#jim moriarty/reader

[actually-mentally-ill]

“I can fix him!”

Him:

[fandomworldofdreams]

The Secret Under the Bed

Summary: Your father got involved deep in the crime world. Owing more than he could keep up with. Soon you and your family are on the run. But debts demand to be paid. (Child!reader)

Warnings: violence, child endangerment, murder, manipulation, trauma

I had a dream, needed to write it. Some odd ass universe where these four fictional characters somehow work together and get along. And of all things, adopt a child. It is more of a fem!reader. So please enjoy this odd twisted found family dynamic!

Your mom always smelled like jasmine and baked goods.

Something about it always made you feel safe, loved.

Flour on her cheeks, always smiling. It meant warmth and comfort.

All of it distracted from the fact you'd moved three states in just the past year, ten towns. Distracted from how much you tried to pretend you didn't hear your parents arguing, things breaking. Your dad's sharp, cutting tone. Your mother's broken pleas. Sometimes your dad wouldn't come home for hours - usually at the crack of dawn, liquor still clinging to his breath.

You were only seven, obsessed with books and building your own fantasy world to escape to whenever the situation called for it. Which was often.

You had no way of knowing that your father had got himself in deep with me the crime world referred to as the four horsemen.

Intelligent, sadistic, cold criminals. Men who by some twisted form of fate had found one another. After unsuccessfully trying to kill each other they decided they found some level of comradery with one another, their shared darkness and vision.

Your father had racked up one too many missed payments to them.

The latest move was to a home in West Virginia, surrounded by woods.

You loved it, plenty of trees to climb and bugs to catalogue. You'd spend hours wandering, waving a stick around like it was a wand.

But your dad looked over his shoulder twice as much, often muttering to himself.

It was a Wednesday night when everything in your life changed. The scent of rain hung in the air, breeze rustling the leaves.

You had a rain coat on. Soaked to the core, your mother had just wiggled it off of you.

You hadn't heard the car pull into the driveway.

You'd only heard the three polite raps that echoed through the house.

Your parents never got company, you furrowed your eyebrows.

You'd only been aware of your mother kneeling before you, tucking your stuffed rabbit under your arm with a gentle smile. She brushed some hair out of your face.

"I need you to do something for me, Y/N. Go into Mommy and Daddy's room and crawl under the bed, okay? Stay hidden. You don't come out no matter what you hear. I mean it. Do you understand?"

You'd felt the fear then, how her voice tried not to shake. She squeezed your arms, glancing at the door like it was a death sentence.

"Do you understand?"

All you could do was nod. She pressed a kiss to your temple and you ran, following orders like you always had.

Under the bed was dark, sounds muffled. But some things were unmistakable.

You clutched your rabbit tight to your chest, cheek pressed against the rug, body curled inward.

The screaming started not long after.

Crashing, loud high pitched noises and begging that was your parents.

You began to shake. Uncontrollably.

In the other room your parents were bound to chairs, four masters of torture doing the unthinkable. The scent of blood filled the air - along with some bodily fluids. They tore through both mind and body with the precision of artists who were all too familiar with their medium.

In the bedroom tears pooled onto the carpet and you covered your mouth with your hand to keep any sounds from escaping.

It lasted two hours.

Your limbs ached from being in one position so long, you were sweating profusely, and trying your best not to hyperventilate. Especially as the screaming grew more ragged, hoarse.

Your mother died first. Crane's toxin had taken root in her psyche, showcasing her fears of a dead daughter she dared not call out the name of in fear of them finding out and an unfaithful husband. her mind far gone before her body gave out. They had burned her skin with a cigar and then a quick slit of the throat. Efficient, she was not the one who wronged them, she was merely collateral, her life and his.

Your father lasted an hour longer. Eyes gauged, ribs split open. He had not been granted any mercy. He had felt every thread of pain. Each individual eye muscle had been severed. His body was surprisingly resilient.

You didn't hear anything anymore.

It was quiet, eerily so. The deafening kind where any small noise sent a jolt of panic through you.

Then footsteps. Slow, evenly paced. The door to the room creaked open.

Your heart jumped out of your chest and you tried your best to hold your breath as shoes came into view.

Expensive shoes. Shiny, not like the sneakers you were used to.

"Crane. Lecter," the man said, flatly. His voice a gravel "Now."

Soon three more pairs of shoes joined. You were frozen in fear.

Then, a face appeared. He'd crouched down and pulled the sheet aside to get a full view of you. His gaze was calculating, eyes sizing you up.

Hannibal Lecter knelt calmly. He didn’t speak right away. He simply looked at you, deliberately shifting his facial expression and eyes. Allowing the moment to stretch on long enough to let you see something gentler in his face, something paternal and concerned. A softness he wore like a mask when needed. It made your brows furrow.

"Are you okay, my dear? You must be so frightened."

Suddenly another face, this man dropped to his stomach, resting his chin on the back of his hands to look at you. He allowed an unnerving smile to grace his face, eyes glued to you like he was observing a play. "Did the monsters come after mummy and daddy?"

You visibly flinched, pressing yourself further back.

“No no no, sweetheart. Not us. We’re not the monsters. We found you. We scared him off, little one. Though he may come back. Who knows, monsters can be ever unpredictable," Jim Moriarty tried to hide the glee in his tone.

"We were camping nearby when we heard the screams. We came running. It seems we were too late though. We were unsure if anyone had survived, luckily you did," Hannibal affirmed.

Moriarty cooed, “Did they tell you to hide, little darling? Did your mummy say to be very, very quiet?”

A nod. Barely. A twitch.

"You did very well," Hannibal said softly.

"Where's my mommy and daddy?" Your voice was hoarse, tears still streaming down your cheeks.

"They are dead." This man had a scarred face, one eye had a black sclera and orange mishaped iris. "We were unable to save them." Silco studied the way your lower lip trembled, the pain in your eyes evident. Too young to be experiencing such pain. "A regrettable truth. However, they did succeed in keeping you safe."

The final man leaned down, staring at you over his glasses. Bright blue eyes met

y/e/c ones. He was calculating your level of fear.

"What's his name?" That made you pause, looking at him confused. He motioned to the rabbit you were clinging to and you swallowed a lump in your throat.

"Jasper," you murmured.

Jonathan Crane shared a glance with the others. They had adapted the lie quickly. "At least you were not alone while the carnage occurred. Perhaps Jasper would be more comfortable out here. You are safe now."

You were too young and terrified to catch the lie.

It was Hannibal who offered a hand out under the bed. "Come, child. We will protect you."

It was a long time before you moved. Slowly placing your small hand in his as he guided you out from under the bed.

"What's your name?" Silco asked.

"Y/N"

"Y/N," Hannibal whispered, testing the name. "I'm Hannibal, this is Jim, Silco, and Jonathan. Jim is going to help you pack a bag. We can't leave you here in case the man who harmed your parents comes back."

Your eyes widened, the words striking fear into you. You clutched at Hannibal's hand like it was a lifeline.

"He might come back?" You whispered.

"It is a possibility," Jonathan said, adjusting his glasses. "Whoever came for your parents was rather depraved. That kind of mind is unpredictable and you are an easy target."

You didn't understand, not fully, but you nodded your head either way.

"Come along, little one. Let's gather what you need," Jim said cheerfully, guiding you to the closet.

Jonathan, Hannibal, and Silco made their way back to the living room, standing over the bodies.

"Since when are we in the business of collecting strays?" Jonathan asked, tone cold.

"Since one has fallen into our hands," Hannibal answered.

Silco lit a cigar, letting the smoke curl to the ceiling. "They had tried to keep the child safe. To protect her from their sins . . . Their mistake. So we allow her to believe the illusion that we are the ones saving her?"

"it's not an illusion," Hannibal said. "We are saving her. She would likely starve here. Or worse, end up in the foster care system."

Footsteps sounded down the hallway. Jim and you making your way. He carried a suitcase of things he'd picked for you.

You turned the corner just as he sang, "I wouldn't do that."

You'd looked, immediately. Your eyes met the bloody and unmoving form of your parents.

Your legs moved fast, racing to what was left of them. Hannibal had been the one to scoop you up. Holding you close as you cried and tried to wiggle free.

Jim was leaning against the frame, hands in pockets. Jonathan was studying your reaction. Silco's eyes softened slightly.

"Mommy told me to hide. I hid, I was good. Mommy! Wake up!" Tears pooled from your eyes, clutching Hannibals coat tightly.

"You were good. Now you will come with us and be a part of a new family. Your parents were unable to foresee their fates," Hannibal said, softly.

"They were weak," Silco said. "We are not."

You sniffled, burying your head in Hannibals chest.

"You won't leave me? Promise?"

"We will not leave you," he affirmed.

That day changed everything. You were about to be raised by four of the most feared men in the country. Their child, their prodigy, theirs. They were all you had left.

You would become a weapon.

All while never knowing they were the ones who had taken your parents from you.

[dreamerimpossible]

It takes me ages to answer requests, but I'll do it. In the meantime, I'll leave you with this. I love you!

He counted bills precisely, as if leaving one out would make any significant difference in his wallet. You watched him with a silence that a less dangerous man would have found unsettling. However, he didn't find your complaints interesting. Not when he had a gun in his pocket and a table covered in wads of bills of dubious origin. It was exciting for you, yes. You couldn't deny it, but you constantly wondered... why was he doing it? He didn't have to. He could only order someone else around. It was practically impossible for him to finish quickly on his own. You pondered this for several minutes until the impact of one of the wads on the others brought you out of your reverie. You watched him again with dubious eyes, feeling his gaze move down your body with a certain hidden desire. He thought for a moment, inwardly amused by your anxious expression. His fingers briefly touched his gun, but he instantly withdrew them to signal you to come closer. You stood up from your chair and approached him. You didn't understand what kind of mood he was in today, but you would soon find out.

His hand went to a lock of your hair, touching it with an almost condescending familiarity. He glanced toward the door. He had the feeling that if someone came in, he wouldn't be able to control his violent impulse at the disrespectful intruder.

But this seemed more important.

His hands gripped your waist, and he easily placed you on the table, on top of the bills. Chuckling at your surprise, he yanked you toward him, toward his chest, making you feel with the momentary imbalance that your own world was falling apart. He stripped you of your clothes quickly, without asking you, since the clothes you wore with him were always easy to remove. He kissed your neck, leaving bite marks that would mark his possessive intentions. He pushed you so that you lay on the table and could experience the texture of the bills touching your skin. He watched you for a moment, your bare skin, its only remaining adornment being the expensive jewelry he'd given you. For a moment, you felt worthy of his power and his money. Even though he made you feel like you had to repay him with your own body. He leaned toward you, throwing one of your legs over his back. He unbuttoned his belt and left his gun nearby, an implicit threat of what would happen to anyone who dared to enter. Suddenly while he was inside you, in a surge of energy, he decided that if you moaned loud enough, he could give you all the money lying beneath you.

-Mello, Kokonoi, Mikey, Sanzu, Kisaki, James Moriarty, Front Man (In-ho)

[star-girl-05]

MINE

Jim Moriarty x Reader

~★~❤︎~✦~

‘But you can call me Jim 💕✨’

‘Why are you at Hospital?’ you stare at the text, confusion all over your face. The first being who the hell is texting you?, and how did they know where you are? You look around the room for anyone out of place. Finding nothing you turn back to your phone. 

‘Who is this?’ your phone dings with a text almost instantly.

‘It’s Moriarty, Love’ you visibly freeze. ‘But you can call me Jim 💕✨’

You have so many questions yet you're asking, ‘Why are you texting me?’ 

‘I saw you were at hospital, I thought I was going to have to kill someone’ 

‘What the hell do you mean by that? How did you know I was at the hospital anyway?’ you stare at your phone this is the first time he hasn’t texted you back instantly. 

‘I always keep an eye on my assets’, is he implying what you think he is? ‘Your mine, afterall can’t let anyone hurt you’ Your eyes widen almost comically. Jim Moriarty, self proclaimed villain just told you were his. How are you supposed to respond to that? You’ve only met him a handful of times, half of them with Sherlock, and you would not describe them as ‘friendly’. So where on earth did he get the idea that you fancied him. 

‘I’m not yours’ it should be obvious to him that you would never date him. Yet here you are rejecting him over text.

‘You are, you just don’t know it yet’ you don’t text back just pocketing your phone. Trying to forget the conversation ever happened, especially when Sherlock comes dragging you away. 

He was just messing around, trying to get in your head. At least that's what you tell yourself. Until you return home and find a large bouquet and a card. 

To My Love,  Im deadly Serious your MINE Yours, Jim Moriarty

[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?

[procrastinatingacademic]

Updated Masterlist

Started: 28 February 2025

Last updated: 11 June 2025

Total works: 36

Angst💥; Fluff💫; Suggestive themes🔥

I don't write smut. All fics are 'x Reader' unless stated otherwise. I strive to mostly write gender-neutral Reader-characters, and I don't use Y/N.

DC Comics

The Scarecrow/Dr. Jonathan Crane

Ongoing series - There's nothing to fear when I'm with you (Jonathan x female OC)

Fighting boredom

John Contantine

Ongoing series - Restless: A Constantine/Good Omens Crossover (currently on hiatus)💫🔥(No Reader-character)

The Riddler/Edward Nygma

Starlight is for dancing🔥

Black Mask/Roman Sionis

We were together, I forget the rest💫🔥

The Sandman

The Corinthian

(The lesser of) two evils💥💫🔥

Life is the flower for which love is the honey💥💫

Morpheus/Dream of the Endless

To see a world in a grain of sand (Blind!Reader)

Grishaverse

Kaz Brekker

Stay💫

It is lightning that does the work💥💫

Nikolai Lantsov/Sturmhond

A mother is the truest friend we have💥💫 (Mother Figure!Reader)

Two ships in the night💫

The Hunger Games

Haymitch Abernathy

The Survivors 💥(Haymitch x female OC; slow burn) (Ongoing series)

Criminal Minds

Dr. Spencer Reid

Experience💫

Your song💫

Kidnapped for the vibes💥💫 (UnSub!Spencer Reid)

Interview with the Vampire (2022)

Armand

Would you like to be?💥💫

House of the Dragon

Larys Strong

Darkness shared by two💫🔥

Marvel

Dr. Stephen Strange

A little less awkward💫

Daredevil/Matt Murdock

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard, are sweeter 💫🔥

Greek Mythology

Apollo

Apollo - Autism💥💫 (No Reader-character)

Hermes

Hermes - Kleptomania💥 (No Reader-character)

Hades

Hades - Separation Anxiety Disorder💥💫 (No Reader-character)

Hypnos

WIP: Hypnos - Narcolepsy

Potterverse

Newt Scamander

Hold me close💥💫

Sirius & Regulus Black

The best way to make children good is to make them happy💥💫 (Parental Figure!Reader)

Supernatural

Lucifer

Wings of snow💫

Eyes of fire🔥

Gabriel

WIP: Run away with me, mon amour

Arcane

Viktor

Memorise you💥💫🔥 (Blind!Reader)

The Witcher (Netflix)

Jaskier

Sing a song only you can hear💫

Untitled WIP

Critical Role/The Legend of Vox Machina

Percival "Percy" de Rolo

While the music lasts💫

Prodigal Son

Malcolm Bright

Shut your eyes and see💥💫 (Blind!Reader)

Sherlock (BBC)

James "Jim" Moriarty

The world is boring for boring people💥💫🔥

Good Omens

Ongoing series - Restless: A Constantine/Good Omens Crossover (currently on hiatus)💫🔥(No Reader-character)

Various

The Three Musketeers (Anderson, 2011)

Aramis/René d'Herblay

Be kind, aim for my heart💫

Le Comte de Monte-Cristo (de La Patellière & Delaporte, 2024)

Edmond Dantès/The Count of Monte Cristo

Count your blessings

Amsterdam

LA by Night/Vampire the Masquerade

Robert Garrick

All your tomorrows start here💫

[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.

[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?

[rivendell-poet]

Day 3 of the month : Painter

*･༓˚✧ ❝𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫❞ ‧͙⁺˚༓˚✧ « may drabbles/treat »

GN!Reader | Wordcount : 100 words | TWs : None

“Have you ever considered becoming a painter?”

The question comes from a voice you’ve never heard before - it’s rich, confident… attractive - but somehow you know exactly who it is. You hadn’t even heard of him until a few hours ago, drawing a police sketch for a witness tucked tightly away into a corner. A crime that seemed almost impossible, according to the detectives, but apparently. You’d gently coaxed the victim into telling you what the man looked like. Asked if your sketch was accurate. 

Turning to face the voice, you realise it was - to an extent. Right now he’s smiling.

A/N: I promise lord of the rings will appear... also, as an extra question - day 5 is just the entire MCU. So, does anyone have favourite characters?

« masterlist » thank you for reading *･༓˚✧ Taglist : @xiaoseminence / @withasideofmeg / @killermarionette / @bespectacledhuman / @howling-medic / @deannie13 / @paigemackenzie0206 / @permanently-nothere / @awayaesworld✧ wish to join the taglist?

[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.

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

[renx01]

Out of Sight - Part 7

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: 2886

AO3 link

You decide to not partake in any form of strenuous physical activity that Sunday, as you were still a bit sore from kickboxing the previous day. Instead, you decide to go on a walk and get breakfast at a local cafe. As you walk, you listen to some music and enjoy a London that’s quiet for once. It seems that most people are still asleep, but you eventually find a spot that’s open and serving fresh coffee and croissants. You walk in and get seated near a window by one of the workers. The worker looks to be in her early twenties and her brown hair has been tied up into a ponytail. After you order a cappuccino and a plain croissant she starts making it almost immediately. As a result, you only have to wait a couple of minutes before she brings you what you ordered. ‘Thank you.’ You smile at her before she walks away again. As she does so, you turn and reach into your coat pocket to grab a pocket sized edition of Crime and Punishment by Dostoevsky you’d brought with you. You’d put a bookmark where you had left off, about halfway through the book, so you turn to that page and remove it before starting to read. You hold it in your left hand as you read while holding your cup of coffee in your right. 

Time passes slowly, but you don’t mind. It has been quite a while since you’ve actually been able to relax and read quietly while enjoying the simple things in life such as a cup of coffee. The last time you actually did anything remotely relaxing that wasn’t related to exercise was the time you were in Tokyo for a day as a result of a flight having been cancelled in the early morning. It was quite a nice surprise, as you had been on the road for several months and hadn’t had much of a break from work. Jim had tasked you with quite an important job, mostly consisting of securing deals with or control over certain criminal networks in several countries in Asia. It had gone relatively smoothly, with only one network proving to be difficult; still, it had been a long trip. In spite of it all, you’d decided to go get some souvenirs for Jim and Sebastian before leaving the country. They’d liked them, despite them being quite silly. London is different though, and while Tokyo is amazing in its own right, it does not have the same vibe. There’s a certain charm to the mist and smoke of the city that you enjoy. That it’s where Sebastian and Jim stay most of the time doesn’t hurt its status as favourite either. 

After about an hour of sitting and reading you get up, pay, and leave the cafe. Rather than returning home you decide to wander around, taking random lefts and rights and now following a particular path. Eventually, you walk into one of the parks. Unlike earlier, there’s quite a few people walking around, mostly with their dogs. It’s nice to see them so happy. It distracts you from the boring hours you’ve been spending at Scotland Yard. While you don’t mind it too much, it’s a lot less exciting than the work you usually do. Rather than following people and killing them, or speaking with powerful criminals and forge deals, you’re now stuck behind a desk, working for people that don’t seem to really know what they’re doing.  A buzz in your pocket pulls you out of your musings. You feel inside your pockets and fish out the correct one of the two you have with you. It’s the phone you use to communicate with Sherlock, Mycroft, Scotland Yard, and basically everyone else that knows you as Charlie. As you’re unlocking it, it buzzes again. Carefully, you read the two texts displayed on your screen. The first one is from Greg, asking you to come to Scotland Yard as soon as possible without stating why. The second is from Mycroft, asking to meet him tonight at 7, with, again, no reason as to why. 

A huff escapes you. ‘So much for a day off.’ You mumble to yourself as you get your headphones out of your other pocket, put them in, and start walking. Mere moments after you’d set off to leave the park another buzz interrupts you, this time from your other phone. You grab it but continue walking. “The game is on. -JM” is all the text states, but you know that the boring hours spent at Scotland Yard were over as you hear an explosion in the distance.

——

Upon your arrival at Scotland Yard you are greeted by the sight of Sherlock grabbing a ziplock bag from Greg and John telling him to be more considerate. You approach them silently, greeting Greg and John with a nod before looking over Sherlock’s shoulder to see what he’s holding.

It’s a pink phone, similar to the one you’d seen pictures of from a victim that was murdered in the case that John had named “A Study in Pink”. As you look more closely, you see that the phone has an unopened message. Before you can say anything, Sherlock opens it revealing a picture of a pair of trainers in the middle of a room. The floorboards look quite similar to the ones in your Baker Street apartment, though they look to be slightly damp. It’s likely they’re in a basement or attic. You turn back to Greg and John, letting Sherlock reveal what you’d seen mere moments later. ‘It's a picture of a pair of shoes, trainers specifically.’ He turns the phone to face the two men. ‘Quite an old style, we’ll have to discern from when exactly once we pick them up. We have to stop this bomber.’ Greg shoots Sherlock a confused look. ‘Once we pick them up? From where?’

Sherlock had basically dragged everyone out of Scotland Yard to go to Baker Street. It wasn’t entirely surprising to you that Jim had planted them here, yet you had not expected them underneath a latch which led to the basement. Mrs Hudson told you, once you’d found the shoes, that she hadn’t used that basement for over a decade, so she was as surprised as everyone else. Just as Sherlock started deducing the room, he was interrupted by the pink phone ringing. Sherlock picks it up immediately and puts on speaker so everyone in the room can hear. 

‘HH- Hello sexy.’ A woman’s voice comes through the speaker. ‘Who is this?’ Sherlock asks before she can really continue. ‘I’ve sent…’ it was quite obvious that the woman was crying, ‘you… a little… puzzle.’ The fear in her voice is palpable and John and Greg look distressed. Sherlock, on the other hand, looks to be as cool as a cucumber. ‘Who’s talking? Why are you crying?’ A moment passes as the sniffs become louder for a moment. ‘I’m not crying. I’m typing…’ another pause, ‘and this stupid bitch is reading it out.’ Sherlock mumbles something about a curtain rising and John asks him what he meant. You’re situated a bit further from them as you don’t want to interrupt or interfere with Jim’s plans. ‘You have twelve hours to solve my puzzle, Sherlock, or I’m going to be so naughty.’  You took several pictures with one of the cameras you’d snagged from work before putting the shoes in a large ziplock and handing it to Sherlock. You weren’t surprised about the dramatics. Besides, Jim just wants Sherlock to show off his skill set. You decided to join the consulting detective and his personal blogger to Saint Barts Hospital, where you would be using the equipment to analyse the shoes. Of course, Sherlock and John hailed a cab to get there before you could even suggest taking the tube. Greg offered to drop you off and you decided to take him up on that offer, especially with him being your superior at Scotland Yard and this being work related.

‘Do you think Sherlock will solve the case?’ You ask Lestrade as he’s driving. ‘Yeah, I trust that he’s able to do it. He kind of has to, with the threat of another bomb going off in the middle of London.’ When you’d gotten back to Baker Street earlier with Sherlock, you’d noticed that the building that used to be across from 221 had basically vanished after an explosion. That had been the first one, and if Sherlock didn’t solve the puzzles set out by Jim you were certain that this “naughty” thing he was planning would be another explosion. ‘You put quite a lot of trust into him.’ You pause and turn slightly so you can see his face when you continue speaking. ‘Hopefully he won’t disappoint then.’ Greg’s eyes turn to look at you briefly. ‘He won’t. I’m sure of it.’ Your face remains neutral as you turn back to face the road ahead of you and he does the same.  The rest of the ride was spent chatting about everything and nothing, trying to distract yourselves from what is going on in the world. Greg did not join you in going inside St. Barts, opting to go back to Scotland Yard, stating that he had to arrange so there would be a team ready to get the woman out of wherever she was. You told him you would keep in touch before shutting the car door behind you and swiftly entering the large building.

After asking around for a bit, you are pointed to where you have to be. As you enter the lab, you’re greeted by the view of John trying to get Sherlock’s phone out of Sherlock’s own pocket as the detective sits behind a microscope. ‘Careful.’ The brunette says as John seems to be struggling. When he finally manages he reads the message on the screen. ‘It’s from your brother.’ 

‘Delete it.’ 

‘Delete it?’

‘The missile plans are out of the country now, nothing we can do about it.’ John sighs at the detective’s comments. ‘Well Mycroft thinks there is. He texted you eight times. Must be important.’ You try to get a better look at Sherlock’s facial expressions, but he’s obscured by the microscope. ‘Then why didn’t he cancel his dental appointment?’ ‘His what?’ John only looks more confused than before. ‘Mycroft never texts if he can talk.’ Sherlock seems to become only more agitated. ‘Look, Andrew West stole the missile plans, tried to sell them, got his head smashed in for his pains, end of story. The only mystery in this: why is my brother so determined to bore me when somebody else is being so delightfully interesting?’

You cough and gain their attention. ‘Ah! You’re finally here Charlie.’ You nod and approach and hand the SD card to Sherlock. ‘Hi Charlie, good to see you’re here too. Sherlock, what I’m saying is that we have to try and remember that there’s a woman that might die.’ The detective only huffs and John looks frustrated. ‘What for? This hospital is full of people dying, doctor. Why don’t you cry by their bedsides and see what good it does them?’  Luckily, a beep from one of the machines interrupts their conversation. You walk over to it and tell them that the search is complete. As you turn, a woman you don’t know personally but have read about in Sherlock’s file walks in. ‘Any Luck?’ she asks. ‘Oh yes! Charlie, what does the machine say?’ You read it out to them and Sherlock nods understandingly. As you’re about to introduce yourself to Molly, you’re interrupted once again. ‘Oh sorry!’ The door opens again. ‘I didn’t know…’ ‘Jim, hi! Come in. Come in.’ Everyone’s eyes turn to the man entering and yours widen ever so slightly. 

It’s Jim. The Jim you know as a criminal mastermind; dressed as an average, regular guy. ‘Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes.’ Molly’s blushing and you’re convinced that Jim has been pursuing her romantically for some time. ‘Oh!’ He’s very excited about all this. ‘And uhm…’ ‘John Watson, hi’ The doctor says reluctantly. You’re pretty sure she hasn’t spotted you yet, as you’re a few metres away from where the others are standing. ‘Hi! So you’re Sherlock Holmes! Molly’s told me all about you. Are you on one of your cases?’ His voice is so positively cheery it almost scares you. ‘Jim works in I.T. upstairs. That’s how we met. Office romance.’ She looks positively radiant about it all. Sherlock continues to work, but as Jim shuffles past he mumbles something, ‘Gay.’ ‘I’m sorry what?’ Molly sounds confused. ‘Nothing.’ The detective mumbles again. Jim finally manages to shuffle past the detective and “accidentally” bumps into you and knocks a metal dish onto the floor. ‘Oh, sorry.’ Your eyes lock but yours remain as unemotional as they are usually. His, on the other hand, look to be full of glee. He’s enjoying himself thoroughly. You raise an eyebrow before he bends down, picking up the dish and slipping a note into his hand below the dish. ‘Sorry, sorry!’ John shoots a death glare. ‘Well, I’d better be off. I’ll see you at the Fox, about six-ish?’ Molly looks flustered. ‘Yeah.’ she says as she blushes again. ‘Bye… it was nice to meet you.’ It remains silent until John awkwardly says ‘You too.’ followed by a silent mumble in the same vein by you just before the door slams shut behind the short man.

‘What do you mean gay? We’re together.’ Molly says sternly. ‘And domestic bliss must suit you Molly. You’ve put on three pounds since I last saw you.’ ‘Two and a half.’ ‘Three.’

‘It’s unnecessary to comment on her weight, Sherlock.’ Your voice is just loud enough for them to hear. ‘You’ve rediscovered your voice Charlie, how kind for you to join us once again.’ The detective shoots you a pointed look from behind his microscope. ‘I’m not good with people.’ ‘But you are, everyone at Scotland Yard seems to like you.’ You huff. ‘That’s work related, it’s different.’ John supports you, ‘Sherlock, as long as you act within the bounds of what they deem normal you’re fine. Shyness is a lot more easily accepted than how you tend to act around people.’ Molly agrees with the man before continuing to talk about Jim. You conclude that she must be infatuated with him, or at least somewhat. ‘He’s not gay, Sherlock. Why do you have to spoil… he’s not!’ You try to remain neutral and not react to everything the brunette says about your boss. ‘With that level of personal grooming?’ John jumps in again. ‘Because he puts a bit of product in his hair? I put product in my hair.’ ‘You wash your hair, there’s a difference.’ You sigh quietly and turn to look at one of the computers that shows the data about the shoes. Jim hadn’t kept you inside the loop in terms of what cases he would give Sherlock to solve. You understand, though, the detective is good at deduction and the less you know, the less there is to give away your real identity and your affiliation to Jim. ‘No no… tinted eyelashes… clear signs of taurine cream around the frown lines, those tired clubber’s eyes… then his underwear.’ ‘His underwear?’ Molly and John echo. ‘Visible above the waistline. Very visible.’ You’d noticed too. Jim certainly did all this intentionally. While he’s always well-groomed, he usually prefers to dress in a suit, not in some shirt and trousers that show off his underwear. ‘That plus the extremely suggestive fact that he just left his number under the dish here.’ That’s what the note was for. Certainly quite bold, but then again, he doesn’t care much for relationships if they don’t benefit him. The use he had for Molly has now passed with him actually meeting the detective in the flesh. ‘I’d say you’d better break it off now and save yourself the pain.’ The woman storms out. ‘Charming.’ You mutter into your coffee that you’d just picked up from one of the desks. ‘Well done.’ John says. ‘Just saving her time. Isn’t that kinder?’ You almost choke at the comment as you were mid-sip. ‘Kinder? No, no. Sherlock. That wasn’t kind.’ 

The two of them continue bickering as if you aren’t there. You wish you could be more talkative, have more input, but for now, you decide to not interfere too much. Your persona will have to slowly warm up to them and eventually speak more confidently. Silently, you walk to the coffee machine that’s in the common area for the laboratories. As you’re waiting for your cup to be filled with a new brew, Molly walks in looking like she’s been crying. ‘Sorry about Sherlock. Are you alright?’ You ask her and you put a hand on your shoulder. ‘It’s fine,’ she sniffs and wipes her eyes with the sleeve of her lab coat, ‘you can’t help it. He’s just like that sometimes.’ You motion for her to sit down in one of the chairs nearby. ‘Tea?’ You ask her as you move to grab a clean cup from one of the cupboards. She nods and you turn on the kettle.

_________

Taglist: @h-malacus @thegirlwhosimpstoomuch @anonymoussherlockandmarvelgeek

Note: Hello! Happy belated new year everyone! Sorry for not updating for so long!! University really had me exhausted 90% of the time so I didn't have much energy to write. Hopefully it'll be better this year!

[star-girl-05]

Eventful

Jim Moriarty x Reader

~★~❤︎~✦~

“You know an eventful evening should end with an eventful night”

You run your hands over his suit jacket smoothing out non-existing wrinkles. He watches your movements focusing on the way your fingers barely graze his tie before straightening it. You eye him up and down, a smile forming on your face seemingly satisfied with your work. “There you go darling now you’ll be perfect for your little date” He places a sweet kiss to your lips, saying a quick thank you before heading to the car waiting for him. “That Sherlock stands no chance with you in that suit” he chuckles at the comment but doesn’t disagree. 

When Jim comes back from his ‘Date’ with Sherlock he’s buzzing. A joyous smile on his face as he practically skips over to you. “Helloooo, Love” he calls out, placing a kiss on your cheek. You chuckle, a smile forming of your own. 

“I take it went well”

“It was splendid you should have seen his face he was like,” he immediately started mimicking Sherlock's face albeit dramatically. This is just one of the many things you love about Jim. He’s so animated when he talks. You have never met anyone like Jim Moriaty and you doubt you ever will.  “Not only did I get to mess with Sherlock, I got a call about a potential business deal, overall it’s been quite the evening” 

“You know an eventful evening should end with an eventful night” Jim’s smile seems to get larger (If that's possible).

“My, My it must be my lucky day” You grab his face planting a deep kiss on his lips. 

“Won’t you join me in the bedroom, Moriaty” His skin prickles at the way you say his name. How could he ever decline such a lovely offer? You grab his hand hastily leading him to the bedroom.

You're shoving the bedroom door open while grabbing Jim's face. Kissing him with so much fever. He returns the passion, slipping off his jacket. By the time you make it to the bed his top is completely unbuttoned and yours is discarded on the floor. 

The two of you fell to the bed, not wanting any space between the two of you. That's how you spent the rest of the night eliciting moans and groans from each other and thoroughly marking every inch of skin on the other. 

[asgards-princess-of-mischief]

Last Updated: 2025-06-06

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〕 • ♥︎ •

✑ Mad Love ￨Prt. II￨Prt. III by magicalthoughtsendinterriblefics • 18+ • 〔F᜶M〕 •

✑ 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〕 • ♥︎ •

Can't Have That

✑ Deadly by bonniebird • 〔M〕 •

✑ Fight, the by writings-of-a-british-fangirl • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

✑ 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〕 • ♥︎ • 𑁍 •

✑ Swoon by bonniebird • 〔F〕 •

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

Where Have You Been?

✑ 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 || @thranduilsperkybutt || @writings-of-a-british-fangirl ||

[lacelynpage]

You fall asleep in an odd spot ~ Sherlock Preferences

A/N: HELLO DARLINGS!!!! I’m SO sorry its been so long. Life got really chaotic but I trying to find time to writ more. I have missed you all sooo much. I hope you enjoy what I cooked up for today. See you all again soon hopefully lol.

Sherlock: 

Being with Sherlock involves a lot of late nights. When you're on a case the two of you can easily stay out till the sun starts to spill over the horizon. Exhaustion is your nearly constant companion. So it is not uncommon for you to fall asleep on the cab ride back to Bakers street. After your head is resting comfortably on his shoulder he will gently intertwine your fingers. Running his thumbs over your knuckles soothingly. It is one of the few truly tender things he does, and it means the world to you.

John:

Sleep isn't always your best friend. Most nights your body would, rather cruelly, keep you awake. Force you to think about your whole life till you spiraled into anxiety. John understood that struggle and would often stay up with you, making tea and sitting with you. It led to some of the deepest and more honest conversations. However, your bodies were still both achingly tired in the morning. So when John came to pick you up on your lunch break for a date one day after a particularly long night. He wasn't surprised to find you sound asleep on your desk. With a gentle touch he woke you up, telling your coworkers you weren't feeling well. The two of you spent the rest of the day together, cuddled up and fast asleep.

Mycroft:

Late hours were the norm in your house. Both of you commonly work odd schedules as contacts from around the world update you on various projects. On a bright Sunday morning Mycroft awoke to find you missing from the bed. Assuming you had simply gone to bed later and woken up early he walked down to the kitchen. The sight that greeted him was odd but not unfamiliar. You sat at the small breakfast table in the corner, head resting on the keyboard of your laptop. A few papers and a now very cold cup of coffee to your right. Gently, he woke you and ushered you into bed, calling Athena to cancel all morning meetings. The two of you needed some recovery time.

Greg:

It was cute really, well Greg thought it was cute at least, that you could never make it through a movie in the cinema. No matter how much you wanted to see the movie, every time you would drift off. Popcorn left to get cold in your lap as your head lulled back. While the end credits rolled he would nudge you awake with the most childish grin on his face, making you groan in frustration. He would always give you a summary on the car ride home, which you appreciated. 

Moriarty:

You were not one to let your guard down easily, Jim knew that. No matter how tired you were, sleeping in public wasn't an option. However, there was one exception, the plane to Dublin. Something about flying home relaxed you, made the worries and enemies slip from your mind. Softly you rest your head on Jim's shoulder and let sleep overtake you. He would work quietly, kissing your head whenever you stirred slightly to adjust. These plane rides were often the quietest moments in your life together, you both treasured them.

[sakshi-s-blog]

OMG👁️ What're they doing together?

[greghousescane]

ii | tea in the trenches

TEA

IN

THE

TRENCHES.

𝓣he night passed by strangely for Vivienne.

The air felt heavier than usual—damp, still, like the world had been stopped while she slept. The sheets were too new, too crisp. Unused and uncomfortable. The kind that wrinkle loudly with every toss and turn.

And it was much, much quieter than she'd imagined 221B would be.

When she finally stirred, the morning light barely creeping through the window, her joints cracked with the sharp precision she'd grown used to. The price of hypermobility.

She and her older sister had inherited it from their father's side—John, on the other hand, got lucky.

Still bleary-eyed, she sat up and reached for a pair of cotton socks from the little pile beside her bag. She hated the feeling of dust or crumbs sticking to bare feet—something about it made her skin crawl. Every night, slipping off her socks to sink into a cold duvet felt like a quiet reward after surviving the day . Now, she tugged them back on with a quiet sigh, bracing for a day in a flat that still didn't feel quite like home.

"I looked you up on the internet," she heard her brother say—to who she could only assume was Sherlock.

"Anything interesting?" came the deep, unmistakably posh voice. Bingo. Of course it was Sherlock. Who else would it be?

"That sounds a little stalkerish..." Vivienne mumbled groggily, her voice still heavy with sleep. She rubbed her eyes with one hand as she shuffled into the still-cluttered living room.

Both men snapped their heads toward her, startled.

John's lips parted, quickly turning into a grin.

He was sitting stiffly on the same armchair from the night before, cane in hand, posture straight, clothes already neatly on. So were Sherlock's. But Vivienne knew her brother—knew him well enough to remember that he used to lounge in pajamas until 1 p.m. on weekends.

That was before Afghanistan.

Now he woke early, moved like clockwork—military muscle memory that wouldn't fade.

"Found your website," John continued, nodding toward Sherlock. "The Science of Deduction."

"And what did you think?" Sherlock asked, tilting his head slightly, eyes curious. His brows furrowed a little as John scoffed in reply.

Vivienne sat quietly on the arm of the chair, half-listening. Sherlock, already dressed in a suit and looking maddeningly polished, had curls that looked deliberately perfect. She felt a sharp stab of jealousy. Some people just woke up like that, apparently.

"You said you could identify a software designer by his tie... and an airline pilot by his left thumb?" John questioned, sounding halfway between amused and skeptical.

While John had spent the night down a Sherlock-shaped rabbit hole, Vivienne had fallen asleep back at the old, dreary rental flat. She'd woken up unsure where she was, for just a second, before remembering the move.

She couldn't lie—221B Baker Street was prettier.

Messy, yes. A chaotic flurry of cardboard boxes and scattered papers—but somehow it already felt more like home than their last place ever did. Still...

There was a difference between moving in with your brother and moving in with a stranger who looked like he hadn't blinked in hours.

And Vivienne? Still a little wary. But trying.

"Yes," Sherlock began, not moving an inch. His voice was calm, almost bored.

"—And I can read your military career in your face and your leg—"

His gaze flicked to John, then shifted, "—and your brother's drinking habits on your mobile phone."

Vivienne snapped out of her drifting thoughts at that, blinking hard. Brother's drinking habits?

Her head turned sharply toward John. He was already responding.

"How?" he asked, brow raised—cool, steady.

But he didn't correct Sherlock. Didn't say sister, didn't explain.

Vivienne caught the brief flicker of his eyes in her direction, and she understood. He didn't want to explain yet. Not now. Maybe not to him.

Before the tension could settle into silence, the soft, tapping rhythm of flat shoes echoed from the kitchen.

Mrs. Hudson's gravelly voice floated into the room. "What about these suicides then, Sherlock?"

Vivienne stood, carefully stepping down from the arm of the chair. Her cotton socks barely made a sound as she crossed the floor.

She wasn't sure if she was more interested in the case or the tea—but her stomach rumbled at the right time either way. Still, she paused for a moment, letting her eyes skim the headline of the newspaper left carelessly on the desk nearby.

"Three. Exactly the same."

Sherlock's voice was sharp as he turned to look out the window.

Vivienne had already established one thing: Sherlock Holmes was, without a doubt, very dramatic.

"Well, that sounds... strange," she murmured, glancing at Mrs. Hudson, who nodded as if that were the understatement of the century.

"There's been a fourth," the older woman added, her voice lowering.

In the few short minutes Vivienne spent focused on making herself some toast—carefully, quietly—everything had changed. Sherlock was suddenly out the door in a whirlwind, his coat flaring behind him like a stage curtain mid-act. John followed close behind, cane clicking urgently against the floor.

He opened his mouth to call something back to her—probably an explanation—but Sherlock was faster, as always.

"Vivienne! You'll be in the way—go explore something educational!"

Her lips parted in confusion, brows pulling together.

"What—?" But they were already gone.

She blinked once, then turned slowly toward Mrs. Hudson, who offered her a warm, sympathetic smile and a little shrug.

"I've heard the museum is nice..." Vivienne murmured as she buttered her toast, eyes still a little hazy with sleep.

"Oh yes, dear!" Mrs. Hudson beamed. "I do recommend the Science Museum—but the British Museum's only a few away."

After a lovely morning of tea and gentle gossip about the neighbors—who apparently were an entire novella on their own—Vivienne found herself back upstairs, debating what on earth counted as museum-appropriate attire. It felt strange, being in Baker Street by herself. Not bad, necessarily. Just... off.

And maybe it was pathetic—at least, that's what her mind insisted—but she missed her brother.She was used to spending time alone. She had been for years, really.

After John went off to the military and Harriet slipped further into her drinking, solitude had become less of a choice and more of a constant. The only person she had been able to truly count on was Clara. Clara, who had practically become family during the worst of it. Clara, who had held her hand when she didn't know how to hold herself together. And though their contact had dwindled—crumbled, even—after Clara left Harriet, Vivienne couldn't bring herself to blame her. Not really.

It wasn't easy to admit, but she had taken Clara's side. She had meant every intervention, every concerned voicemail, every time she held back tears and begged her sister to please just try. But the line between loving someone and enabling them was thin, and it frayed fast.

Now? Her contact with Harriet was delicate at best. Brittle. Fragile. A blown-glass sort of love, beautiful and breakable.

She had settled on something casual—comfortable, but not so comfortable that she looked homeless or vaguely unwell. From her perch by the window, watching the people pass by below, she realized it wasn't nearly as warm outside as it was in the flat. She couldn't tell if it was about to rain or if the sky was just wearing its usual London expression: vaguely annoyed and unmistakably grey.

Once she was out the door—cozy light grey sweater tugged down over her hips, bag slung across her shoulder—she set off.

Mrs. Hudson had said it was "just a few away." Just a few what, though? Steps? Streets? Emotional breakdowns?

She'd gone right at first. The wrong way, naturally. In the end, she was pretty sure she'd taken the scenic route around the entire museum—twice. But eventually, after a confusing loop and an accidental detour into a pretty large Asda, she found herself at the top of the stone steps.

She let out a soft sigh of relief, actively trying not to look winded or, God forbid, sweaty. Her hip had clicked twice on the way up. Possibly three times. It sounded like she was entirely made of poorly-assembled IKEA parts.

After spending far too long squinting at the slightly crumpled, deeply unhelpful museum map, she was almost ready to make a beeline for the Roman Empire exhibit.

The Romans had always been a fascination of hers growing up. She could still hear Harry's voice teasing her about her inexplicable schoolgirl crush on Julius Caesar. At the time, Vivienne had insisted it was the leadership she admired.

Now, she was starting to realize it may have just been the trauma.

After weaving through the other exhibits—Greek, Mesopotamian, a brief flirtation with Medieval Arms—she found herself circling back. Nothing quite grabbed her the way the Romans did. Still, she appreciated the artifacts, the worn details, the quiet hum of preserved history.

But what she didn't expect was actual human interaction. Like, beyond buying a ticket or offering a quick awkward smile to a passing tourist. She wasn't prepared.

She took a slow step back, eyes fixed on the statue of Dionysus in front of her. There was something eerie and beautiful about it—the way the marble framed his face, the tilt of his smirk.

And then—bump.

Vivienne gasped, audibly which was quite embarrassing, as she backed right into something solid.

Or, more specifically, someone.

"Oh god—"

"It's fine," a voice replied—low, rough, just gravelly enough to feel cinematic.

She turned, eyes dragging upward.

He was tall.

T A L L.

Broad shoulders. Jawline like it was carved from the same stone as Dionysus himself. Scars, too—faint, but enough to suggest he knew violence a little too well. That didn't make him not handsome, though. No, no, it made him dangerously handsome.

Tall... and those biceps? Hunky. Like... objectively.

But it was his eyes that stopped her. Icy, piercing, like he saw a little too much, too fast. It made her stomach do something dumb. Flippy.

"I'm so sorry—I should've looked where I was going," she stammered, panic already bubbling under her skin. Her face was hot. Great. She

could feel the embarrassing red creeping up her neck.

"It's all good. No worries," he chuckled, easy and low.

Then, with a glance toward the statue: "You seem to really like Dionysus, huh?"

Vivienne felt her brain short-circuit slightly. Small talk. Her oldest nemesis.

"Oh! Uh—yeah. I mean... I love the statues." She winced. That sounded weird. Who says that? Who just admits to being in love with statues like some creepy art freak with no friends?

"They are beautiful," he said, humming his agreement. There was a smoothness to the way he spoke—measured, unhurried.

Somehow that made it worse.

"Did you know," she started, trying to recover, "Romans usually sculpted the bodies first and then attached the heads separately?"

He raised a brow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Oh yeah?"

"I mean, they did that when they were mass-producing sculptures. Swapping heads depending on who was emperor. But like—did it actually save them time?" she asked, laughing a little despite herself.

That earned her something unexpected: a real laugh. A deep, throaty sound that made her insides coil weirdly. Not in a bad way.

"You sure know a lot about the Romans," he said, eyes twinkling. "Maybe you're Ovid incarnated."

Vivienne blinked. "Wow. Bold of you to assume I'm not already."

Saved by the buzzing from her bag, she cursed under her breath and fished out her phone.

SISTER DEAR. I HAVE ACQUIRED YOU AN INTERNSHIP WITH SCOTLAND YARD. PUT YOUR PASSION TO GOOD USE. MEET D. GRANT LESTRADE.

-J.W

Vivienne blinked.

Okay. Weird.

She knew immediately this wasn't actually her brother—not really. Sure, it came from his number, but John had never signed off his texts in his life. He barely texted at all. And definitely not like a sentient fax machine. No. This had Sherlock written all over it. Robot speech and all.

"Meeting someone?" the gruff voice pulled her back to reality.

"Huh? Oh—uh, no. Just... my brother," she replied, smiling sheepishly as she shoved her phone deep into her bag again. Right into the crumby abyss, where granola bar shrapnel lived and phone charging ports went to die.

"It was nice meeting you—um, I've gotta—" she gestured vaguely at the wall, then quickly corrected herself and pointed at the actual exit. "That way."

"I'm Sean by the-"

One last awkward smile, and she was gone—practically sprinting, nearly colliding with another person on her way out but catching her balance just in time