✁Violet✃

hey James i don’t think you two have been friends long enough to reach cheek-touching privileges and having ur mouths that close together but that could just be me

Chapter Six: Life In a Glasshouse Part Two

James Moriarty x f!Reader

Summary: American reader is sent overseas by her family, but finds herself at Oxford instead of the family she was supposed to become a governess for. After becoming entangled in the alleged crimes of James Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes, a friendship, and maybe something more, blooms between the three of them as they work together to clear their names. (1.7k)

TW for mentions of suicide!

AN at end

gif by @inevitable-destruction

The woman raises her hand, her bony finger and long nail pointing at you, an accusation not yet spoken.

“Sherlock, who are… who are these people?” She asks, fear and anxiety coating her every word. She steps back, her hand reaching for the door handle behind her, getting ready to run. Sherlock rushes to her side, gently setting his hands on her arms, trying to calm her.

“No, Mother, these are friends of mine.” He says, extending his arm, gesturing at you and James. James slowly steps forward, hands outstretched to show he means to harm. He approaches like a person would approach a wounded animal, cautious and light on his feet, ready to escape if something goes wrong.

“Hello.” He says, calmly. “My name is James Moriarty.” The woman relaxes, her body releasing its tension in an instant. She puts her hand on Sherlock’s chest, nudging him away.

“Oh, that’s spectacular!” Her voice is soft and airy, contrary to how you had heard her speak just moments ago. She walks up to you and James, extending her hand. “Sherlock never had any friends growing up.” Her smile is infectious, lightening the air in the room. James shakes her hand, laughing slightly.

“Oh really?” He glances back at Sherlock for a moment before turning his attention to Sherlock’s mother again. “Well, It’s an honor to meet you Mrs. Holmes.”

Mrs. Holmes turns back to Sherlock, her eyes now unfocused and cloudy. The pace her emotions change is rapid, waves crashing down and replacing each other as fast as they had appeared. She reaches out to Sherlock, patting his shoulder and running up the stairs.

“Darling, do you hear that music?” She shouts, pointing at the floor above. “That’s you!” She disappears, leaving you, James, and Sherlock in the foyer. Sherlock looks down, avoiding eye contact with either of you, and hurries after his mother. You glance at James, words unspoken but still clear between you both. Mrs. Holmes wasn’t exactly sane. Both of your smiles fade, realizing why Sherlock had been absent for so long. He had been breaking his mother out of an asylum. You take a breath, and step closer to the stairs.

“Let’s go.” You mumble, grasping the railing. You reassure yourself, “It’s just Sherlock’s mother, and you’ve seen women getting sent away for something as small as speaking out.” It doesn’t fully console you, not addressing your larger fear. In another life, you could have been her, a deteriorating mind trapped in a world of the unforgiving, forgotten by society.

You follow Mrs. Holmes through rooms and hallways, watching her chase an imaginary Beatrice. She stops at a door, calling the girl’s name. Her voice becomes panicked, her eyes widening. Sherlock steps in.

“Perhaps we should sit down, Mother.” He says, his voice cracking and wavering like he was on the verge of tears. He leads her to a nearby bench, bending to be at eye level with her. She sighs, leaning her head back against the wall. Serenity finally settles back into Mrs. Holmes' face.

———————————

You watch out of a window as Sherlock runs out of the manor, calling for his mother. James is beside you fiddling with some old trinket he found in a nearby room.

“I wonder what it does to a person.” You say, James glancing up at you. “Being in an asylum, I mean.” You fiddle with your fingers, scratching the skin of your palm. You hardly notice, distracted by your rushing mind. James quietly reaches out, taking your hands in his own to stop you.

“I don’t know.” He quietly admits. “I’m not sure how much it helps, though.”

“It was- no, it is a fear of mine to be sent to a place like that. Every time I tried to speak my opinion, or disagreed with anyone, it was always there. Lingering in the back of my mind.”

James moves his hand over your’s, entwining your pinkies together. It’s a small action, barely noticeable to anyone but you. It communicates so much, yet stays so silent. It silences your racing mind, providing a small comfort for a moment. Your heart skips a beat, and you turn away from him, watching the sway of the trees in the wind. The clouds diffuse the sun's light, casting soft shadows across the terrace. It’s a beautiful afternoon, and you can only imagine what it would be like with the sun out. Sherlock and his mother approach the manor, and you reluctantly let go of James’ hand to help them inside.

“Let’s get you warm and dry.” Sherlock says, ushering his mother through the door.

———————————

Sherlock’s deduction about Professor Thompson, Shou’an’s escape, these had both brought you here. To Lawson Jaggers, Esquire. A building with the most pungent and disgusting scent wafting from its door. Sherlock had immediately gagged after taking a breath, pulling away.

“Smells… interesting.” He coughs.

James takes his turn looking through the letter box, pulling away just as fast.

“That’s repulsive.” You gag, covering your mouth with your hand. Your eyes water, the stench infiltrating all of your senses. Sherlock reaches into his pocket, pulling out a container of lock picking equipment.

“You all ready?” James mocks, smashing in a window and opening the door.

“There’s more than one way to skin a cat, James.” Sherlock sighs, covering his nose and walking through.

“And some ways of skinning a cat are more effective than others.” You mumble, voice distorted from holding your nose. Inside, flies buzz around you, nipping at your hair and clothes. The stench is even more putrid inside, a sickeningly sweet smell of decay and rotten flesh.

“Rotten flesh?” You think, eyes widening. You stiffen, the pieces falling into place. Flies, decay and the terriblely sweet scent? It wasn’t just any rotten flesh, you realize. You recognized it from your journey across the sea, when one of your fellow passengers died from pneumonia half way through the journey. It was the smell of human flesh. You hurry to the next room, following the buzzing flies when you see him, a man strung up from the ceiling, a noose tied around his neck.

“Oh my god.” You sputter, the shock of seeing a corpse, an old one at that, freezing you in place. Your stomach churns, threatening to expel your lunch.

“That’s the last of Jaggers, Esquire.” James walks past you, inspecting the body. Sherlock stays back, fighting the same shock and nausea you are also experiencing. James reaches out, delicately touching the corpse’s fingertips.

“Is that… blood?” Sherlock blurts, James stiffing the corpse’s hand.

“Sign of a struggle. He got in a scrap.” James is calm, so calm. It worries you how collected he is in the face of death, like it’s a completely familiar state for him. You don’t dwell on it.

“A rather…” Sherlock swallows. “Convinient suicide don’t you think?”

“Diaries. May have some records of your mother.” James tosses various journals Sherlock’s way, never taking his eyes off the body.

“Should we report this to the police?” You choke, using all of your strength to step into the room.

“And do their jobs for them?” James dismisses, searching the room.

Sherlock comes to your defense. “I have been suspected of a murder before.” He counters. “I would rather it didn’t happen again.”

“Seneca says the problem with this life is not that it’s short. It’s that we waste an awful lot of it dicking about.” James hastily walks out, and you follow him, eager to leave the revolting smell and crime scene behind.

———————————

You read and re-read the wire sent for Sherlock at the police station, panic setting in.

“They are coming for her?” You think. “They can’t have already found her.” James and Sherlock shout at the horses, yelling for them to go faster. You arrive at Appleton Manor with a commotion just inside the gates. Mrs. Holmes is screaming, strange men holding her by the arm. You jump off the carriage, racing up the steps. You make it to the top, James at your heels, just as Mrs. Crowle points a gun to the chest of a man with spectacles.

“Is the double-barreled 12-bore hammer gun not persuasive enough for you?” Sherlock says, stepping closer to the man. Mrs. Crowle cocks the gun, staring the man dead in his eyes. The man weighs his life, and calls for his subordinates to let Mrs. Holmes go.

“We’re only acting in her best interests.” He explains, eyeing the gun.

“You knew. You knew about the recordings, about Professor Malik.” Sherlock accuses, raising his voice with every word.

“You’ll have to ask him. I was merely paid to look the other way.” The man avoids Sherlock’s piercing gaze, looking anywhere but at the towering figure next to him. In a split second, Mrs. Holmes steps forward and slaps the man, hard, right across the face. You can’t help but feel a surge of pride as you watch her strike her abuser. Sherlock hugs his mother, stroking her hair and whispering apologies about his absence.

“Can I suggest that ye all respectfully fuck off?” James gestures down the stairs, and the ‘psychiatrists’ shuffle away, throwing hateful glances back up once and a while.

——————————

You sit in an armchair beside James, Mrs. Crowle setting a tray of snacks between you.

“Thank you.” Mrs. Holmes smiles, setting down her book.

“Did it feel good? To slap that man?” you ask, leaning forward. James copies your movement, resting his elbows on his thighs. Mrs. Holmes laughs, staring up at the ceiling.

“It was such a tonic.” She responds, James chuckling slightly at her words.

“So what now?” Sherlock asks glumly, cutting through the silly mood of the room. “We’re still no closer to figuring out why you were involved in any of this.” He trails off, just before there is a loud knock at the door. You four look at each other, sitting straighter. You are all weary to open it after today’s events, anxious of what may be behind it. Sherlock stands, quickly rushing to open the door. You can’t see what’s behind the door, but you hear a voice from behind it.

“Sherlock, my boy. I heard you had a spot of bother.”

————————————————-

Chapter Five: Life in a Glasshouse

James Moriarty x f!Reader

Summary: American reader is sent overseas by her family, but finds herself at Oxford instead of the family she was supposed to become a governess for. After becoming entangled in the alleged crimes of James Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes, a friendship, and maybe something more, blooms between the three of them as they work together to clear their names.

AN at end

gif by @goslinggf

You wake in the early hours of the morning, serenaded by the songs of birds. Sunlight streams through your window, banishing the darkness of the night. You take your time getting out of bed and getting ready, relishing in the best night of sleep you have gotten in a while. You walk down the hall to the room where James and Sherlock had spent the night, the floorboards still creaking under your feet.

“Morning.” You yawn. James stands in the middle of the room, holding a scrap of paper. Sherlock is nowhere in sight. James turns his attention to you, smiling.

“Good morning. How did you sleep?” He asks.

“Amazing, thank you. What’s that?” You gesture to the note he is holding.

“An address. Sherlock left it.” He answers. You walk over where James is standing, peeking over his shoulder and looking at the paper.

“Appleton Manor?” You read. “Does he want us to… meet him there?”

“I assume so. Considering he has already left, we best leave now.” James stuffs the note in his pocket. “I would have already gone but it wouldn’t be very polite to leave without a word. Again.” He jokes. You grab your jacket, and together you both leave the flat, calling a carriage to take you to the manor. James sits across from you, his knees bumping yours whenever there is a bump in the road. You watch as the familiar buildings of London fade away into the countryside. Rolling hills and forests scatter the land, the sun just barely peeking over the horizon. The scenery is calming, beautiful even.

James' knee brushes yours. You turn from the window, now watching James. He is entranced by the view, leaning up against the window.

“It reminds me of home.” He whispers, a quiet longing painting his face. You don’t respond for a while, basking in the comforting silence for a few more moments.

“What was it like?” You ask, and James smiles softly.

“Stunning.” He pauses, reminiscing. “I remember when I was a boy there was a mountain I used to walk up every morning, counting the different species of animals I saw on my way. About halfway up, there was this clearing with a boulder in the center. If I stood on it and turned around, I could see for miles. And, oh, if you could catch the sunrise, it was beautiful. I would give anything to go back.”

“Why did you leave then?” You inquire. His smile saddens.

“Half of my family died in the Great Famine. We managed to restore a few fields after, but we couldn’t run the farm with so few people, so my father made the decision to move to England. In the end, only him and I left. The rest of my relatives didn’t want to leave our homeland, they said we were betraying our family. I tried writing them letters, but they never responded, so I eventually stopped sending them. My father died a few years back, so now it’s just me.”

You reach over and grab James’ hand, entwining your fingers together. He looks down, watching your fingers slide into place beside his. He doesn’t pull away.

You sit like that for what must have been hours, but what felt like minutes. All to soon you arrive at Appleton Manor, disappointed you had to release his hand as the driver opens the door to let you out. The Manor is huge, the largest property you have ever seen, although that doesn’t mean much considering you were from the city. It’s entrance is highlighted by a huge staircase, weaving through the beautiful gardens. You walk up the staircase, James at your heel. He knocks on the door, and you stand together for a while, waiting for someone to answer.

“I don’t think anyone is here.” You mumble after a while, stepping back. James looks through the window, pressing his face against the glass.

“I believe so.” His breath fogs the glass in front of him, steadily growing with every exhale. “It doesn’t seem like anyone has been here for a long time.” He steps back, giving you a turn to look through the glass. The window is still warm from his breath, contrasting with the other chilly panels. Perring inside, the furniture is covered in tarps and a thick layer of dust coats every surface. You furrow your brow, wondering if this is the right address. Turning, you watch as the carriage you had just stepped off exits the property. James follows your gaze, pivoting his feet to provide a better view.

“Shall we look around for another way in?” He proposes, slipping his hands in his coat pocket.

“I don’t see another option.” You respond. Together, you inspect windows and doors for anything that might be unlocked. After a few tries, you find an open window into the living room. You step inside, coughing from the build up of dust. It’s clear that this house hasn’t been lived in for years. James walks in front of you, lifting the fabric tarps off of a chair.

“It sure is fancy for an abandoned house.” He notes.

“Do you want to look around?” You ask, stepping closer to the door. James grins, replacing the tarp over the chair.

“You read my mind.”

The Manor is huge, countless rooms spread across each floor. You and James slowly make your way around, stopping to look at anything that catches your eye. Eventually, you find yourself in an office. Display cases of taxidermied animals and insects litter the walls and shelves.

“Woah.” You gasp, admiring a scene of dozens of birds. “I’ve never seen such a large collection of anything in my life.”

“It’s...” James pauses, choosing his words carefully. “Eerie.”

“Definitely.” You agree, turning your attention to the jars of amphibians. You set your hand on the desk, immediately recoiling after you make contact, remembering the coat of dust over everything. You turn your hand, expecting to see grime where you had placed it down but it was clean. Too clean. You wipe your fingers across the desk, but they too come back free of dust.

“Someone’s been here recently.” You point out, rubbing your fingers together. James walks up behind you, tentatively grabbing your hand to look at the absence of dust. You can feel his warm breath on the back of your neck as he whispers,

“Strange. Every other room seemed untouched.”

You quickly pull away, pretending to be very interested in some books on a nearby shelf. James circles the desk, picking up a small skull.

“Alas, poor Yorick. I knew him, Horatio.” He quotes, Shakespeare rolling off his tongue like he was the one who wrote it.

——————————

You walk up the stairs, scanning the paintings donning the walls. Some are covered with tarps, but you recognize a familiar face in the ones that are not.

“This must be Sherlock’s home.” James says, examining a portrait of a young Sherlock and Mycroft. You continue up the stairs, surveying portraits of who you assume to be other close family members. James follows you to the end of the hall, opening a door into a child’s bedroom. A large chemistry set stands in the center, surrounded by various vials of chemicals and beakers. You would bet good money this belongs to Sherlock. You spy a violin, and walk over to pick it up.

“I tried to learn when I was younger. Never really had the discipline or patience though.” You say after playing an out of tune version of the nursery rhyme “Frere Jacques”.

“Sounds divine.” James jokes after you hit a wrong note. “It’s such a shame you gave it up.”

“I’d like to see you try.” You joke back, setting the violin back where you found it, but James immediately snatches it up.

“Watch and learn.” He says confidently, before putting the bow to strings and playing a loud and screechingly terrible note. You can’t help but smile as he grimaces, silencing the violin.

“Ah. Nevermind.”

“Not as easy as it looks, right?” You laugh, leading him out of the bedroom.

“I have no idea what you mean, I played beautifully.” He countered, sarcasm dripping from his voice. You turn, walking backwards to maintain eye contact.

“Well, art is subjective.”

“And I objectively played amazingly.”

You both laugh, and you take another step back. Suddenly, you realize that the floor that your foot was supposed to hit isn’t there, that you just stepped backwards onto the stairs. Instinctively you reach out for anything to hold onto, and grab the nearby railing. James is faster, quickly wrapping his arm around your waist so you don’t fall.

Chapter Four: Everything in its Right Place

James Moriarty x f!Reader

Summary: American reader is sent overseas by her family, but finds herself at Oxford instead of the family she was supposed to become a governess for. After becoming entangled in the alleged crimes of James Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes, a friendship, and maybe something more, blooms between the three of them as they work together to clear their names. (1.6k)

TW for swearing!

AN at end

gif by @loustattruther

You watch from a classroom window as James walks, or rather sulks, off of the Oxford Campus. His belongings were all packed into a small duffel bag which he carried over his shoulder. You look away, throat burning with the remnants of your tears. You don’t know why his words hurt you so much. You had dealt with far worse and left unscathed. Even then, you still didn’t hate him. You knew that was unreasonable, but you could help trying to justify his behavior. After all, you couldn’t blame him for being emotional after his encounter with Professor Hodge. It was wrong of him to take it out on you, but he had a reason to be angry. You had learned from the chatter of students and scholars in the halls that his scholarship had not been reinstated, and he had been not-so-formally asked to leave. You were lucky, because Oxford technically only enrolled men, they couldn’t expel you like they had James. You sharply breathe out, an idea forming in your head. It was stupid, yes, and did he deserve this, absolutely not. Still, for some reason, you stood up from your seat and walked out.

“I sure as hell hope I don’t regret this.” You think, making your way down to the courtyard where you last saw him.

You manage to catch James at the gate leading out of Oxford just as it began to rain. Shoving a closed umbrella in his direction, you shout.

“You don’t have anywhere to go, yeah?” Rain pours down on you, wetting your face and hair. “Follow me.” For a heartbeat, James just stands, shocked at your presence. Slowly, he opens the umbrella over the two of you, and looks down, avoiding your gaze. You refrain from saying anything else, instead leading him out of the gate and into the street. Rain pelts the ground around you, soaking your boots and legs. People hurry, trying to avoid the rain by running or sticking under the cover of awnings. James walks behind you, not saying a word.

You lead him down alleyways and main streets until you arrive at your residence. Fumbling with the key from your rain slickened hands, it takes you a few tries to unlock the outside door into your building. Once you get the door open, you step inside, James following after he shakes off the umbrella.

“You can stay with me for the time being.” You explain.

“Thank you.” James responds softly. You had never seen anyone look like James when he said that. The purest form of gratitude mixed with sorrow and guilt. You were sure you would never see anything like it again.

“It’s no problem.” You mumble. You walk up the stairs to the second floor, using your key to unlock the door leading into your flat. You strike a match and light the oil lamps around the room as James warily walks in. “I don’t have a spare bedroom, so you can take the couch.” You open a few closets, grabbing spare blankets and pillows. You lay them down on the foot of the couch. “Make yourself comfortable.”

He sets his bag down by the door, leaning the umbrella against the wall.

“I don’t understand why you’re helping me after…” his voice trails off, “What I said.”

“This doesn’t mean I forgive you.” You stress. “I would do this for anyone.” James doesn’t respond, standing in silence. The tension is so thick you could cut it with a knife. You walk to your room, leaving him in your sitting room. You want to put as much space between the both of you as possible. You close the door, taking a breath. It was stupid idea, letting him be a guest in your home. It was already terribly awkward, and it would only get worse the longer stays. You stride over to your desk, staring at the mess of books and papers. You walked out of your lecture to help him. You walked out on the lecture in the college you worked so hard to get into for him. For James. You sigh, bending over to clean the desk. Suddenly, you hear your front door slam shut.

“James?” You call, dropping your books and rushing to the door. His bag was still on the floor by the wall where he left it. James had ran.

——————————

You are sitting on the couch, reading your worn copy of The Iliad when James and Sherlock burst through your door. You immediately stand up, shutting the book and tossing it on a table in front of you.

“He’s dead! She killed Roberts!” James exclaims.

“James, what the bloody hell?!” You shout, causing the two to take a step back in shock. “Just because I invited you to stay doesn’t mean you can disappear for nine hours and show up unannounced talking about some random fucking murder!” You look at Sherlock, adding, “With someone who I thought was in prison!”

“Not just some murder,” Sherlock steps in, “Shou’an killed again.”

“I’m sorry, are we talking about the princess? The princess Shou’an?” You say, voice still raised. “And what do you mean again?”

“Shou’an killed Thompson, and now Roberts.” James elaborates. “We have reason to believe that Enright and Malik are her next targets.”

“I’m sorry, did you say Professor Thompson is dead?” You ask, massaging your brow. James steps forward, meeting you in the sitting room.

“Yes. We need to stop her before she kills again.”

You pause, processing the information. “Wait. How did you even get into my flat?” James laughs, an undertone of anxiety peeking through. He pulls something out of his pocket, extending his hand.

“I might have stolen your key.” You watch as he presses the familiar brass key into your palm.

“You bastard.” You murmur, loud enough so James can hear, earning another laugh from him.

“I suppose that we do have some explaining to do.” Sherlock professes, stepping forward to meet you and James. You sit down, Sherlock and James catching you up on everything that had happened earlier that day. Breaking Sherlock out of jail by using stolen costumes, pretending to be constables, finding the professor’s body still warm in his armchair. They finish by explaining they came to your flat for a place to stay the night.

“I assumed your invitation was still available. And that you wouldn’t mind harboring an alleged criminal.” James admits.

“I suppose I’ve been dragged into this too much to back out. You both can stay. Although someone may have to sleep on the floor.” You say. Sherlock ends up taking the couch after an argument with James, who had reluctantly conceded after Sherlock had brought up that he had spent the prior night in jail and therefore deserved the better arrangement. James made a makeshift mattress out of blankets and spare pillows by the fireplace. After they had gotten situated, you made your way to your bedroom, getting ready to go to sleep. You slip under the covers, quickly falling asleep.

Unfortunately, your rest didn’t last long. You had that same dream again- the one about the girl and the tree and sinking into the earth. It had plagued you for weeks, ever since you had arrived in London. You sit up, trying to push the dream from your mind. It hurts to dwell on it. Fully torn from your sleep, you decide to get a glass of water in hopes that it would quell your mind. You slowly open your door, trying to muffle any sound, and tip toe to your kitchen. Carefully making your way around the sleeping boys, you open the door to your small kitchen and grab a glass from a nearby cabinet. You slowly fill the cup, not turning the sink on all the way in order to be as quiet as possible. Suddenly, the floorboards creak behind you, causing you to jump and turn around. James stands in the doorway, the light from the fireplace in the next room creating a halo of light around his curls. You relax, tension leaving your body.

“You scared me.” You whisper, barely audible.

“I’m sorry.” You can hardly see his mouth moving in the darkness, but the voice is distinctly his own.

“No, it’s nothing to be sorry for. I was just a little jumpy.” You murmur. James shakes his head and steps forward, putting his hand on your arm.

“I’m sorry for what I said yesterday.” He whispers. “I didn’t mean it.”

You don’t respond, lips parting slightly as you breathe out.

“It was wrong of me to snap at you like that. You haven’t done anything wrong.” He utters, voice just louder than a breath. “I don’t deserve your kindness after everything.”

“It doesn’t matter whether you deserve it or not. I wanted to help.” You counter. James smiles softly.

“Still, I hope you can find it in yourself to forgive me.” You close the distance between you both, wrapping your arms around his chest.

“I already have.” You whisper into his shoulder. James hugs you back, and you stand together for a heartbeat.

“Thank you.” He replies.

You walk back to your room, and James to his ‘bed’. It doesn’t take you long to drift off into a dreamless sleep, curled up underneath your sheets. You bathe in the moonlight, a half-formed thought floating through the back of your mind. You had forgotten your water in the kitchen.

————————————————

Chapter Three: Thinking About You

James Moriarty x f!Reader

Summary: American reader is sent overseas by her family, but finds herself at Oxford instead of the family she was supposed to become a governess for. After becoming entangled in the alleged crimes of James Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes, a friendship, and maybe something more, blooms between the three of them as they work together to clear their names. (1.5k)

TW for swearing!

AN at end

gif by @sunshinevettel

The science mentioned in this chapter is period accurate (according the research I have done) so please take everything scientific that is said with a grain of salt and remember this story takes place 155 years ago! For a reference, scientists only were able to confirm the sun was a star since 1862.

You look up at the tall building, warm light leaking from its barely open windows. The night is chilly, wind nipping at your bare cheeks. The uneven cobblestone underneath your feet causes you to shift your weight as you walk, trying not to trip and fall. James leads you to the door, the overhead light flickering ever so slightly.

“Lovely place, isn’t it?” He says, opening the door and bowing his head. You step inside, greeted by the warmth of a fire and hushed voices of patrons. It’s a quaint, cozy pub, a refuge from the rest of the world.

“It’s beautiful. How did you find it?” You ask, your voice soft, barely above a whisper. James laughs quietly.

“I was hiding out from the Scotland Yard after pick pocketing this old man. Most people miss it because of the busyness of the other businesses around.” He takes your hand, leading you to a table in the corner. “This place is a secret, so let’s keep it between you and me.” A smile teases your face.

“I would never tell a soul.” You say. The table you sit down at is secluded, tucked away by the window. A candle is lit in the center, the flame dancing and casting mesmerizing shadows against the walls. A waiter approaches and leaves a bottle of gin and two glasses in front of you. You look out the window up at the sky, a waning moon shining upon the streets.

“It’s a shame the stars are barely visible in the city.” You state. “I remember how brightly they shone when I was sailing the Atlantic.”

“Come, gentle night; come, black-browed night.” James recites, pouring himself a glass of gin and taking a sip.

“Give me my Romeo, and when I shall die, Take him and cut him out in little stars, And he will make the face of heaven so fine That all the world will be in love with night And pay no worship to the garish sun.” You finish. “You enjoy Shakespeare?”

“Anyone with good taste does.” He leans back in his chair.

“I’m partial to Julius Caesar myself.” You admit, picking up a glass.

“But I am constant as the Northern Star, Of whose true fixed and resting quality There is no fellow in the firmament.” James smiles, “I prefer The Merchant of Venice.”

“It’s a classic, though most of his works are.” You pause, taking a breath. “I haven’t actually had the privilege of seeing any of Shakespeare’s plays live. I’ve only read the scripts.” James mock gasps, and you grin and look down into your glass.

“Oh no, no-no. We can’t have that. You’ve been walking the same streets as he did 300 years ago and have never seen one of his plays? I’ll have to take you sometime.” You laugh, leaning forward. He matches your movements, crossing his arms and resting them on the table.

“Maybe you should perform one for me.”

“I’ll take you to the countryside, give the best show you will ever see and then we can stargaze until the sun rises.” James plans.

“It sounds like a lovely night.” You smile, taking a drink.

“It will be.” He hums. “We can trace the constellations in the sky, map out the universe as we know it.”

“We can borrow a telescope and watch the oceans on Mars.” You add, leaning forward.

“We can be the first to discover life on another planet.”

“We’ll be famous astronomers.”

“Not if I take all the credit.” James quips. You fake a horrified look, adding to the joke.

“You would do that to an innocent, young, naive woman?” You gasp.

“No. I said I would do that to you.” James says, and you both laugh and take another drink.

You both pause for a moment.

“How are you, really? I mean- you took the brunt of the explosion. That must have hurt.” You ask, breaking the silence.

“A few aches and pains here and there. Nothing a little liquor won’t fix. ‘Sides, I would do it again.” James winks, then his face drops to something more serious. “I should really be asking how you are.”

You subconsciously touch the cut on your head, taking a second to choose your words.

“It looks worse than it feels.”

“So a constant, intense, mind numbing pain?” You laugh again and James grins softly.

“That bad, huh?” You say, tilting your head. James’ eye sparkles.

“You look gorgeous.” He whispers. Blood rushes to your face, unaware of how to handle the compliment. You swallow, hiding behind your glass. Words caught between your teeth, it takes a long moment for you to muster out a ‘thank you’. James chuckles

“I don’t think I've ever seen you so flustered. It couldn’t have been that good of a compliment.” He jokes.

“Your flattery means nothing to me.” You argue, trying to keep a stony face.

“I would beg to differ.” You can almost hear the smirk in James’ voice. The candle on the table flickers, dancing between the two of you.

You spend the rest of the night conversing over alcohol and candle light. Together, you lose track of time, the world fading into nonexistence outside of your table. By the time you decide to call it a night, it is already well past midnight and into the next morning. Again, James walks you home. Again, he takes your hand and kisses it as he bids you farewell. Again, your face feels hot as you watch him walk away. And again, you don’t address it.

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You arrive in the dining hall late, students and professors already at their seats and enjoying their morning meal. To be frank, you had slept terribly. Everytime you felt yourself drifting off into the warm embrace of sleep, you would think some obscene thought and jolt back awake. You had done your best to make yourself presentable, but you had the current brain function of a goldfish, reverting to your basic instincts. The quiet hum of restlessness, as well as your hangover, torture your mind, and you grab a cup of black coffee to take the edge off. You do your best to go unnoticed as you maneuver your way to an empty seat in the back, unfortunately by the waste bins. You hardly care, just happy for a place to rest. You take a sip of your coffee and immediately grimace.

“Blergh.. too bitter.” You grumble. You then proceed to take another sip. Nothing looks appetizing to you, as if your headache is spoiling everything you see. Absent-mindedly, you grab a few pastries and pick at crumbs on your plate, arranging them into different pictures. You hear the room quiet down, and look up to find the reason why. James is talking to Hodge- or trying to. James looks desperate, and Hodge’s expression becomes increasingly sour the longer they speak. The professor walks past him, and James reaches out to grab him by the arm.

“Goddamn it, man!” Hodge screams, silencing the dining hall. “Unhand me!” James immediately drops his hand, bewilderment and horror slapped across his face. He stands, petrified, as Hodge storms away. Your jaw hangs open, shocked by the outburst. You feel the second hand embarrassment and shame creeping upon you, still too stunned to speak. James turns, facing the audience.

“What are you all looking at?” He curses. “You fucking sheep.” James rushes out of the hall, and you get up from your chair, headache and fatigue vanished. You follow him, running to catch up.

“James!” You shout, grabbing his shoulder. He whips around, smacking your hand away.

“What? What is it?!” He screams, his face contorted with rage. “Tell me!” You take a step back, gasping. You are caught off guard by his reaction, and clutch your stinging hand as you string together an answer.

“I-… I’m sorry-“ You stutter, and he scoffs, cutting you off.

“You think I want your pity?! Your stupid apologies?! I don’t want you around, following me like an abused dog. Just me be!” He runs off, leaving you speechless. Tears sting at your eyes, blurring your vision. Questions run through your mind,

“Why would he say that? Does he really think so low of me? What happened with Hodge?” As if in a trance, you slowly make your way back into the dining hall and to your seat. Eyes still wide and shock coursing through your body, you stare down at your plate. At the crumbs arranged into a smiling face. It stares back at you, taunting you with its joyful expression. You swipe the crumbs away, destroying the picture, and put your head in your hands. The tears you were fighting spill out as you process what just happened.

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