Lynn₊⊹

Getting dressed is a silent affair. Black long-sleeve, black fisherman's jumper over top; the one pair of light-washed jeans you own, straight leg; and a pair of black, low, doc martens. You push your bed up and reveal your weapons arsenal to yourself. Handgun goes in the back of your jeans, knife in your left sock. You look over your weapons again, then decide that it’s unlikely you’ll be needing much more, and put your bed back down. You stand back up and grab a black bomber jacket and a black scarf, putting them on before grabbing your keys, wallet, and phones and leaving. You put in your earbuds once outside and start walking to the tube at a brisk pace.

You meet Jim in the Waterstones at Piccadilly, hating absolutely every single minute you spend there. It’s crowded, loud, and for some reason there is a weird smell at the back of the second floor; near the philosophy section. The fifth floor is where you meet him, in the foreign language section. He’s there already, flipping through a French language copy of The Count of Monte Cristo. ‘Bit dramatic, that book.’ You murmur as you trail your hand over the spines of the books in front of you. ‘Hmmm, perhaps.’ He replies, his Irish accent immediately noticeable. ‘There’re no cameras in the back office. The code is 1 2 3 4.’ Jim murmurs before walking in the direction of the office. Of course, you cannot follow immediately, as that would be too obvious, so, you walk around for a bit; checking books, reading the backs, and flipping through; before eventually making a round and slipping into the back office.

Jim’s sitting in the office chair, typing on his phone. ‘Ah, you’re here.’ He sends out a text before getting up. ‘Right, Spikey.’ His eyes focus on you. ‘You called me while incredibly drunk at New Year’s.’ You can feel heat creeping up your neck and to your ears. Shame. Shame on you for getting drunk; for not being as sharp as usual; for not being his perfect weapon. ‘You don’t remember.’ He states as if it’s a well known fact. And he’s right. You don’t remember why you’d called him; what you’d said to him. ‘Correct.’ Your reply is curt, to the point. He sighs, barely resisting the urge to roll his eyes. ‘I’ll be honest, I’m disappointed. And I don’t like being disappointed.’ He sighs. ‘I’m used to you being better than this.’ He steps forward, and despite his not very tall stature, it does intimidate you. ‘Spike, I’ll be up front with you, because you’re one of my favourites.’ He pauses, his tone lowering when he continues. ‘I need you to be good and let go of this little crisis of conscience, got it?’ ‘Yes Jim.’ You reply shamefully, eyes turned downwards. ‘Hey, hey, look at me.’ He says, slapping your cheek lightly before grabbing your chin. You listen, your gaze meeting his almost immediately. 

‘I need you to remember who you are.’ He hisses. ‘You’re mine, Spike. Mine.’ There’s a pause before he continues. ‘You’d be nothing without me. I made you. So act like it, will you?’ You haven’t seen this side of him in a long time, especially not towards you. Yet, you understand this is likely what you needed. He’s doing this for your own good. And so, you comply; nodding slightly and murmuring an ‘I understand, Jim. I’ll be better.’. And he corrects you. ‘Better is not enough.’ ‘Sorry, I’ll be good, Jim.’

There’s a moment of tense silence before he murmurs a ‘good’. You expect him to immediately step back, but he doesn’t. Instead, he pulls you towards him and presses his lips to yours. Against your better judgement, you kiss him back and let him deepen it. His hand moves from your chin to the back of your neck before he turns you and pushes you against the desk. Not sure what to do with your hands, you grab hold of his waist. Fingers further pushing into the fabric of his coat when he pushes himself between your thighs. Tongues grazing past teeth before entangling with each other, hands grabbing at the clothes you’re both wearing. He pushes your bomber jacket off your shoulders before his hands find themselves beneath your jumper. They graze past the gun sticking out of the back of your jeans. ‘Naughty.’ He murmurs before kissing you again. With every movement, with every murmur, it’s as if he’s trying to claim—no, reclaim—you. 

The desk beneath you is uncomfortable, the edges starting to become harsh and painful against your bottom. You’re about to pull away and say something when you hear voices coming towards the office. ‘Shit.’ Jim murmurs and you swiftly put your jacket back on, make sure your clothes sit right again and walk to the door, listening to get a better idea of what is happening outside. Jim, meanwhile, is fixing how he looks, making sure it’s presentable enough. After a moment, you’re quite sure the people outside have left for a moment, saying something about having to check something downstairs for a bit. So, you signal to Jim that the coast is clear. He nods and approaches, but before he opens the door to leave, he gives you one last deep kiss; hand gripping your jacket. After letting go, he swiftly slips out the door, leaving you behind, stunned.

The walk back to the apartment is spent blasting music into your ears, trying to distract yourself from what had just happened. You cannot have this distract you; quite the opposite, you’ll have to use this to refocus. Recalibrate. And so, the thirty minutes that encapsulate your walk back home functions as a way for you to do so. There’s a drizzle pouring down as you’re walking, so by the time you arrive back, you’re soaked. Just as you’re about to open the door, it swings open and Sherlock rushes out, just about knocking you over. ‘Ah, Charlie, there you are.’ He says, setting you straight again. John arrives moments later. ‘Good afternoon.’ The doctor greets you with a small smile before he realises you’re drenched. ‘You ought to get inside quickly, you’ll catch a cold if you don’t.’ ‘I’m aware.’ You murmur before starting to move past them. Sherlock, however, momentarily stops you in your tracks. ‘You’re distraught.’ He observes and you ignore him, moving into the doorway. ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’ When you glance back as you’re walking back inside, you see how the consulting detective glances at the doctor and how the doctor silently tells him to stay quiet and not comment any further. So, he does, and the door shuts before he can say anything else.

John, being the sort of man he is, worries about the situation, and so, decides to go check on you that evening, after having finished up another case with Sherlock. The detective himself is currently occupied doing an experiment John would rather not be involved with. You’d just been making dinner when he knocked on your door, and you’d been quite surprised at his arrival, yet you let him in and hand him a cup of tea. 

You also offer him food, and he gladly accepts, muttering something about Sherlock’s experiment being quite smelly. So, you set the small kitchen table for two before finishing up the simple vegetarian stir fry you had been preparing when he knocked on your door. It’s pretty simple, just some soba noodles, firm tofu, bok choi, chinese cabbage, paprika, cucumber, ginger, garlic, soy sauce, sesame oil, and a homemade spice blend. The pan is set onto the table before you also grab two glasses of cold water and join John. ‘I hope you like stir fry.’ You put some onto John’s plate before your own. ‘I do.’ He replies and takes a bite. ‘Oh this is good.’ The doctor perks up, positively surprised by its flavour. ‘Thanks.’ You turn to your own plate, slowly eating. 

Honestly, you don’t quite have the energy for this, however, you do appreciate the gesture of him coming over. It does help that he starts off by going into the case he and Sherlock had worked on today in detail after only a single question regarding it. 

You nod and ask follow-up questions at the right moments, putting him at ease. Unfortunately for you, after about an hour and after having done the dishes, he still hadn’t forgotten the reason why he stopped by in the first place. ‘You seemed upset earlier today.’ John starts off, his eyes scanning your face for any signs that could help him understand. ‘It’s nothing.’ You reply, trying to do so casually. ‘I just… something came up.’ Your eyes dart away, breaking the eye contact he was trying to hold. ‘Look, I’m aware that we don’t know each other very well, but I’m here for you if you need anyone to talk to.’ His voice is sincere, honest, and kind. The exact opposite of what you are used to. People in the circles you usually traverse are the exact opposite. Any moment of weakness is used against you, with it not only being able to hurt you, but also proving fatal to some. The only person you would truly trust with your actual thoughts and feelings is Sebastian, yet with the relationship between you and Jim having changed and him not knowing about it, you feel that you cannot speak to him regarding this issue. So, perhaps, you could tell John to some extent. Perhaps he would understand. And so, against your better judgement, you do open up a little to him while still leaving out certain key details.

‘I’m in a bit of a conundrum, I must admit.’ You say quietly and his ears seem to perk up. He’s sitting across from you at the kitchen table, eyes soft, face empathetic. He’s silently inviting you to talk, to get it off your chest. ‘As you know, I’ve been seeing someone,’ your voice is quiet, soft, perhaps even vulnerable, ‘and while it has been… well it has been quite lovely, there are things that—well I just don’t really know what to do.’ Your gaze is focused on your hands, which lay folded on the table in front of you. It’s clear you’re not used to talking about your feelings to say the least. ‘Well… I mean if it’s an issue with the person, perhaps you should talk to them.’ John suggests kindly. ‘That’s the thing, it’s not the person’s fault. It’s just.. I’m the problem.’ ‘How are you the problem? I feel you’re a very kind person who tries to do their best.’ 

You let out a dry laugh at his comment. Kind. How wrong he really is. You lie, manipulate, and kill. ‘I—I just think that perhaps—’ you stop yourself momentarily, ‘there’s someone from my past… who I might have feelings for.’ Your admittance is reluctant and you don’t dare look at him. So, he reaches over the table and takes your hands in his. ‘Hey, look at me…’ His voice is soft, as if he understands. Your gaze meets his after a moment of silence. ‘It’s very human to doubt. To maybe even have feelings for someone else—at least to some extent. I mean, of all people, I’d know what that’s like.’ That catches your attention, despite the situation you’re in and how you’ve been feeling. 

Instantly, your brain switches on and you compartmentalise your own feelings so you can use this. ‘Do you want to talk about it…?’ You squeeze his hands for a moment. To your surprise, he agrees and starts talking. ‘As you know, I’ve had a few girlfriends over the past few months.’ ‘You mean Sarah and… what’s her name? Jeanette?’ He gives a nod, confirming the fact. ‘Yes, well… they both broke up with me for the same reason.’ He pauses. ‘And sometimes, I think they might be right—that they might be right about me having feelings for Sherlock.’

There’s a pregnant pause. One you barely dare to interrupt, and yet you do.

‘You know it’s alright to have feelings for him, right?’ You try to sound empathetic, kind, and inviting. ‘I know.’ He sounds defensive at first before another, quieter, ‘I know’ follows.

Hello! So... I meant to finish up a Mycroft one-shot first, but... this kinda just flowed out and I prefer posting once I'm done rather than keeping people waiting... Will be working on the one-shot again today, though, so hopefully there'll be one early next week!

Also! Johnlock maybe? Who knows... Spike and John trying to give each other advice is like the blind leading the blind lol

‘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.