and your thighs as well, and you gasp, eyes falling shut. You keep grinding on his shoe, high pitched moans falling from your lips every time your clit brushes over its surface. He adds more pressure to the foot resting on your chest and you gasp, pain and slight asphyxiation making you dizzy, speeding up the rhythm of your hips. It's not enough, you need to feel him inside of you but it's also way too much, with the endings of your nerves on fire and

You can feel your thighs and abdomen contracting and your hole clenching around nothing and-

"P-please", you whimper.

Moriarty's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "Oh, did I teach you that well, poppet?", his accent swirls around his tongue and it has you nearly going wild, "Of course you may come."

And you do, body reacting to him like he just has to press a single button, release washing over you as your orgasm rips another loud moan out of you, followed by heavy gasping as your pussy releases more fluid, which drips down his shoe and onto the wooden floor. Your hips buck and you moan, chest heaving with the sudden breaths you're sucking in, pressing against the shoe that's still resting on your chest.

"'S good, very good", Moriarty sounds satisfied and you can feel his foot lifting from your chest, giving your ribcage free. Your legs shake from your orgasm as you desperately suck in a few deep breaths, sacking forward. You feel the need to rest with the ache of your muscles but there's also something else. It's like your blood sings with it, like it lays on your body thick and heavily and sinks down on your brain like a blanket: you need him.

You crawl towards Jim and sink between his spread legs, left cheek falling lazily onto one thigh, right hand spreading out on the other. Your other arm softly wraps itself around his lower leg as you press yourself against him. You can feel his cum on your face, your own juices between your thighs. Your eyelids flutter, chest still heaving from ragged breaths and post orgasmic bliss, as you feel his warmth radiating beneath your skin once more.

"Obedient, little whore", he hums and you can hear his gun clicking quietly, as he takes it away, leaves it dangling lazily in his hand over the armrest. You're exhausted, your whole body hurts while your limbs are growing heavy and thus, you sink against him like ragdoll.

The silence in the room is deafening now that you're coming down from your high but it won't stop your blood from singing with Jim's praise and the utter power that seeps through every single pore of your body. Only you can make him come, only you can please him like that - only you only you.

It is much later, after they all left, when Jim bends down to you, tilts your head up and presses his lips onto yours - soft and warm and for a long, lingering moment - his hand gently stroking your cheek and his fingers brushing through his own, sticky cum, spreading it across your cheek. It's the first time he kisses you, in all the weeks you've known him. You know that you've earned it. His eyes are dark dark dark, swirls of green barely visible as he looks at you, visible affection flickering through his gaze.

"You are mine", he rasps against your lips and you nod nod nod, his stubble gently poking your soft skin, "I own you."

And, much to your own disbelief about your lack of mental resistance, you realize: he does.

__

"So, how was your weekend?", Monique and you are rushing through the city, hot take-away cups warming your hands. It stopped pissing Sunday evening and London decided it was time to start with the freezing temperatures. It's your lunch break and the two of you went out for coffee, now hurrying back to the museum's office floors.

You open your mouth, but the words get stuck in your throat. You have no idea how to answer that without landing at Scotland Yard for questioning within half an hour.

She looks at you. "You saw him again, didn't you?", she looks so enthusiastic. You'd hate to break the news to her - Yeah uhm, about that, well, he's criminal and he's using the museum to launder some money, charming, innit? - that's absolutely off the table.

Oh, and don't forget the classic: Yeah, and he shot someone, mind you.

But there's also no hiding from her and thus -

"I did", you can't fight your lips tilting up, remembering the way he manhandled you, shoved his dick into your mouth and showed you off.

Monique, of course, has (for 48 hours at this point) lived in a different world than you. Of course, her trees are still as green as yours and she reads the same newspapers as you do, but she hasn't witnessed a secret organisation discussing organized crime, nor has someone been killed in front of her eyes, wasting away in a puddle of his own blood - and thus, she squeaks with joy. Some snobby banker rushing by turns around in surprise at the sudden sound and curls his lip. You throw him a look. You might be seeing things differently than you did just last Friday night but you still know a wanker when you see one. You can't fight the thought of I know someone who can shut you up for good, boy creeping up on you. You must wear the thought on your face, because he hurries to get going. You take another sip from your coffee. You feel oddly good.

"How was it? Did he take you out?"

You sputter, pressing a hand onto your mouth, trying not to spill any of the hot coffee. "Oh jesus, oh Monique", you cough, half laughing-half fighting for air. It shouldn't be funny, it really shouldn't. You're a little tempted to hit her back with an: Oh, not me.

But you don't, because you're - again - not really keen on paying Scotland Yard a visit. So, you just put on your most innocent smile, trying real hard to imagine a peaceful, normal dinner to successfully sell her the story.

"He did, it was very", you can feel your cheeks reddening suddenly as his voice starts to echo in your skull -

I own you I own you I own you

- ,"Romantic."

[lacelynpage]

Hey, I would like to a request their reaction to the reader being really shocked the first time they flirt with them (reader). Like maybe they drop what they are holding or choke on the water they are drinking or something like that xD

A/N: Has it been 100 years sense I posted and this was requested? yes, yes it has. I loved the thought of this! I struggled to write it though lol. I hope you all enjoy it, I love you Darlings!

First time flirting~ Sherlock Preferences

Sherlock: 

It took you a moment to realize he was flirting with you. While you and Sherlock are on the same intellectual field, his communication style still takes some getting used to. Though you started to slowly notice the way he would glance at you when he thought no one was looking. The way he asked your opinion and actually listened to the whole thing. The real moment that made you realize he was flirting with and liked you was when he made you tea. Something as small and as simple as that made you realize exactly what was happening. You were honestly so shocked you didn’t answer or take the tea, instead just staring at him for a minute before he smirked and put the cup on the table next to you.  

John:

You were actually the one who started flirting. He was surprised and so preciously awkward and sweet. Though neither of you were incredibly smooth people so it was fumbling and a little odd. But the bumbling paid off, it might have been painful for other people to watch but you both enjoyed yourselves.

Mycroft:

Mycroft flirting for the first time with you was subtle. You didn't really notice for a while. But once you did you couldn't unsee it. He was constantly flirting with you in small ways. It was fun to puzzle out all of his little gestures. It was unique and you both had way too much fun doing it.

Greg:

There was this guy at your favorite football pub who you could not get over. Whenever there was a big game he was normally there. You would both be at the bar and occasionally make eye contact, or say a few passing remarks about the game if in earshot of one another. So the first time he came over to actually sit next to you, shit your heart nearly jumped out of your chest. He was handsome, funny, and though he was clearly a bit rusty in the flirting department you were still absolutely thrilled.

Moriarty:

Your relationship with Jim was always flirtatious. The two of you had a certain spark sense the moment you met. Everything the two of you said had layers. Saying a thousand things in only a few words. The first time he flirted, you were hooked. 

[sardonic-the-writer]

SHERLOCK: VALENTINES DAY HEADCANONS <3

• "It's valentines day?"

• That's how the morning had begun. With John exasperatedly running a hand down his face as he tried his best not to shout at his flat mate

• He had been reminding Sherlock that valentines day was coming up for the past week and a half, adiment on getting him out of the flat to go out and do something for once. You were in on it as well, giving Greg the heads up not to send any cases Sherlocks way for the day

• So of course John was a bit pissed when he found Sherlock hard at work at what used to be the dining room table, hunched over some of Moriarty's latest work instead of getting ready for the day

• "Yes its bloody valentines day. Sometimes I wonder how you can be so smart but so fucking oblivious at the same time."

• "Not oblivious, John. I meerly have no room in my brain for such trivial things. And the holiday occasion would certainly explain why Moriarty's latest crime was littered with rose petals and the hearts of the victims. Thank you John, that was percicly what I needed."

• "I know you're being serious right now, but I have never wanted to punch you in the mouth more."

• "You wouldn't be the first."

• Eventually, two hours after John and you had originally planned to drag Sherlock away from his work, the doctor finally got him out the door—where you had been standing for quite a while waiting

• He immediately sighed before outwardly deducing the both of you. Probably just to get on John's nerves even more if you had to guess from how red the latter's face was

• "Ah. I see what's going on. You two have devised a plan behind my back to take me out to some rather bland coffee shop or restaurant today in hopes that I will join into your mindless banter. Now I think I'll pas—"

• "Nope." You had popped the p on the end of your sentence, speaking before John could blow a gasket. "You're coming with us, Holmes. Come on, we're going to that fish and chips place you like. I'll even let you talk about the case I'm sure you stayed up late working on while we walk."

• That had gotten him to start following you down the street, breath showing up as cold puffs of air in the freezing england morning

• True to your word, you had let him talk about the case all along the way there as John occasionally put in his two cents

• "—and you know this all is making a lot more sense now that I'm out and seeing the affect this holiday has on people. I never pegged Moriarty as someone to go for something so trivial, but then again that's just another devious—"

• "Wait, what do you mean trivial?"

• Sherlock paused, both in his rambling and walking, before picking up his pace much slower

• "Well, amongst the blood and roses we found at the crime scene a few short days ago, there was a note for me. Per usual. But this time an actual one, fancy parchment and all. Detailing how I'd eventually loose, how we play cat and mouse, getting odly sexual I might add, that sort of thing blah blah blah. But what really stummped me—" He ignored the way you and John exchanged amused glances when he admitted that "—was the innuendo he left for you, (Y/n). I assume it was to throw me off in a similar fashion to Irene Adler's tactics but—"

• "Hold on." John stopped him in the middle of the sidewalk, eyes wide. "You're telling me, the most dangerous man we know left one of your best friends a note flirting with them, and you didn't think to tell then until valentines day?"

• Sherlock clearly didn't think much of John's steadily increasing tone, just raising an eyebrow in response

• "I didn't see the need to. They have never met before like you and he have at that pool. No reason to worry. Simply a move to get under my skin. Which did not work, I should add."

• You had to choke down laughter at the befuddled look on Sherlocks face, not sure John would appreciate you finding humor in the situation

• The rest of the holiday outing was spent with the two arguing; most of it coming from John as he worried. It wasn't the worst entertainment you had ever had over coffee, so you didn't mind watching your friend fret over something that didn't even concern you. Moriarty had never even known of you until what seemed like recently, so you didn't see reason to fear

• "That's it. You're staying in the flat with us this week. I'm not letting that bastard lay a finger on any of us again." John eventually said, throwing his hands up.

• "Oh come on. It was just a fake out from Mr. Jimmy boy. You heard Sherlock say it himself."

• "Please (Y/n), never call Moriarty that again. And John, leave them be. They're a grown adult."

• "Thank you, Sherlock!"

• "You're welcome (Y/n). Like I was saying, you can move into our flat on your own. No help required from us."

• "You too Sherlock. Really?"

[renx01]

Out of Sight - Part 5

General idea: Moriarty is your boss. After he helped you out of a precarious situation when you were still a minor, you started working for him. Now, he has a new job for you. Get close to the Holmes brothers to keep an eye on them for him. Pairings: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Mycroft Holmes/Reader  & Jim Moriarty/Reader Fandom: BBC Sherlock Word count: 2006

Masterlist

The show was interesting to say the least, but you were happy when you finally managed to return to your flat. Keeping Sherlock from constantly over-explaining the acts to Sarah, who only got closer to John as the show continued. At some point Sherlock disappeared backstage, only reappearing by crashing into the auditorium with a warlord on top of him. John shooting out to help him as the audience scattered, you take Sarah out of the room. You’re followed by the two men, not too far behind you. 

On the way to the police station, Sherlock explains what he had been doing behind the scenes. He’d found the yellow paint moments before he’d been attacked by the warlord. He also notes that he had seen a tattoo on the bottom of the foot of one of the performers, with it matching the ones they’d seen on the victims. You mostly just nod and enquire about what the seal looks like. ‘It’s a seal with a lotus of some sort.’ Sherlock had said. Upon your arrival at the nearest police station, you’re met by an officer you haven’t seen before. Sherlock quickly explains to him what happened, noting that you’d been followed out of the venue. The officer puts it into the system before sending you away, saying he isn’t able to do much more at the moment. 

The four of you leave and head back to Baker Street, where John decides you should probably have some food. Not wanting to be a part of John’s date for much longer, you tell them you’re quite tired and before heading downstairs to your own flat. Not too long after, you hear the front door open, you suppose for their food delivery. You turn to your kettle to start boiling some water, but you stop midway through the motion because you hear shuffling and something drop. That’s unusual. You put down the kettle and walk to your door, opening it as quietly as possible. When you look around the corner, you see a man dressed in black quietly shuffling down the stairs with John, who you’re pretty sure is unconscious, thrown over his shoulder. Quickly, you close the door. Had it not been for you having to lay low and you’d have helped him then and there, but you supposed Sherlock would find out soon enough and go look for his companion. You turn on the kettle and message Jim.

You should reel them in, they just kidnapped John and his date. I assume they think he’s Sherlock or something. Will probably have to help SH and intercept. -S

As the water starts to come to a boil, you quickly change in some more comfortable, black clothes. Something that doesn’t look too suspicious given what you usually wear, but will help you manoeuvre around without too making much sound. You also grab one of your (many) guns and put it in one of your somewhat hidden pockets, where it’s easy to reach but hard to find if you don’t know it’s there. The kettle finally boils and you make yourself a cuppa. Upon taking the first sip, you hear multiple heavy and somewhat frantic knocks at your door. ‘I’m on my way.’ You put down the cup and open the door, where you’re met by the consulting detective himself. He looks quite panicked, which in a way you had expected, just not to this extent, meaning his weakness for John is much bigger than Jim (or Mycroft for that matter) had anticipated. ‘John’s gone. I’m certain that he’s been taken by the murderer and by extension the criminal network we’ve been investigating.’ Nodding, you grab your coat and join him, heading outside as quickly as possible.

‘Sherlock, I suggest you go in and I help from the shadows. You’re an amazing distraction and then I’ll be able to get John and Sarah out from the shadows.’ He nods, agreeing that it’d probably be the best plan of action. And so, that’s what the two of you do when you go in. John and Sarah are bound to separate chairs with rope about five feet from each other. While John has a gun pointed at him, Sarah is unfortunate enough to have a balasta pointed at her. John does look somewhat worried, Sarah on the other hand looks frightened and like she’s about to lose it. Given that she probably hasn’t been in such a situation, it makes sense, and any sensible human being would probably react like she is. Being the drama-queen he is, Sherlock waltzes in as if he owns the place, ridiculing that they hadn’t realised they had the wrong person entirely. Still, the ballista is slowly getting closer to being fired at the woman. It’s unclear to you what exactly happens, but one moment Sherlock’s trying to untie Sarah, and the next he’s been caught by some sort of a rope, forcing him away. ‘For god’s sake, he can’t do anything on his own, can he?’ You whisper to yourself before shooting in the shoulder of the man that’s trapping the detective. After which you immediately sprint to the ballista and point it towards one of Shen’s other henchmen, since it’s about to fire. It does so, and pierces the man through his chest. You take the opportunity of the confusion that ensues to run to John and cut the ropes. Sherlock does the same for Sarah. However, when you look up, Shen is gone.

The following day you contact Sebastian while you’re on your run. It isn’t that you see him or anything, you just leave him a codified message for him to find while you’re at the park for your daily run. The response follows in the form of a text message as you’re making your daily morning coffee. 

We dealt with it, you don’t have to worry about them anymore. -SM

You suppose he was the one to “deal with” them last night. 

I’d hope so. It really was a bit of a pain and entirely unnecessary. -S

Rather than getting a text back, he calls you.

‘Hello?’ His voice sounds low, as if he doesn’t want to alarm someone of his presence. ‘Hi, hope you’re alright.’ ‘Yes, yes, don’t worry about me.’ He pauses before continuing. ‘Jim’s pretty mad about the situation, he’ll probably contact you to apologise at some point soon.’ You sigh. ‘Will he? He isn’t one to apologise generally speaking. No matter, tell him to make sure the camera’s aren’t working wherever we meet up. The eldest Holmes seems to be keeping an eye on me. Probably wants to gauge if I’m trustworthy.’ You take a sip of your coffee before getting out your laptop. It’s one you usually use for purposes related to your actual job. Jim’s had it encrypted so that even the best systems the government uses can’t get into it. ‘I’ll let him know.’ As you’re typing in your password, he speaks up again, breaking the comfortable silence that had settled momentarily. ‘You know I do miss you, you know that right?’ You’re scrolling past a few documents, so you only make a noise that confirms you do. ‘We both miss you. The penthouse feels a bit empty. You were barely back and had to leave again…’ Jim rents a penthouse with enough rooms for all of you to live comfortably while still having your own space. The three of you have always been pretty close, with you and Seb being Jim’s closest confidantes, having been there pretty much from the beginning. And it’s true, you’d barely been back in England and Jim had sent you off, not even being able to stay in the penthouse you’d usually call home. Still, it was mostly you and Seb there, with Jim being at his estate most of the time to take care of business without being bothered too much. ‘I miss you guys too, but we both know it’s necessary.’ ‘You’re right, I’m just being sentimental.’ He sighs. ‘Don’t be, you know it’s a form of weakness.’ That last sentence comes out a bit harsher than you’d hoped, but it is the motto most go by in your profession. ‘We’ll meet again soon, I have to go now.’ You say as you hear someone walking down the steps, probably John based on the sound of it. ‘Yeah, soon Spike.’ He says before ending the call.

When you check for the caller ID, you see that there isn’t one. Not that it really mattered, this isn’t the phone you use to contact anyone you interact with on this mission. You have several phones you keep on you, two of them basically at all times. This one in particular is a blackberry, very much contrary to the iPhone you use on the daily to keep up appearances of you being a regular person that works at the Yard. A knock at your door has you going into action. Quickly, you close and put away your laptop before grabbing your cup of coffee and (somewhat) casually walking to and opening the door. As expected, it’s John. ‘Hello John, good morning.’ He looks up slightly as you open the door, since you’re about an inch and a half taller than him. ‘Good morning Charlie. I wanted to thank you for last night. You really helped us out there.’ You smile at him. ‘No problem at all, you were in a bit of a pickle and I suppose friends help in such situations.’ Friends. It’s a term you hadn’t used with him yet, but you guessed that he probably sees you in that way, so using the term could only strengthen that feeling. ‘Still, it was a lot; quite dangerous as well.’ The look you give him is nothing short of unimpressed. ‘John, I work at Scotland Yard, I’ve been in worse situations. Despite what you might think because of my current role, I’ve had basic training and been out in the field multiple times.’ He looks a bit surprised. ‘Do you want some coffee perhaps? It’s Saturday so I don’t have anywhere to go and I just made a pot.’ You step aside to invite him in. ‘Sure.’ He steps inside and you close the door behind him. You gesture for him to have a seat at your kitchen table. ‘I do hope I didn’t ruin your date with Sarah last night.’ He laughs. ‘Oh you didn’t ruin it. I think we both know Sherlock’s the one that was behind that.’ ‘About that, you are correct. Though maybe I should’ve expected where we were going and stopped him.’ You hand him his cup of coffee and sit down opposite of him. By the sounds of it, he doesn’t sound too worried about the entire situation. ‘So why do you tolerate it, John?’ ‘What do you mean? Tolerate what?’ Surely he knows what you’re talking about but just doesn’t want to admit it immediately. ‘Tolerate Sherlock ruining your dates, taking over your life and social life. All that sort of stuff.’ You make eye contact with him as you glance over your cup. ‘He does not take over my life Charlie.’ He deflects a little bit too quickly. ‘If you say so.’ You take another sip. ‘Well anyway, how is Sarah? Is she doing okay after yesterday evening?’ John stayed for about an hour before heading back upstairs, saying he’d promised the consulting detective to go on a case with him. From your conversation it became clear that John cares for Sherlock as well, though you aren’t certain whether he really knows that himself yet. You didn’t care, but you’re sure Jim will use it to his advantage.

That afternoon you decided you’d probably need to go to the shops again, realising that you didn’t have much food in your pantry. You went out not too long after in order to go get it, but you were stopped by a sleek black car pulling up next to you and stopping. Mycroft.

__________

Tags: @h-malacus

[bonniebird]

Jim Moriarty x Reader

Requested by Anon​​

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“You don’t have to do this if you don't want to.” John said as Sherlock inspected the room. He walked around carefully before heading out into the hallway with you and John.

“It seems safe enough.” Sherlock said honestly.

“Safe enough? Enough? I want top-notch safety!” You muttered. Sherlock raised his eyebrows and sighed.

“On the budget, this place has the best you’ll get. We’ll be right outside with armed guards. So it should be safe.” Sherlock assured you. You glanced at John who once again reminded you that you didn’t have to go through with it but you took a deep breath and went to one side with one of the guards. When they were ready you were led into the room Sherlock had come out of before they left you alone. You stared at the glass in front of you.

“I didn’t think they’d let me get this.” Jim said with a grin as he gestured around the room. It was plain, just a chair and the glass. He had nothing on the other side. 

“Where are they?” You asked.

“Ah ah ah! Not so fast. I asked for one thing in exchange for the location.” Jim insisted. You frowned at him.

“You asked for me. I’m here. So please… tell me what we need to know.” You begged. Jim smiled and tilted his head as he watched you as if he enjoyed you begging.

“I’ll trade it.” He answered and smiled when you stood from the seat and looked at him curiously.

“You’ll trade it? For what?” You asked. Jim walked back and forward behind the glass. There was a noise somewhere in the room and you turned away looking towards the door which made a thinking noise. You assumed that if there was a problem Sherlock and John would be through it in a shot so you turned back. He was opposite you and you jumped but reminded yourself that there was glass between you.

“A kiss.” Jim answered. You frowned at him.

“You want to trade the information for a kiss?” You asked. Thinking for a moment you sighed. A kiss in exchange for several people's lives wasn’t that height of an ask. Uncomfortable of course but you could do that. 

“Fine.” You said and he smiled.

“But you have to mean it.” He insisted. You frowned at him as he motioned for you to get closer to the glass. "A kiss can be deadly if you mean it."

You leaned in expecting the feel cold glass against your lips but you were met with the warmth of Jim’s lips instead. You went to pull apart but his hands moved to your head as he deepened the kiss. The door started to rattle.

When Sherlock and John finally got the door open they found the room empty of everything but a single chair.

“There’s a gap in the wall. I can see the glass panel in there.” John said as he looked carefully at the walls. 

“I Assume they got out of here.” Sherlock said. He was crouching down at the opposite wall inspecting an almost invisible door-sized crease in the wall.

“Sherlock. We promised (Y/N) that nothing would happen.” John said to Sherlock who sighed.

“I am well aware of that. We need to get going. I need to look over everything that he sent us. I want to look at (Y/N)’s flat as well.” Sherlock said as he stood suddenly and left the room.

Jim tags:

@the-caravello-post @killing-gremlin @aegonandaemondtargaryenslut18 @lchufflepuffcorn