#moriarty x reader

You’d been standing in the kitchen of the Holmes’ residence for just over three hours. Sherlock was on a case until six hours previous when you received word from his brother that Sherlock was, in fact, missing. 

Unable to do anything to find him, you turned to the one thing you knew always seemed to calm you when almost nothing else worked; you baked. 

Cakes, scones, cookies, bread; anything to help you with your frustration and fear. 

When you didn’t answer, James spoke again. 

“You’re beating the thing as if it owes you money.”

“Why are you here?” You asked, without looking up.

Not that you had to, to know how he was standing. Leaning against the frame of the open door, one foot crossed over the other with his hands crossed in front of him. 

James paused for a slight second. “I was hungry and smelled a fresh loaf in the oven. Came to see if there was any available.”

You sighed. “By the counter.”

He nodded his head, pushing himself from the doorframe. “Thanking you kindly.”

You were that tense and wired, you couldn’t feel his eyes fixed on you as he walked across the kitchen. Nor could you see the way he was studying you – analysing you. The way you stood, the way you moved, the fact you weren’t yelling at him was his biggest worry. 

Instead, you just kept kneading the bread over, and over, and over again. 

Crossing the room once more, James stood beside you and laid a hand on your arm. You hesitated, but you stopped working the bread for a moment. 

And a moment was all he needed. 

“He’ll be okay.”

“How?” You asked, not tearing your eyes from the wooden counter top. “How could you possibly know that?”

“Because I know him.” 

You sighed, closing your eyes. 

“Knowing Sherlock,” James said. “He’s probably halfway to the docks to ask some poor, unsuspecting stranger a random question. Without context. And get him caught in a two hour lecture about…bees.”

That got a chuckle out of you, but rather than it being coarse and dry – like the usual sound of your laughter when you ‘laughed’ at something he said. Your laugh was…wet. Held together by the tears you were too stubborn to shred. 

“He’ll be okay.”

“You should be out looking for him.” You said, your voice unarmed for the first time in his presence. “What if he’s hurt?”

“There’s nothing I haven’t taught him, that I already know. He’s prepared.” James nodded, before adding. “I just hope he listened.”

You nodded, trying to believe it yourself. But from the way you’d gone from pummelling the unbaked bread, to using whatever energy you had left to try and kneed, told James more than he needed to know. 

For a second, he hesitated. “I-I’m gonna do something, now, but I need your word that you won’t try and stab with your bread knife.”

Swiping your hand across your cheek, quickly, you tried to steady your voice. “Why?”

“Because I’m going to hug you.” 

Looking at James, the memory of your first meeting flipped through your mind as quickly as it took a few seconds to pass. 

It had been around the time when Sherlock had thought of the bright idea to help his mother escape her asylum. Although you didn’t like her being in there in the first place, you would have thought he might have written to you to tell you before he came barreling into his home, sounding alarm bells in your head. 

As Sherlock and James had searched a couple of the rooms, James had entered the one you were standing in. Rather than announce himself, however, he opted to lay a hand on your shoulder and proceeded to get flipped over you, his arm twisted and a bruise in his shoulder that was an identical match to the bottom of your heel. 

Rather than flip him in the kitchen, you accepted the hug. 

And when Sherlock came strolling in through the back door, the next afternoon, and found you and James Moriarty not only alone together in a room, but that room was also standing; it was safe to say he was more than shocked. 

“Sherlock!”

Laying the hot try down on the counter, you ran over and hugged him as tight as you could. 

“I see you’re alive,” James said, taking in the muddy image of his best friend. 

“I can see you are, too.” Sherlock replied. “You bake?”

“My mother taught me,” James smiled, leaning on a tea towel and crossing one boot over the other. “Not to say Y/n hasn’t taught me a thing or two in the last day or so.”

Standing back from the hug, you hit Sherlock as hard as you could in the arm. “Where the hell were you?! What the fuck did you think you were doing?!”

He rubbed his arm, a little offended that it hurt him so much. “Ow!”

“I’d answer her if I were you, Sherlock.” James chimed in. 

In the last twenty four hours alone, Sherlock had been kidnapped, made friends with his kidnappers, helped them solve their case, cash in on their favour for him, solved the majority of his current case and picked up a new one. 

And out of it all, seeing you and James be…friendly? Was that really the best term? It was the strangest thing to happen to him. 

“Forgive me,” Sherlock said, leaning across the table hours after his explanation of his day. “But…are you two friends? I go missing for several hours and you two decide to-”

“Decide to…move on quite quickly and find a new best friend?” James asked before nodding proudly. “Yes, I believe so.”

Then you hit his shoulder, hard. 

“Ow.” Mostly, he laughed. 

“We’re civil,” you corrected, before laying a tray of biscuits in front of Sherlock. “Eat up. There’s plenty more.”

Looking across the kitchen, Sherlock made a mental tally of the baked goods. More than likely, you’d be wrapping them up and handing them out to the people in the village. 

“I’m sorry I worried you so much,” Sherlock said, sincerely. He wasn’t always the best at apologies, but looking around, he had no choice but to give you one. 

You nodded. “Next time, send a telegram. Better yet, take James with you.”

Sherlock and James looked at each other with slightly knowing smiles. “I’ll be sure to do that,” Sherlock said just as James said, “He can survive without me.”

You didn’t notice, but a look crossed between the boys as you turned away. Sherlock knew what it meant and James wasn’t one bit embarrassed to be caught in his crush. 

*~*~*~*~*

“Tell me something,” Sherlock said, keeping his voice quiet. 

You’d fallen asleep on the sofa just over an hour into the whiskey filled conversation between the boys. James was sitting beside you, letting your feet rest against his thigh, whilst his hand absentmindedly fell to your ankle and traced against the soft skin. 

“Do you like her because she’s the first woman to not flirt back? Or because you actually…like her?”

James looked at his friend, a tired smile on his face. “Can’t be giving away all my secrets, now.”

Sherlock’s face didn’t change. “She’s my friend, James. I won’t see her get hurt.”

“I think she can take care of herself, don’t you?”

“The sentiment still stands.” 

James watched Sherlock for a quiet moment, but Sherlock was unwavering as usual. 

“A bit of both,” James answered, honestly. “She’s beautiful, and smart. She can keep me on my toes, that’s for sure. I suppose she intrigued me…when she didn’t flirt back.”

“You mean when she told you to fuck off?”

James chuckled. “Yeah. That.”

During your first meeting, after asking who he was, he’d tried flirting with you a little just before Sherlock walked in and properly introduced you both. With his arm still twisted, you’d rolled your eyes at the fact the guy you were physically standing on still had the gall to try and flirt. 

That had been when you’d told him to fuck off. 

“But, truthfully, I can’t deny that having her argue with me…well,” James smiled. “It’s certainly a highlight of my day.”

Sherlock smiled, briefly, too. But watched as James’ eyes fell onto your sleeping frame. His friend didn’t have to ask his question out loud. 

Sitting forward in his chair and laying down his empty glass, Sherlock let out a small breath. “It’ll take time. But- and this is only if you’re serious about your feelings for her. I suspect that somewhere behind all those walls that I’ve seen her build…she’s willing to lower them. For the right person.”

Sherlock bid his friend goodnight before leaving you in James’ hands, which became the physical embodiment of the truth. 

After downing the rest of this drink, James stood and gently pulled the blanket from your frame. 

“Come on,” he whispered. “Let’s get you to bed.”

It took him a try or two, to try and get his arms around and under you without jostling you too much and waking you up. But he succeeded and lifted you from the sofa, before carrying you up the main staircase and towards the general servants area of the house. 

Mostly, it was out-of-date guest bedrooms that Cordelia had told you to stay in when she returned with Sherlock since she didn’t like the idea of the cold and dreary room you’d been sleeping in since she’d hired your parents to work in the kitchens and on the grounds. 

“Sleep tight,” James told you, though he suspected you couldn’t hear him since you were lost in a dream. 

Either way, once he’d closed your door with a soft click, he couldn’t help but hope that his friend was right. Would you be willing to lower your emotional barricades? Would you be willing to lower them for him?

It took six months, eight days and fourteen hours for James Moriarty to get his answer. 

All because some stuffy, upper class gentleman who had been a long-time friend of the family’s decided to stick his nose into business where he wasn’t wanted. 

He’d arrived one afternoon with Mycroft. 

Considering he had nothing else to do that afternoon, a simple carriage ride out with his friend to see the people he cared for sounded like a lovely idea. 

“Michael,” you had smiled, almost friendly, before accepting his hug. 

“Oh, him you’ll hug,” James said, quietly, as you stood back again and stood just in front of him a little. 

“Shush.”

As Mycroft introduced James to Michael, he got an uneasy feeling. Though he couldn’t be too sure it wasn’t because you’d hugged him, rather than flipped him and nearly broken his arm. 

“Mrs Holmes,” Michael smiled, gracing the lady of the house. 

She blushed, just a little. “Michael, darling. How are you? When Mycroft told me you were coming I was almost certain it was a practical joke! I thought you’d forgotten all about us.”

“Oh, I couldn’t forget about you Mrs Holmes.”

“Cordelia, please.”

He nodded, politely. “Cordelia.”

Raising your chin just a little, you cleared your throat. “Tea, Mrs Holmes?”

“That sounds delightful,” she smiled, warmly at you, before she took Michael by the arm. 

“You will be joining us, won’t you, Y/n?” Michael asked. 

Cordelia jumped in quickly, nodding her head. “Oh, yes, darling do!”

You smiled and nodded your head. “I’ll be right out.”

“Fantastic.”

Meanwhile, as you went to fetch the tea tray, Michael was led outside by Cordelia. But, rather than follow them, James followed you. 

“Oh, Michael,” he said, mimicking your accent. “Michael, how much I have missed you.”

“Shut up,” you told him, hitting him in his diaphragm. 

James just laughed. “Is he seriously the kind you’re mooning over? I thought you didn’t like the guy?”

You didn’t look at him. “What gave you that impression?”

“Uh, I don’t know.” James pretended to think. “The tight lipped smile you gave Cordelia when she told you he was coming, the way you stand back in the hallway rather than beside Sherlock like usual. Or how about-”

“Yes,” you said, clipped. “James. I think I get it.”

“So?” James asked, leaning against the counter in front of you. 

“So…what?”

“Is it that sort you like?”

You looked at him longer than you usually did before tearing your gaze away and picking up the tray. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

James watched you as you walked away and for the first time…something didn’t make sense to him. 

Outside in the garden, Sherlock could practically feel the heat radiating from his friend as he sat down beside him. And it all made sense once he started listening to the rather boring conversation that was taking place between his brother, mother, friend and Michael. 

It was the most words, in a calm tone, that either Sherlock or James had heard you utter. And then came the inevitable question of romantic relationships. 

Cordelia pressed Michael, against Mycroft’s wishes. Apparently he was yet to find a suitable woman whom he could love. But he was certainly on the market. 

James watched as, within a split second, all the attention around the garden table turned to you. 

And you hated it. 

Surprisingly, you managed to sit incredibly still. James (and even Sherlock) were expecting you to at least fidget with your hands as you spoke. Well, rambled. 

“Well, I–” 

That was the second surprising thing. You were lost for words. 

The third and final surprising thing was where you looked. Rather, who you looked at. 

It was just a split second. Nothing more than that. But James saw the look in your eyes. And Sherlock saw the exchange. 

“Darling, I was just speaking to your mother,” Cordelia smiled. “She was saying you’d only just spoken to her about this?”

If your eyebrows could have hit the sunshade above you, they would have. Awkwardly, you barked out a laugh. “Oh, um, well, yes!”

God, you wanted to die.

“You’re looking for a husband?” Michael asked, leaning forward in his chair. 

Sherlock and James looked at one another rather quickly. They both knew how you felt about getting married so young. 

“I’m not against it.”

“You’re just not for it.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Is it marrying me? Is that the idea you’re not fond of?”

You groaned. “For the last time, we’re not getting married! And–” You groaned. “Neither of you would understand what being married actually means! It means giving up the very little part of me that isn’t owned by anyone else! Marriage, for centuries, has been nothing more than a business contract between families. Men have the ability to do as they see fit, even in marriage. But not women.”

“But I’m not asking you to give that up.” Sherlock clarified. “I’m just asking you to pose as a couple getting married. You don’t actually have to go through with it.”

The context of the conversation was something different, but even after Sherlock's case of The Missing Wedding Dresses, he’d asked you to expand on your views on marriage. 

“Uh, well-”

“Well, I’m certain you are,” Michael announced. “Isn’t it what every young lady dreams of?”

“Not always, Michael,” Cordelia jumped in. “But it can be a rather big adventure. With the right person.”

With the right person. 

As James cleared his throat, rubbing his temple and you stood up quickly. “How about some fresh tea?”

“That sounds delightful,” Mycroft said. “Thank you, Y/n.”

James watched your every movement. The lack of eye contact, the speed at which you cleared away the cups and saucers. 

And the slight tremble in your hand as you did so. 

Plastering on a fake smile, you excused yourself and started making your way back over towards the house. 

Finally able to place the tray down and start a fresh pot of tea, James came carefully bounding through the backdoor. 

“Are you alright?”

You nodded. “I’m fine.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t stop them when-”

You looked at him for the slightest moment, before looking away again. “You didn’t have to.”

“I should have. We both know you hate the spotlight being on you.”

“It’s fine, James.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

Slamming down the teapot in the sink, you closed your eyes. “Please just-” You took a breath. “I’m fine. You should get back out there.”

Only, he didn’t. 

Instead, he remained fixed in place between the table and the door, his gaze doing nothing but analysing you. 

“Would you stop that?” You asked, noticing him. “What? What is it?”

“Women have confused me…for a long time,” he said. “But you…you are…”

“I am what?”

You continued moving around the kitchen. Pulling biscuits out of the oven, boiling the water, setting the tray back up – all of it done within a fraction of the time it normally took you. 

“Utterly confounding.”

“Why, thank you,” you replied, dryly. 

“I can’t tell if you like the fella, or if you want to see him dead.” James said. “All I know is that you’re holding something back. And since you didn’t know your mother spoke with Cordelia…there’s something else you’re not telling me.”

“I don’t have to tell you anything.” 

James nodded, moving around the kitchen towards you. “Fair point, you don’t. But I can read you.”

For the first time, you stopped moving and turned to look at him, placing one fist on your hip as you gripped the tea towel in your hand. 

“You can read me?” You almost rolled your eyes. “Now I know you’ve been spending too much time with Sherlock.”

James nodded. “Probably, but it’s true. And I’m trying to work out if that’s because I’ve known you longer than I expected to. Longer than you expected to, I imagine.”

You nodded without feeling guilty. 

“Or if it’s because…”

“Because of what?”

James, again, studied you before standing tall and keeping his hands in his pockets. “Or because you want me to. See, I’ve known you for, what? Almost a year? And in all of that time, you haven’t shown anything to anyone you haven’t wanted to. You don’t talk about things, and you’re hyper-aware of your actions.”

You nodded, just a little. “Well, I grew up with Sherlock. He could be quite the taddle-tale, if you weren’t careful with your secrets.”

“How come I know yours then?”

For a brief moment, you paused. You could admit the truth that had been growing inside of you – developing over the last few months you’d gotten to know James Moriarty. But you still weren’t convinced your answer to that question was correct. 

Not yet at least. 

So, rather than tell him (and probably satisfy his ego), you shook your head just a little. 

“I don’t know.”

From the look in your eyes, James saw your truth; it wasn’t ready yet. You were still working it out. But something was clear. 

You didn’t know. Not really. 

“Darling, it’s starting to rain,” Cordelia said as she entered, followed by Mycroft who was carrying the sunshade. “So we’re going to take tea in the living room. Is there anything I can bring in to help?”

Before you could answer and tell her you had it handled, James turned around with his cheeky but charismatic smile. “It’s alright, Mrs Holmes. She’s already ordering me about.”

On instinct, you hit the back of your hand into James’ diaphragm. But he surprised you and caught it. And once the others had left and passed through the kitchen to the other door, he turned to you. 

Lifting your hand to his mouth, he pressed a kiss to your palm. 

“When you figure it out,” he said. “Tell me.”

You had a feeling by the time you figured it out, he’d already know. 

Another few months passed and before you knew it, Sherlock was raising a toast to the year anniversary he and James had met and become friends. 

Meanwhile, you were helping Cordelia set up a charity centre that would help children in and around Oxford and London an education, the ability to find apprenticeships easier, and hone their crafts. 

“Knock, knock.” You heard the Irish tone say before the English followed. 

“We’ve come to make sure you haven’t died.”

“I am very much alive,” you called out with a tired smile before seeing the pair open the door and walk inside. “I was just going over your mother’s diary. She’s got a busy week ahead of her.”

“Of that, I have no doubt.” Sherlock nodded before he took a tour around your office. “Mycroft told me you had been granted your own office.”

“Your point?”

“He wants to know how his brother knew before he did.”

“Ah,” you nodded, peeling your eyes from James to Sherlock. “Well, if you’d answered the telegraph your mother had sent you, you would have seen whose office it came from.”

Sherlock turned to you. “You know I never check my mail.”

“You should at least check it from your mother, Sherlock.” James told him. 

He just hummed, continuing to pace and take in every inch of your new office. Meanwhile, James took a seat on your desk and started rifling through your notes. 

“What are you doing?”

“Just checking.”

“What?”

James hummed. “Secret love notes, cipher keys to your beloved. The usual.”

“Ah, and who would this beloved be?”

“Well, I was hoping it would be me.”

You hummed, narrowing your gaze at him playfully, letting him continue. “But since I hear you’re such an independent woman these days– ah ha!”

“Ah ha?” Sherlock asked. 

“There is a lover!”

Despite wanting to throttle the pair of them for prying, you couldn’t help but laugh as James took a turn around the room, reading out the supposed love letter. 

James feigned a gasp. “Y/n, this is practically a scandal sheet! Oh- he wants to do what?”

“Who is this man? I must defend your honour!” Sherlock played along. 

James turned around, laying a hand on his chest and shaking his head. “Not with your fighting skills, dear.”

“Ah, I suppose you're right. How about you, then?”

James shrugged. “I don’t see why not.”

You chuckled. “Are you two quite finished?”

“We must make a plan.”

“Yes, a plan!”

Groaning a little, but hiding your laughter, you held your head in your hands but continued to watch the Shakespeare worthy performance in front of you. 

As the pair discussed their ‘plan’ to send a fake letter to your lover, then move under the cover of darkness- 

“How well does he know the court yard?”

“At the university?”

They both nodded. 

“Like the back of his hand.”

“Drats.”

“Change of plan?”

“Perhaps we can blindfold him.”

When they’d finally finished their plan, you had tidied up your desk, put your coat on (with James’ help as he continued to plan with Sherlock), managed to get both of the boys out of the building and locked the building up behind you all. 

“There’s just one solution left,” Sherlock said. 

“We must take you away.”

“Away?”

They both nodded, letting you loop your arms around theirs as you walked between them both. “Somewhere far away. Far enough to help you and this Barnabus character forget all about each other.”

“Barnabus?” 

Sherlock nodded. “We’ve renamed him.”

“Rather fitting, don’t you think?”

“If you think so,” you chuckled. 

The story continued all the way back to Cordelia’s London home where it was recounted to Mrs Holmes in full detail over a warm meal and some tea. 

“Come on, sleepyhead. I’m practically falling asleep watching you,” James said before he scooped you up in his arms. 

You called his name but he barely flinched. 

“Put me down! Where the hell are you taking me?”

He paused in the doorway, still holding you in a bridal carry. “To bed.”

From the grin on his face, his words landed exactly how he wanted them to. So, rolling your eyes, you hit his shoulder. 

“You’re pathetic.”

“Only for you, dear.” Then he started walking again. 

“I can walk by myself, you know.”

“And let you twist your ankle on the stairs? Or fall from being unable to lift your weary limbs.”

By the time he was finished listing the amount of unlikely accidents to happen, he dropped you down on your bed and bid you goodnight in a less gentle manner than he had done the first time he’d carried you to bed. 

“Well, here we are.” Then he hummed. “I suppose you're right.”

“That’s a first, coming from you.”

And, despite the laughter from behind the door that had you rolling your eyes, you couldn’t help but feel the faint burn against your palm. 

A sensation that only seemed to happen when you were around James Moriarty. 

*~*~*~*~*

“Do you ever plan on staying still?!”

Through the darkness of the discontinued factory, you looked at James as he finally joined you behind one of the barrels. 

“They were shooting at us! What the hell did you want me to do?”

“Sherlock told me to look after you!”

“I don’t need looking after!”

Another bang from a gun sounded somewhere behind you both before a forgotten barrel on a shelf exploded. 

“At least they’re a shit shot.”

“Doesn’t matter how bad they are if they’re close enough!”

Running again, James groaned and ran after you. No doubt Sherlock would scold him if he didn’t – not that he planned on leaving you behind. If he was being honest, he was rather hurt Sherlock thought he had to remind him. 

Until he told him the reason why. 

You both ran as quickly as your legs could carry you, through the building and out of the back, narrowly missing the flying bullets. But, aside from your lives remaining intact, all that mattered was that you were holding the evidence to prove a boss’ misdeeds against his employees who, no doubt, were probably in the same pickle with Sherlock. 

They were just in the town square rather than by the docks. 

Taking as many back streets as you both could, eventually you both made it to a street with a carriage. Hailing it down, you handed over the address and made sure the curtains were closed as the horses began trotting in the same direction you’d both ran from. 

The men with the guns ran past the carriage, none the wiser. 

Meanwhile, inside the carriage, you were still trying to catch your breath. 

“Are you alright?”

You nodded, swallowing hard. “I’m…I’m-”

“You can’t breathe.”

“I just need a minute.”

In that moment, James fully understood what Sherlock had meant when he said it scared him. 

In recent weeks, you’d begun to suffer with breathing difficulties. Mostly, they stemmed from anxiety or panic attacks. 

Only, rather than fall down and back yourself into a corner, you worked through them. Rather, rammed through them. It was bad enough not having your own body know what it was going through; but the thought to have to sit with that feeling? 

It churned your stomach. 

“C’mere.”

A little panicked at where James was reaching, you stopped him. “What are you-”

“You need to breathe. That corset can’t be helping any.”

You were still struggling to catch your breath and, although you knew he was right, something in the back of your mind was panicking for a whole other reason. 

You trusted him. You didn’t think he’d take advantage of you, or use your vulnerable moment against you. 

But it was still a vulnerable moment. 

“Turn around,” he told you, his voice calm. 

You found yourself complying whilst he fiddled with the hooks on the back of your skirt, pulled up your blouse from the back and started pulling at the strings holding your corset together. 

“Always thought these things were like torture chambers.”

You hummed. “They’re usually not so bad.”

“Better?”

For the first time, you managed to let out a full breath. “Yes. Thank you.”

You could feel his hand gently pressing against your back. “Just try and take some deep breaths, yeah?”

You nodded, bracing your hands against the frame of the carriage as it rattled over the potholes in the street. Meanwhile, you tried to focus on James’ calming voice as he focused on keeping your breathing. 

“How long have you been like this?”

“A while,” you admitted as you finally caught your breath and he helped tie everything back up again, though not as tight. “I don’t know what started them.”

“Stress of the job?”

You shook your head. “It’s the only time I can feel like I can breathe. I don’t know what they are. They just…come out of nowhere.”

“Have you consulted a doctor?”

You laughed. “What? Just so they can tell me I’m being hysterical?”

“Fair point. Maybe you are.”

You hit him in his diaphragm. 

“Joking. Joking. I’m just messing with you.”

“Better be.”

James nodded before continuing to hypothesise what could be causing your sudden inability to breathe at random moments. Though neither of you had much longer to talk since the carriage was coming to a stop. 

“Not a word about this to anyone. Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal.”

And, to his credit, he didn’t. He didn’t tell anyone…who didn’t already know. 

“How was she?” Sherlock asked as you headed to bed on Sherlock’s orders. 

“Exactly as you said,” James replied. “Breathless. Constricted.”

“Constricted? I never said constricted.” 

Rather than panic, he remained calm. 

“What do you mean constricted?”

James let out a controlled breath. “She needed help. I helped her.”

“I’m aware you care for her, James. But you really need to be careful-”

“Sherlock, nothing untoward happened. You have my word on that.”

“Do I?”

“Yes.” James nodded, his voice firm. “Have I really given you a reason to doubt me now?”

Sherlock studied him for a long time. “No. I suppose not.”

James nodded with a little thanks. “I’m gonna go check on her.”

“No, let her be.”

“Why?”

“She needs rest.” Sherlock said. “She’s been swept off her feet since coming to London. I highly doubt she’s had the same rest to balance it out.”

James sighed, pausing by the door. And, for the first time, Sherlock truly saw his friend in a vulnerable state. “I’m worried about her.”

“I know,” Sherlock laid a hand on his shoulder. “So am I. But she’ll only get agitated if we hover.”

James knew his friend was right. He didn’t like that he was right. But he was right nonetheless. 

Though it didn’t stop him from worrying about you. 

Or checking on you when he woke up in need of a glass of water. 

Your bedroom door was wide open, but you weren’t inside. 

James found you sitting in front of the fireplace in the living room, wrapped in a blanket, and far away in your own head. 

“Are you alri-”

You nearly jumped out of your own skin. “James.”

He held up his hands as he stood by the door. “Sorry. How long have you been awake?”

“Oh,” your gaze narrowed on the mantle clock. “I don’t actually know.”

James looked around. “Want some company?”

“Aren’t you tired?”

Walking inside and taking a seat on the other end of the sofa, he shook his head. 

“Too much excitement from the day.”

You let out a small chuckle. “I suppose you’re right.”

For a while, James and yourself talked. He tried to keep the conversation away from the case or anything that would get your brain fully tuning in and working. 

And, after a solid hour, it worked. 

“Rest now,” he said, softly, running his hand through your hair as you laid your head down against his thigh. 

And somewhere between the feeling of his hands running through your hair and the soft hum of his voice, you fell into the first deep sleep you’d had in weeks. 

James woke up to a gentle hand shaking his shoulder. “James, darling.”

“Mrs Holmes,” he said, a little shocked. “Is everything-”

“Oh, yes, yes. Everything’s fine. A telegram has come for you, from Sherlock.” Cordelia held it out to him, keeping his voice in a hushed whisper. “It seems rather important.”

“Thank you, Mrs Holmes.”

“Would you like me to wake her?”

James almost forgot what she was talking about until he looked down and saw you still fast asleep, his hand on your arm. 

“Oh,” he shook his head. “No. Let her sleep.”

Cordelia smiled. “I thought that would be the answer. I just wanted to make sure. You go ahead. I’ll stay with her.”

James nodded, carefully moving you without waking you. And, just as Cordelia took his place, she turned to him as he stood at the door. 

“James, dear.”

“Yes, Mrs Holmes?”

“Thank you for helping her sleep,” she said, her tone soft. “I knew she hadn't been resting as much, so this was a delightful sight to see.”

Laying a hand over his heart, he bowed a little. “It was my pleasure.”

You woke up a little over an hour later. At first, you were a little embarrassed. And then worried. But the reassuring smile and hug from Cordelia calmed you. 

Your job wasn’t in jeopardy, and neither was your standing within her home. 

By the time the boys returned, with Mycroft in tow, they were bleeding. 

“Jesus,” you breathed, standing quickly from your place at the kitchen dining table. “What happened?”

“Sherlock! Oh, my- James!” Cordelia called out as she took in the sight of them both. 

Mycroft was the only one unharmed. 

As you were gathering spare, clean rags and some warm water, Mycroft and his mother helped the boys into their seats. 

Apparently one of their suspects didn’t like the idea of getting followed. But, at the very least, they knew they were on the right track. 

“Look at me,” you instructed as you turned James’ head to look at you. Not that you needed to force him all that much. 

“You look well rested,” he told you. 

You nodded, quickly. “And you look like you’ve just lost your first fight.”

“I’ll have you know, I won this one, actually.”

Sherlock nodded, trying to escape his brother’s attempts at cleaning his wounds. “He actually did. Saved my bacon, too.”

“Thank you, James.” Cordelia said, reaching over and squeezing his hand, briefly. 

“At least someone has thanked me.”

“I had it under control.”

From the back of his head, Sherlock felt you hit him. 

“Ow.”

“Thank him. God only knows you’re terrible at fighting.”

Sherlock sighed, “I suppose I do owe you thanks, James. So…thank you.”

“That’ll do.”

Holding Sherlock still, you placed a separate cloth against his wounds before handing him back to his brother. Meanwhile, you returned to James. 

And you tried to ignore the way he was gently holding his hand against your thigh.

“And you should know,” James told you. “I lost my first fight ages ago.”

You hummed. “Really? When?”

“Against you.” He smiled. “Don’t you remember?”

“I just remember you being an arse.”

“Seems the only time I’ve actually lost a fight has been against you. Sadly, multiple times.”

“You don’t sound so beat up over that,” you said, because he didn’t. 

He seemed happy. Amused, even. 

Then you finally looked him in his eyes, and not at his wounds. And he was practically beaming. 

“No,” he said. “I guess I’m not.”

Thankfully, Mycroft broke the tension that was growing quicker than usual between both yourself and James Moriarty. 

“Would you stay still?”

With a heavy sigh, you rounded behind James and shoved Sherlock back into his seat. 

“It hurts!”

“James?” You asked, looking at him. 

He just nodded, placing both of his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders, anchoring him into his seat. “Stay still.”

 “I regret ever going missing now,” Sherlock announced. “If I hadn’t, you two wouldn’t have become friends.”

“Don’t feel too bad, Sherlock. I’m sure I’d still be holding you down to help her if we weren’t friends.”

“Did anyone ever tell you- Ow!”

You smiled, briefly, holding up the shard of glass that had lodged itself in Sherlock’s arm. “It’s out.”

“Now I’m bleeding.”

James leaned down. “You were already bleeding.”

“But, now, I’m bleeding more.”

“Stop complaining,” you told him. 

James smiled. “Listen to the woman, Sherlock.”

“Are you well, James?”

“I’m less beat up than you – I’d say so. Why?”

Sherlock lifted his head to look at his friend. “Because you never agree with Y/n.”

You didn’t look at either of them as you cleaned out the bleeding wound. “He’s open to learning, unlike some people I know.”

“If you mean me, I am open to learning.”

James leaned down, again. “Ah, but do you listen? You might find you learn more, that way.”

“If us being friends bothers you so much, Sherlock,” you sighed. “Maybe you should have sent a wire to tell us where you were.”

“You still haven’t forgiven me about that?”

James stood tall, crossing one boot over the other. “Didn’t you know her grudges have an excellent shelf-life?”

“All done,” you announced.

James smiled, lifting his hands from his friends shoulders. “See! It wasn't so bad.”

“Ah, I believe it’s your turn, James.”

Sherlock stood, with a proud smile. Though James didn’t need any help being held down to stay still. He was rather pleased that, despite the pain, he got to stay within your vicinity – even if you did take to scolding him every once in a while. 

“Don’t they give you a headache, mother?” Mycroft asked, leaning over. 

“No more than you boys did growing up,” Cordelia smiled. “Besides, it reminds me of being at home. There’s never a quiet moment. I can’t stand the quiet anymore.”

Mycroft gave her a reassuring smile, taking her hand in his. 

In the meantime, Sherlock ran over everything that had happened whilst working the case and you cleaned the cuts across James’ face, arms and hands. 

That case was cleared up within the week. 

Though it wasn’t long before Sherlock was sticking his nose in somebody else's business and dragging James with him. And, by proxy, yourself and eventually Mycroft. 

*~*~*~*~*

“I’m home, dear!”

Without looking up, you continued writing out your letters that would be sent to every wealthy friend who couldn’t say ‘no’ to Cordelia Holmes. 

“Is there a reason you’re bothering me in the middle of the day?”

“I thought I might check in on you,” James said, looking around your office, though his eyesight always landed back on you without fail. “Make sure you aren't overworking yourself.”

“As you can see I am perfectly fine,” you smiled, still not looking up. “But still rather busy.”

“Do you ever actually leave your office?”

“Yes,” you told him. “In fact, I’m due to meet Mrs Holmes at the Charity House. We have another shipment of sheets and general medical equipment coming in.”

You could hear the smile in his voice. “A baker, a maid, a secretary and now…a nurse?”

You chuckled. “Sherlock and yourself aren’t my only patients.”

“Don’t you have to be medically trained to help?”

“That’s why Mrs Holmes has hired a resident doctor,” you said. “We all help out where we can. Anything major gets an appointment at the hospital. You might think about volunteering at some point.”

“Oh, I might?”

You nodded, looking at him. “You might. It would keep you and Sherlock out of trouble.”

“Do you really think you can keep me and Sherlock out of trouble?” He asked, leaning forward against your desk. 

You hummed. “Probably not. I figure by now it’s soaked into your bones.”

James hummed, too. “Souls, you might say.”

“That would figure you were born into it, would it not?”

He shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

You kept your gaze fixed on his. And whilst his eyes searched yours, a smirk started to develop on his face. 

His voice dropped a little lower. “D’you know what I think?”

“What?”

“I think you like me,” James said, rather confidently, though quietly. “And I also think you want to see more of me.”

“Is that so?”

He nodded. “Yes, I believe it is.”

“So…going ahead with your theory…if I asked you to come with me to the House and help out…what would you say?”

He smiled, his eyes landing on the small vase of flowers by your desk. A small vase of cornflowers and baby’s breath. 

Hope in Love. Purity and Innocence. 

“I’d say…” James leaned over, plucking a single stem of baby’s breath and a simple bloom of cornflower, before leaning closer to you and tucking the small bunch behind your ear. “Anything for you, my dear.”

In the two afternoons a week he spent volunteering at the Charity House with you, helping entertain the children with stories, and helping hold patients steady as the doctor helped clean their wounds; you got to see his vulnerable moments. 

And he got to see yours. 

Whilst he simply collected visual evidence of something he already knew, you caught passing glimpses of his softer side. 

“You’re good at this,” you smiled as yourself and James walked down the street and towards the carriage. 

“Good at what?” He asked. 

“Entertaining,” you clarified. “Teaching. Keeping people calm.”

“Ah,” he chuckled, lowering his gaze to his feet. “The art of distraction.”

“Call it what you want,” you said. “It works. Do you have siblings? I’ve never heard you mention any but the way you are with the kids…you’ve got a natural talent.”

James scratched the back of his head. “Just a brother. But my ma tended to a couple of the local families in the village. Believe me, I’ve cleaned more scraped knees and stopped fights than you could count.”

“And I suppose, taught them how to properly defend themselves, too?”

James chuckled. “I suppose. But if my mother ever asks, you don’t know that.”

You nodded. “Duly noted.”

Helping you into the carriage, quickly followed by Cordelia who had finally said goodnight to the doctor, James sat beside you. 

And when the carriage shook from the pothole in the road, and James held out his arm to steady you, you weren’t quick to throw him away from your reach. 

*~*~*~*~*

Later that evening, as Sherlock balanced the needle of the gramophone to his mother’s favourite song collection, James held his hand out to Mrs Holmes before leading her to the make-shift dance floor in the middle of the living room. 

Somewhere between the laughter and slightly out of time dancing, as Sherlock tried his best to avoid stepping on your toes, Mrs Holmes whispered something to her own dance partner. 

“I believe someone’s feet are in need of saving.”

It didn’t take much for James to catch on to what Cordelia was telling him. Stepping across, Cordelia pulled her son away and into her arms, laughing about how he used to dance as a boy. 

Meanwhile, James held out his hand and, despite the pull you felt in your gut – that awkward, yet excited feeling that usually would have had you pulling your hand away and politely saying no – you went with it. 

Taking his hand in yours, over the next thirty seconds, you came to realise just how much James Moriarty had been keeping from you. 

Because he was rather an excellent dancer, despite the context. He didn’t step on your feet, led you rather than you leading him; all whilst being light on his own feet. 

And you had never known. 

But it was a relatively nice surprise. 

“I shall bid you goodnight, my darlings,” Cordelia's soft voice smiled before she kissed each of you on the top of your heads. 

The dancing had long been put to rest, but the conversation had followed far into the evening.

“Don’t stay up too late,” she told you. “And do try to stay out of trouble.”

“Of course, mother.”

Sherlock soon followed his mother, James saying he wouldn’t be long behind him. But, finally being left in silence together, yourself and James cleared away the glasses and half empty decanters. 

“I have a question I’d like to ask you.” James said, breaking the silence. 

“Should I be worried?” You asked, looking over your shoulder to him, finding him already looking at you. 

“Maybe,” he answered with a grin. “Probably.”

“Then I await your question in trepidation.”

James chuckled, feeling the warmth of the dying fire. “There’s actually a few questions I’d like to ask you, but I’ll stick to one for now.”

You looked at him, and nodded. “Okay then.”

“Have you been sleeping? Well, I mean.”

Taking the short stroll from the window to the mantel, you nodded again, placing your hands behind you. “I have, if you must know.”

“Good.”

“I believe the reason for that is…down to you.”

“Down to me?”

You nodded. Again, you felt that pull inside of you. But rather than excusing yourself and locking yourself in your room for the rest of the evening, you decided to follow it. 

“Whenever I can’t sleep…I think of you.”

“Oh…right.”

“Not in that way.”

James chuckled, a little nervous. “Right. No, I suppose not.”

“But certainly the memory of you,” you told him. “That night…in here…it was the first time I felt…” You took a breath, unable to break your gaze away from his. “Safe. At ease.”

James took a small step closer towards you. “That’s a lot…coming from you.”

“I suppose so.”

“What was it that you called me, when we first met?” James looked away and down at your waist before looking back to your eyes once more. 

“A half-wit?”

“No.”

“A reckless one?”

“Closer.” 

James took another small step towards you. 

Then it hit you. “Ah, a reckless idiot?”

James nodded. “Actually, I think your specific words were ‘reckless, untrustworthy, idiot’. Have to say – you were pretty spot on with that insult.”

You bobbed your head. “Well, you did think the best course of action was to sneak up on a woman.”

“Well, I did learn my lesson.”

You chuckled. “You did.”

“What…what I’m trying to ask you…” Never in his life had he been this nervous to talk to a woman. 

“Do you still believe that?”

“That you’re reckless? Or untrustworthy? Or an idiot?” You asked, quickly, with a confident tilt of your head. “Because I have a different answer for each.”

The feeling of James’ heart sinking in his chest when you asked him the specifics of his question, came to a grounding halt when you finished your sentence. 

This time, you took a step closer towards him. Instinctively, his hand came to your waist, trying not to hold onto you for dear life but also trying to keep you tethered to him so he had at least one memory of holding you close; in case everything blew up in his face. 

“I do think that you’re still reckless,” you told him. “But only when you have to be. I still do worry about you and Sherlock from time to time. Sometimes I wonder if one morning I’ll find your names printed in bold in the paper.”

Your hands pressed gently against his waistcoat and the sleeve of his shirt. 

“In terms of you being an idiot, well, for as long as I live both you and Sherlock will both be idiots to me. Stupid? No. Well, unless we’re counting the time you two thought it was wise to pose as policemen to break into a jail.”

James chuckled a little. “Even I have to admit, it wasn’t exactly our brightest moment.”

You smiled gently, before making sure he looked you in the eye for what you were about to tell him. 

“But if you’re asking if I think you’re untrustworthy?” You took a breath and shook your head. “No. I don’t think you’re untrustworthy. Not anymore. I’ve seen you with your friends, and with the people closest to you. I’ve seen how you’ve treated strangers in their lowest moments, and in their highest.”

Gently resting your palm against his cheek, you continued talking. 

“But most of all…I have seen how you’ve treated the moments I’ve shared with you. I don’t trust easily, James. But rather than judge me for that…you listened. And you learned. And you…you made a safe space for me to be…me. Without judgement and without fear.”

“There have been plenty of times where you could have used something against me,” you continued. “Sadly, I’ve known people who would have. But you didn’t.”

“I’d never. Not for anyone I care for. Especially you.”

With his hands anchored at your hips, he pulled you closer to him before he lowered his head against yours. 

“I know,” you smiled. “I know. And that is why I trust you, James.”

Closing his eyes, James breathed you in, solidifying a memory of you both that in his darkest moments, he would use as a lantern to guide him home. 

You could feel his straining resistance as he tried not to ruin the moment. One of his hands anchored themselves at the base of your skull, under your hair; either to pull you in and kiss you, or to keep you away from him in case the reality of kissing you was more than his existence could handle. 

But you trusted him. 

Gently, you swiped your thumb back and forth against his cheek. 

“I trust you, James,” you said, your voice soft and calm. “I trust you.”

Looking at you, his gaze flickered over yours, searching for a physical answer. So, you nodded a little and repeated yourself. 

“I trust you.”

Finally, he kissed you. 

He kissed you like it was the last thing he would ever be able to do in life. As if he was begging with God Almighty to let him live just a moment longer, just so he could kiss you. 

Your hand circled to the back of his neck, in order to pull him down closer to you. 

By the time morning rolled around, neither of you spoke about what had occurred the night before. You knew you would, eventually, when the room was safe from prying eyes and ears. 

Ultimately, when the time did come for people to find out, the only one who didn’t seem surprised was Cordelia. 

She pushes herself up, face burning at this point because the memories are spinning around in her head, haunting her like a ghost. It’s like remembering things said and done while drunk and wondering, Who the hell was that? I was out of my damned mind. It feels as if she has opened her chest and let James see right through her. Will he think differently of her? Will he toss her aside like she told Mycroft he would?

“We should put a bell on you,” she says. The sheet is warm from her sleeping body but still, a shiver ripples through her, shoulders curling and nipples pressing against the fabric. She knows how he tastes, yet this is what feels strangely intimate: sitting naked before him, hair tousled, covered only by a sheet.

James tilts his head. He’s having fun and there’s a lightness to him, an ease that wasn’t ever there before. “Having a lovely dream?” His voice is a purr, his lips curling. He knows he has her.

“Yes,” she says, rubbing her eyes. “I was all alone.”

James beams. “You wound me.” He touches his chest like she shot him. “Would you like tea?”

“Yes, please. A dash—”

“Dash of milk and a pinch of sugar, aye,” he finishes for her, already disappearing into what is meant to be a kitchen.

Warmth floods through her as smooth and languid as honey. There is something terribly delightful about being known.

[Name] tucks the sheet against her chest as she leans practically entirely out of the bed, grabbing at the first article of clothing she finds, which happens to be one of James’s button-ups. As she pulls it on, she basks in his smell: masculine and perfumed with wood and neroli. Another strange intimacy that makes her almost giddy: her naked body against his clothing. It stirs something half-awake within her.

When James returns, cup in hand, his eyes seemingly twinkle upon sight of the shirt draped on her, but he says nothing. She sits on the edge of the bed, blushing and biting down a smile, legs dangling beneath his shirt. “Thank you,” she mumbles, suddenly nervous as she takes the cup from him. It tastes perfect and its heat settles in the pit of her belly. He’s silent still, smiling down at her. She wonders what the hell is happening in that head, wanting to gorge herself on every thought he has, then wonders if perhaps she is better off not knowing. She is all too aware of his heat and his nearness, how easy it would be to reach out and pull him to her and—

“Did you know that you talk in your sleep?”

She peers up at him, squinting and confused. “I do?”

He fiddles with his earlobe. “Aye, heard you this morning. Something like, ‘Oh, James, so handsome and clever and—’”

She glares, cutting him off with, “Are you perhaps remembering your dream, James?”

“Or perhaps just remembering last night, darling.” His eyes wrinkle, nearly a wink and just as teasing. He always knows just how to undo her.

(Only you get to see me like this, mo chroí.)

“I can hardly remember,” she lies through her teeth, chin tilting high.

“I can jog your memory, if you’d like.” The smile that follows is devastating and only makes her blush more.

It feels good, talking to him like this. Like nothing has changed—except that everything has changed and she knows they won’t be the same ever again, and it scares her, this thought. James and Sherlock and Mycroft are her friends, the people she spends every day with. She didn’t realize just how much it all mattered to her until right now, worrying at the potential of ruining things.

“Y’know,” says James, and he crouches in front of her, his elbows resting on his thighs, holding his tea very gingerly as he looks up at her, “despite the…confession of utter adoration,” he continues, waving a dismissive hand and rolling his eyes at himself, “I want to make sure that all is…well.”

Her heart sits somewhere inside of her throat. “Well?”

“Like…” He tilts his head from side to side like a pendulum, weighing his next words. “That we’re on the same page. That last night was not…”

Not just some one-time thing? Something loosens in her chest, and she realizes it was her own unease. She has never not felt safe with James—quite the opposite, actually—but it’s mortifying to lay yourself bare—literally and figuratively—and wake up to navigate the consequences.

It’s funny to remember telling Mycroft that James would discard and forget her, that she would just be a prize for him to win. How could she have ever thought that when he stares at her this softly? She remembers his caresses the night before, face aflame, and knows that is not the touch of a selfish, uncaring man. 

“Last night meant a lot to me,” she says softly because if her voice gets any louder, she may burst into tears.

James smiles, and it seems he breathes more easily.

“It’s…strange, though, isn’t it?” she asks, brow pinching as she mirrors his smile, abashed and quiet.

“A wee bit,” he agrees, squinting with a pinched nose.

She laughs a little, barely a breath, but her eyes lower, suddenly shy.

He tilts his head in order to catch her eye, which only makes her smile widen. They’re like two schoolchildren blushing on the playground.

James says, “We can take our time. How does that sound? We’ll be the first folks to go from crime partners to engaged to…whatever this is.”

“Crime-solving partners,” she corrects. “We aren’t committing crime together.”

He makes a doubtful little sound, his mouth turning downward. “Debatable.” A touch of sincerity smooths his face, the weight of his stare heavy. “So, what do you say? We can figure this out as we go.”

“It’s a deal, Moriarty.”

She offers her hand, which makes James laugh, those little lines by his eyes crinkling, and when they shake on it, James yanks her forward. She squeals, nearly falling out of the bed as James brushes his nose alongside hers, his breath warm and flowery from the tea. It’s hard to think straight when he’s so near to her, his presence overwhelming and impure. 

It’s even harder to think when he kisses her, his lips feather-light but possessive, literally making her melt into him until she almost falls out of the bed again. His hand clasps her neck, holding her still. When he pulls away, her lips follow him without thinking, chasing for more. Slowly, her eyes open, greeted by his soft smile.

The deep rumble of his voice makes her thighs squeeze as he whispers, “Can’t get you out of my fuckin’ head. You—”

There’s a very hard, very abrupt knock on the door, so loud that she jumps. Even James seems surprised, pulling away to peer across the room.

Then there’s a voice, dreadfully familiar: “James, answer the bloody door! I know you’re in there!”

Sherlock.

“What should—”

James silences her with a single look. “Perhaps you should hide.”

“Hide?”

Sherlock pounds harder on the door. “I’ll just keep waking your neighbors if you don’t open up!”

“He’s on the warpath after we ditched him,” says James, bouncing his brows as his mouth presses into a line. He rises, staring down at her. “I’ll take the bullet. Here,” he adds, grabbing her clothing from where it lays thrown over the table. Her dress, her corset, her undergarments. “Dress in the washroom. I’ll handle our dear friend.”

She doesn’t have to be told twice. She would hate to be caught in a state of considerable undress in James’s apartment, especially with how things were left last night. And Sherlock will get far too much enjoyment out of teasing her, she imagines.

These damn boys, her mind hisses as she runs off to the washroom, locking herself in right as James opens the apartment door. She can practically see him leaning against the frame, calm as still waters as he asks, muffled through the wall, “How are you on this fine morn, Mr. Holmes?”

“How am I? How am I?” Sherlock must’ve shoved past him because suddenly he’s in the apartment, the floors creaking as he paces. “You abandoned me at Whitby! They were wondering why I was locked inside of a room with an unconscious man.”

“Aye, I did, didn’t I?” James has the decency to sound sheepish, probably rubbing the back of his head, but even Sherlock must be able to hear the falsity in it. James is practically grinning through his words. “See, I was wondering if you could—”

“Mycroft had to explain that I was looking for Moreau and happened to find him unconscious. I spun some story about how he must’ve slipped and hit his head while he was checking on his artwork,” Sherlock says, ignoring James. “Fortunately we still had our carriage to ride back in—which Mycroft spent the time accosting me for my carelessness, thank you very much—but you and [Name]? Vanished!”

“About that—”

“Yes. About that,” says Sherlock. She can hear the arms crossing, the patronizing look he must be giving James. “Would you care to explain?”

[Name] is slowly and carefully dressing as they bicker back and forth, and she’s sliding her red dress on, twisting her hips, when Sherlock says this, and she freezes in the silence that follows. She waits, holding her breath, to see how James can get out of this one.

“She was sick,” says James flatly.

“Sick? Of you, perhaps?”

“You should really be on a stage with that wit of yours, Sherlock,” says James, and the floor creaks as he separates from Sherlock, maybe even shaking his head a little. She knows her boys so well that she can see it all playing out in her mind’s eye: Sherlock glaring, James taunting. Maybe a little finger wag, too. “It’s a talent that truly shouldn’t go to waste—”

Sherlock overtakes, his voice louder and cutting like a blade with its gravity: “You promised to leave her be. Then I get to Whitby and what do I see?”

James is quiet, so quiet that she knows he is suddenly very mindful that she is just on the other side of the wall hearing every word. Her own breath quickens, trapped in her chest like a bird in a cage. 

“Look—” says James, but his voice is so soft that Sherlock has no trouble interrupting with, “I see the way you look at her, James. I know you’ve told me it’s not just…concupiscence—”

“What an interesting choice of word,” mutters James.

“—but I…”

A silence follows, thick enough to cut through. A breath comes in deeply through a nose and out of a mouth, and she knows it’s James.

“Am I so bad, Sherlock?” It’s meant to be something of a joke, but it’s betrayed by the flatness of James’s voice.

“No,” says the other, so quickly that it must be the truth. “You’re my friend, James. But to me she…she’s like a sister. That’s what worries me.” The last words deflate in his mouth, like he hears himself and feels vulnerable, bare.

Sherlock has lost one sister; he is fearful of losing another.

“She’s a big girl, Sherlock. She can take care of herself against the big bad wolf.”

“That is not what I meant,” says Sherlock in a voice that brooks no argument. “About her or about you.” He pauses, then softly adds, “I know she is…fond of you, too.”

Blood rushes through [Name]’s ears. Has she always been so obvious? Has everyone always been able to see what even she couldn’t?

“Scared I’ll turn her against you?” James asks.

This time the pause is broken by a short laugh from Sherlock. “Now that I could see.”

The tension shatters like glass. James chuckles, too, and [Name] feels she can breathe a little more easily. She would hate to see them fighting, especially about her. She has half a mind to burst from the washroom and throw herself into James’s arms just to prove a point, but she stays put. James can handle himself. She rests her forehead against the door, hovering in her unlaced dress.

“We have Bernard to track down, still,” says James, an attempt at redirection. Nothing can steal Sherlock’s attention better than a mystery.

It works. The two discuss the case as [Name] steps away and attempts to lace up her dress, her arms twisted around to her back. A huff escapes her, feeling a little claustrophobic and trapped—in the room and in the dress. How in hell did she wear this all of last night?

From the footsteps, James must be leading Sherlock towards the door. He’s telling him about how he’ll find her and the three of them can decide their next move. The two of them are adamant about finding her first, wanting to make sure she is well before they continue on, which she would be appreciating more if she weren’t beading with sweat as she hops up and down, trying in vain to get the laces right—and then she stumbles.

She doesn’t entirely fall, but she accidentally kicks a wastebasket and sends it onto its side with a dreadful clatter, and the boys fall silent.

“What was—”

“I have mice,” says James. “Look, I’ll go deal with…that…and we can meet at the university library at, say, noon. Sounds good?”

His voice has quickened, rushing Sherlock out the door.

“Sure. I may have to bring Mycroft—”

“Whatever you need, sure. Alright, then. Good—” The door swings shut. “—bye,” finishes James with a relieved sigh. He waits a moment before calling out, “Now, how much did the little mouse hear?” as his steps come closer to the washroom.

The door swings open.

Her hair is tousled about her face, her breasts hiked up to her chin, the dress half-done as she holds the laces out on either side of her, and it’s all quite silly, but the look she gives James through the strands of hair is pure consternation. “What did you promise?”

James sighs deeply, holding the door open. “Sherlock asked me not to try anything with you. It wasn’t so much a promise as a…suggestion…early into our friendship.”

She has a few questions—more than a few, really—but they seem to dissolve in her mouth before she can say them. 

“Seems I’m so obvious with my feelings for you that I may as well be wearing a sign,” he says.

“To everyone but myself,” she agrees, softly.

James’s lips press into a line, humble and sympathetic. Never did she think humble would ever describe James Moriarty, but it’s not the first surprise she’s had this morning. She’s quickly learning that anything is possible when it comes to James.

“Can you help me with this bloody dress?”

James’s head hangs as he smiles. He twirls his finger and she spins around, holding her hair out of the way as he jerks her laces tight, a yelp escaping her. “Are you angry with Sherlock?” he asks as his deft fingers work.

“I’m not mad,” she says, holding her stomach, and it’s only in saying the words that she realizes the truth in them.

He may be an idiotic man, but at some point that is to be expected. She will have to give him a frank talking-to about her capabilities and independence, but in the meantime, she is flattered to know he thinks so highly of her. That he wishes for her safety and happiness. There are much worse things to learn about a friend behind your back.

“As tricky as this has suddenly become,” says James, and just from the purr in his voice she knows she’s in trouble, especially when his mouth finds the shell of her ear and whispers, “it’s a little thrilling, aye? We might have to hide this from him. Since we’re not allowed.”

“Is that so?” she says a little breathlessly, still holding her hair up and out of the way.

James tucks his nose against her bare neck. His breath is ticklish, enticing. “Puts us in a tough spot, doesn’t it?”

Trust James to find a way to make anything sound so alluring. And it’s hard to argue with him when he’s pressed against her back, his soft lips brushing against the nape of her neck as he ties up her corset. He knows just what thread to pull to make her unwind.

Her eyes flutter shut. He will make this as difficult as possible, she knows.

Once again, here they are: the game is afoot.

————————

When [Name] gets home, slipping out of the dress feels a bit like how a snake must when it sheds its skin. It truly is a beautiful, rich garment, but she can’t wait to feel a bit more like herself after so much pretending. Not to mention the looks she drew when walking home; perhaps the eye-popping evening dress was a poor choice for her morning stroll home, but now she knows.

Bruises trail along her arms, the inside of her thighs. Her fingers brush over them, fascinated by the memory they leave with them. Proof that what happened the night before isn’t all in her head.

[Name] opens a window for some fresh air.

It isn’t until she has dressed again—attired in her normal affair: a brown pinstripe dress that she often wears around Oxford—that she discovers she is missing something: her engagement ring.

Well, her fake engagement ring.

When did she last see it? She has no memory of taking it off. She offers the room a cursory glance, even kneeling and looking beneath her bed in case it happened to slip off and roll away, but it is nowhere in sight.

It was worth a pretty penny, surely. That will have to be a problem for later, though.

She smooths out her dress and leaves her place almost as soon as she arrives and takes a carriage to the school. She arrives at the Oxford library about twenty minutes before planned, so she sits on a bench and waits, pulling a book from her bag to pass the time.

Mycroft finds her first a handful of minutes later, ever the punctual. “Miss [Name].” Just from the way her name rolls across his tongue, she knows she’s in a spot of trouble with him. Perhaps being abandoned at a party in a stranger’s home alongside an unconscious man isn’t the most ideal circumstance. She’ll have to remember for next time.

“Mycroft,” she says kindly, rising and offering a hug—a meager attempt at placating his iciness. She does hate to be in trouble with him.

It seems to work, judging by the pink in Mycroft’s cheeks. He clears his throat and adjusts his tie after they separate. “You had us rather worried last night,” he says. “We had no clue where you and Moriarty had run off to.”

“A bit too much to drink for me, unfortunately,” she says. “James was ever the gentleman and helped me home.”

Mycroft hums, more like reluctant acquiescence than complete agreement. His eyes venture about, seemingly looking for their companions. “I hear that you may have need of me again?” He doesn’t hide the nervous skepticism, his brow tilting as he looks back at her.

“I know nothing of the sort,” she admits, hands behind her back, “but it’s always a delight to have you around, Mycroft.”

Mycroft falls into another fit of clearing his throat when James and Sherlock arrive together. When she meets James’s eye, something in her feels like she has come home. He’s wearing a rich brown, crosshatch-patterned suit, and cutting a rather imposing figure, his legs looking a mile long, his shoulders broad. The smile they share is soft, meant only for them, and then he winks.

The game is afoot.

“We need to discuss our next move,” says Sherlock, all business.

“How about over drinks?” proposes James, the image of ease with a hand in his pocket.

But just then Sherlock seems to really see [Name], eyes alighting, and he asks, leaning in, “Are you feeling well?”

“Much better.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“You did look a little peaked at the party,” says Mycroft unhelpfully, gesturing towards his cheek.

Her head tilts to accommodate Mycroft, her mouth pressing flat. “Thank you for that, Mycroft.”

Mycroft’s eyes widen. “You looked lovely. I–I only meant—”

“Drinks, for the love of God?” asks James again. Unamused. If she didn’t know any better, she’d think he was jealous.

————————

The pub is unusually raucous, especially for the middle of the day. The foursome somehow find a table in the corner, fortunately. The chaos of the pub is perfectly suited to the secrecy of what they’re planning, the sound so loud that there is no way for anyone to possibly overhear what is being said. [Name] sits across from James, the Holmes brothers on either side of her like a human wall. Every time James catches her eye, a firework seemingly bursts in her chest. 

When did she fall for James? When did she know she was in trouble?

The moment she first met him: his outstretched hand, that handsome face, the sonorous Irish lilt. When she helped them crack a clue with their first case and his eyes had nearly twinkled when he looked at her and said, Well done, darling. Just those three words made her flush with the joy of pleasing him, which didn’t usually happen to her. She has no interest in pleasing men—but James has always been different. He can make her laugh like no one else, and he is endlessly surprising. She has always liked puzzles, and James was just made for her.

Or maybe it was the first time laying in bed after a night spent solving crime with James, and her hand had slipped between her legs as she remembered his smile, his hair, his voice. 

Sherlock sputters, his drink nearly spewing from his mouth. “James, you’ve just kicked me.”

James looks at [Name]. “Apologies, lad.”

She rests her elbow on the table, hiding her laugh behind her hand. No doubt that foot was meant for her. Scoundrel, she thinks with adoration.

“What do we do about this?” asks Sherlock, and he slaps the business card onto the table. Mycroft takes it up and tilts it at every angle beneath the bulb that hangs over their table. “We have an address, but I discovered last night that it leads to a shop, not a home.”

“Did you truly think it would be that easy?” asks James. He takes up an English accent, presumably in imitation of Sherlock, and knocks thrice on the table. “‘Oi, sir can I get a spot o’ tea? Also, have ya murdah’d anyone?’”

She sighs through her nose. “Perhaps if you had let me get to know Moreau a bit better—”

“No,” barks James. 

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” says Mycroft as he tosses the card back onto the table, “but I’m in agreement with Moriarty.” He sits back in his chair, legs crossed. He levels his gaze with [Name] and says, “That Moreau seemed like a proper rogue.”

“More than these two?” she asks, tossing a thumb towards James and Sherlock.

Mycroft considers this. For a bit too long, seemingly, because James snaps, “Alright, then. We have a way to contact Bernard—but now what? The man is still elusive as all hell. Unless we try planning a meeting with him to buy some shite antique vase.”

“What shop is this address, Sherlock?” asks [Name], tapping the card.

“Some high-end dress shop. I wonder if that’s how he finds his victims.” He poses this last bit to James, who merely shrugs.

The moment the first few words leave Sherlock’s mouth, something must shift in her face because James looks at her with a deep suspicion. With eyes only for her, he asks, “Do I dare ask what is happening in that pretty head of yours?”

“Probably not.”

Something sunny rises in his eyes. “Should we reprise our roles, darling?”

“I had someone else in mind,” she says, relishing in the thunder that suddenly rolls into James’s eyes. Then she turns to her right. “What do you think, Mycroft?”

————————

The foursome stand across the street from the dress shop. Business seems to be bustling, couples coming and going as they keep an eye on the front door. Through the window, [Name] sees women in beautiful dresses twisting and turning for a mirror, looking absolutely delighted.

That’s when a thought occurs to her, one she should’ve had much sooner.

She holds her palm out for James.

“Am I meant to pay you?” he asks, brows raised.

“I do require a ring," she says, leering.

James’s mouth curls into a devious little smirk. He digs into his pocket and produces her fake engagement ring, just as she suspected, and drops it into her open palm. Her fingers close around the ring, warming the metal instantly.

“Were you afraid I would pawn it off and run with the money?” she asks.

James ducks his mouth to her ear. “I needed to give you a reason to come back.”

Damn him, she thinks, face hot—especially when James steps away to reveal Sherlock looking between them, his brows low as he inspects them like a case to be solved. [Name] steps back even further, desperate to keep distance between them because God knows what will happen if they get too close. Can Sherlock—the great detective—see everywhere James has touched her?

She knows her body will betray her. Now that she knows James in such a unique way, it is harder to deny the familiarity. And she feels like anyone, not just Sherlock, can read her like a book.

She stares daggers at James—How dare you—and says in a much-too-sharp voice, “Mycroft. Let us go, shall we?”

“What’s your angle?” asks Sherlock, teetering. He wants to keep her there. He wants to get a better look at the pink in her cheeks and figure out what the hell happened last night.

And she wants to run away. She grabs the sleeve of Mycroft’s stately navy blue coat and drags him away from the two scoundrels, stepping off of the curb and onto the cobblestones, ready to dash at a moment’s notice. Mycroft, all the while, seems dreadfully flustered but ready to go along with whatever is happening.

“Well, we—” Her voice catches, mouth agape as she tries to elaborate, but she knows the boys have her: she has no clue what she is doing, and only one of them knows why she is desperate to run off.

“How about me and Sherlock join you two lovebirds?” James proposes, a clever little grin dancing across his face. He buries his hands in his pockets, standing tall beside Sherlock. The two boys inspect her with a scrutiny she doesn’t appreciate: Sherlock with the mind of a detective, doubtless lost somewhere in his overactive imagination, while James basks in keeping her on her toes, always three steps ahead at any given time.

“Yes,” says Sherlock in such a way that she knows he has an ulterior motive.

Good Lord.

“In what regard?” she asks, tilting her chin up.

“A brother and friend of the groom,” says James. He seems much too pleased with himself. “You two can distract the shopkeep while Sherlock and I get a good look around the place.”

Unfortunately, it makes perfect sense. “Fine.”

James shoots her a wink.

Two can play at this game, it seems to mean.

Amazingly, it is Mycroft who makes the first move: he holds his arm out for her. Smiling like a villain, she takes Mycroft’s arm, smiling up at James on the sidewalk all the while. His own smile sharpens with venom, and she knows she will pay for this later. Terribly, she feels immense delight at the very thought.

“Come,” says Mycroft. “Let’s get this over with.” He leads her from the curb and across the road, dodging a carriage as they go.

“I couldn’t have said it better myself,” she mutters under her breath.

Once they step inside the dress shop with a tinkling of the bell hanging over the door, there is an endless flurry of movement and fabric. It is abruptly overwhelming and calls to mind the party at Whitby the night before: a cacophony of voices, the pressing of bodies. The storefront is deceptively small, but the inside is long, stretching back farther than she can immediately see. Racks of utterly divine dresses line the walls. Patrons stand before mirrors wearing some of these dresses, twisting and turning this way and that. There are workers crouched beside them with tape measures, others assessing with a finger to the lips. 

She finds herself tucking closer against Mycroft, intimidated by the busyness.

“Hello,” chimes an employee, a man with a mustache to rival Mycroft’s. “What a fine couple you are. How could I be of service?”

[Name] jumps in before Mycroft can even think to draw breath. With a big smile, she says, “My dear fiancé thought it a good idea to bring me to get my measurements for our wedding."

“My congratulations,” says the man as Mycroft peers at her from the corner of his eye, stifling a cough. “May I…oh, my,” he says, holding a hand out to inspect her own, her engagement ring glinting in the daylight. “Such a handsome ring for a beautiful woman.” He leans closer, wiggling his glasses to see the jewel better.

“I’m quite pleased,” she gushes. Her teeth may rot out of her head if she keeps piling on the sweetness.

Mycroft says nothing, seeming utterly baffled by the entire performance. She would never tell the man himself, but a part of her misses having James for a scene partner.

Perhaps more than just a part of her.

“Well, let us get you to a station—”

The man leads the two of them away, his attention stolen as James and Sherlock stroll about the place, inspecting dresses as if they have a personal interest, blending in with the chaos and going utterly unseen as Mycroft falls into a chair and [Name] stands on a pedestal before a mirror. The man falls to a crouch as he measures seemingly every corner of her: her ankles, her hips, the swell of her arms. He mutters numbers under his breath like a gifted mathematician, working at a swift pace that utterly baffles her. He could give James and Sherlock a run for their money.

She holds her arms out at her sides as he measures her waist and she turns her head just enough to catch James and Sherlock deeper in the shop, swept up in conversation with another worker. James has a big smile, which can only mean they are attempting charm to learn more about the shop. She’s desperate to be in the thick of the investigation, but she needs to keep the man preoccupied.

“Now, precisely how many shades of white do you do?”

The man’s eyes glint like he has been waiting to be asked this question all his life. “Well—”

Mycroft pulls back his sleeve to peer at his watch. He drums his fingers on the sides of the chair, his chest rising with a deep breath.

The bell over the door chimes just then. [Name] hardly hears through all of the noise, but something makes her turn. And standing there, donning a hat and a pristine suit, is Algernon Moreau. 

“—cream is a popular choice in recent years, although ivory is a personal favorite of mine—”

[Name] whips back to the mirror. In her own eyes, she sees the panic, like a mouse caught in a trap. Does he know they are here, or is this some terrible coincidence? What is most likely is that he woke from his unfortunate punch, searched his own person—aided by the vague memory of leading a woman to a room full of artwork—and discovered his card for Lucas Bernard missing. Of course, his first step would be to come to the address on said card.

Perhaps to find a familiar face…

“Oi!”

James—unaware of the man’s entrance—whips around at the voice that is, unfortunately, meant for him. Silence falls like a cloak over the shop. Also unfortunately for James, his handsome face is much too memorable for a man like Moreau to have forgotten, even if he had only seen it for a split-second the night before.

And it is made worse when, like a magnet, Moreau’s eye is drawn to the pedestal where [Name] stands, and as soon as he sees her, all else is lost. 

There is no escape.

“Thieves! Crooks!” Moreau shouts.

All heads in the shop spin towards [Name] and Mycroft, even as Moreau points at James, who is coming slowly closer with Sherlock at his side.

Mycroft rises from the chair, rebuttoning his jacket with one hand, and asks, “What seems to be the problem, sir?”

Moreau is red in the face, his stylish hair falling out of place and in disarray around his face as he sputters, “The—She—She stole from me! That woman!” He spins towards James. “And him! The two of them!”

“There must be some mistake,” starts James, his Irish lilt cool and unassuming.

“What was stolen from you, sir?” asks the employee working with [Name].

“They took—They—” He is indignant and losing his last traces of control.

Then he reaches under his jacket.

All within a single second, several things happen: Sherlock shouts, “Gun!” which causes an outburst of screeching amongst the patrons of the shop; Mycroft stumbles back and knocks over his chair, which goes clattering to the ground; and hands slip around [Name]’s middle and pull her behind a solid, familiarly warm body. Wood and neroli meet her nose, and for some reason that is all she can think about when the gun goes off.

More screaming. The sound is deafening and echoes in her ears with great pain, but then people are running and the body that shields her—James, it’s James—takes her hand and he runs to the back of the store with her. She has no problem keeping up. Everything narrows like she is inside of a tunnel and all she can see is what is right ahead of her. She looks back and finds Mycroft and Sherlock following—they aren’t hurt, thank God—the smoke from the gun drifting to the ceiling, but Moreau is right there. 

He’s coming.

James slams his shoulder into a door at the back of the shop and it bursts open as if a bull hit it. They skitter, a slight stutter-step, and with a hand on her waist, James pushes her in front of him and then they’re running again, the clop of their shoes filling the dirty, gray alleyway they race down, splashing in puddles as they go. Another gunshot rings out, and James and her instinctively duck their heads, a yelp involuntarily slipping out of her. Never has she felt more like her heart might just burst straight out of her chest.

They come to the end of the alley and James shouts to the people standing confused in the street, “Gun! There’s a man with a gun!” right as another shot goes off, chipping the stone beside James’s head. The mere sight makes [Name] the one to grab his hand this time, leading him down the road right as Mycroft and Sherlock reach the street, too. 

It is utter chaos in the street now. James’s warning not only alerted them, but it caused a scene, making it harder for Moreau to find them in the throng. 

James whips around. “Sherlock!”

“Hide!” calls Sherlock, and he and his brother slip into the closest building right as Moreau spills out of the alley.

“Fuckin’ hell—” breathes James, stunned, right as Moreau raises the gun, staring down the barrel through the running mob. 

“More running,” she instructs sternly, grabbing James around the forearm and yanking him away. She is so mixed around and has no clue where in Oxford they have spilled out from, but her feet do all of the thinking for her. The panic within her is choking her, fingers trapped around her throat and her chest, constricting and unthinking until she is merely a thing that runs. How a hare must feel against a fox.

Two more shots follow them out of sight. She can only hope that nobody has been hurt.

James’s palm is slick against her own. They shove through people inside of a department store, unaware folks that yell at them to slow down, show some decorum. Somehow, even with everything blurring past, she spots a cleaning closet. [Name] pulls James there and, mercifully, the door is unlocked. They slip inside and slam the door shut.

The small, dark space fills with their heavy breathing, the smell of their fear. Hands come up to her cheeks and she waits, expecting James to say something, but instead, his forehead tips to hers and they stand there like that, coming down from the adrenaline in each other’s arms, just grateful to see the other still alive. 

Voices rise, some confused and then turning to panic, but no more shots ring out. Either the man is out of bullets or he, too, is sapped of energy.

She swears she hears Moreau yell, asking some question or another. Hopefully no one points him to their hiding place.

But everything sounds so far away, like it all doesn’t even exist. For a moment, it doesn’t. This strange, smelly closet is their own little world. 

James holds her close still, like he can’t bear to be separated from her. “Are you alright?” he whispers, and his voice in the darkness is all she knows. Like she is engulfed by him.

Their foreheads still together, she nods. “Are you?” she asks, even softer.

“A little fuckin’ panicked,” he says, “but I’m in one piece.”

“Good. That’s how I prefer you.”

A sigh escapes him, but it is one of immense relief and a bit of madness. He grasps her face more tightly, their noses brushing as he tips her face up. In the darkness, where not even God can see them, they can be themselves. No performance, no game. Just them. Just like in the garden at Whitby: the only two people on the planet.

Then James kisses her forehead, a lingering, sweet kiss, before he wraps his arms around her waist with a firm but careful reverence and her own slip around his neck. Perhaps this is all nothing but a dream. That strange place before waking up, buried in the darkness of sleep with her greatest joy. The way her heart calms when she is near to him. Like magic. 

A swell of adoration fills her when she remembers James putting himself between her and the gun. It astonishes her. So simple, yet it means everything. 

She hugs him tighter. Words won’t come close, but she still whispers, “Thank you.”

“For pissing off a madman with a gun? You’re welcome, I suppose.”

In the darkness, she smiles, just to herself. Her eyes shut, strangely content in this fetid closet. 

————————

A second day in a row of abandoning the Holmes brothers at a moment of great peril doesn’t sound very appealing, so when it is safe to, James and [Name] emerge from the closet. With their heads on a swivel, Moreau is nowhere to be found, but one can never be too safe. They make their way—slowly and cautiously—to where they last saw Sherlock and Mycroft. On their way, they find only the aftermath of the chase: chipped stone and bullet holes, but nobody is hurt. The relief nearly makes her burst into song.

The brothers are nowhere to be seen, but there has always been a rule that if they are ever separated, you return to the last decided meeting place.

The library.

Minutes later, there are Sherlock and Mycroft, a little wild-eyed and disheveled—although Mycroft was quick to put himself back together as best as he could, she notes—and when the brothers spot the couple coming toward them, they don’t even question why James and [Name] are holding hands. Sherlock closes the distance and sweeps her into a hug, hounding her with questions about if she got hurt, if she is alright. This, finally, is what makes a tear slip down her cheek.

“Let the poor woman down,” says James, chuckling to himself. 

Sherlock sets [Name] back to earth. He looks into her face and she can see the pain leashed within him, that constant fear of something going wrong yet again and him unable to stop it. So she gives him a little smile of reassurance, one that transcends words. Her and Sherlock don’t need them: I’m safe. So are you.

Sherlock nods once. He steps away, letting her breathe.

“What on God’s green earth is wrong with you three?” shouts Mycroft, practically stomping a foot.

The trio stand together, having the decency to look sheepish.

“Now, Mycroft—” says Sherlock.

But Mycroft has only just begun. “You three have to be the most puerile and hazardous group of people I have ever had the misfortune to know. Running straight into danger like it is calling your name! Is there not an ounce of sense in any of you? You play with your lives like—like—” His hands wave around, grasping for the right word.

“You’re causing a scene, mate,” says James, goading the poor man with a devilish smile. 

“As much of a scene as a bloody gunfight?” insists a steadily-reddening Mycroft. Her brows rise; Mycroft must truly be mad if he’s cursing. “I would say that you are the problem,” he says, stabbing a finger at James, “but Sherlock has always been an absolute animal to control. He has dragged you two down with him! His damned cleverness has doomed you!”

“That’s rather kind of you, brother.”

“It is not a compliment!”

[Name] would say something, but there’s no arguing with Mycroft when he gets this way. He’ll scold them for all they’re worth, but the next time he catches wind of whatever shenanigans they’ve got themselves into, he’ll suddenly be there to help and make sure they don’t accidentally kill themselves.

“I am going to return to my office and try to forget this day ever happened,” he says. He fixes his hair, which is threatening to slip out of place. He takes a short, quick breath, like a weight has lifted from his shoulders. “I suggest you three do the same. Now, if you will excuse me.”

And with that, Mycroft spins on his heel and vanishes from the courtyard, shaking his head and grumbling as he goes.

“Well.” Sherlock turns to his friends. “That was almost as exciting as being chased by a madman with a gun.”

“Aye, about that. Wasn’t…ideal,” says James, rubbing the back of his head. 

“Not at all,” [Name] says. “Do you think he’ll be looking for us?”

“Possibly,” says James. “We’ve slipped the man twice. It’s personal now.”

“Keep your heads on a swivel. We will find some other way to track down Bernard. It’s enough that we all live to see tomorrow.” Mischief twinkles in Sherlock’s eye. “I have solved one mystery, though.”

“And what’s that, mate?” asks James.

Sherlock’s stare drops down—to James and [Name]’s clasped hands.

Her stomach drops. “Sherlock, it—”

But Sherlock shakes his head, interrupting her. Unbelievably, a lonely smile dances across his face. “It was only a matter of time, wasn’t it?” and it’s not a question, not really. Where she was expecting an interrogation, perhaps some bickering, instead there is a peculiar contentment in Sherlock’s face. Like seeing the proof before him has shown him all he needs to know. 

Perhaps he can see the devotion radiating from them. 

His face is soft. “Just promise not to abandon me on a balcony again.”

“Can’t make any promises, mate,” says James, still recovering, but his smile puts the sun to shame. He squeezes her hand.

————————

May I walk you home, madame? and a proffered arm. That’s how her terribly eventful day ends and she wouldn’t have it any other way. She tucks against James, basking in his solidity, his closeness. With the shenanigans they get into, she knows never to take it for granted. Even if he does happen to annoy her on occasion. 

Her apartment is cool, the curtains gently whispering against the floor as they blow in and out of the room. 

James tucks his hands in his pockets, looking around the room with fresh eyes as she digs out a stash of whiskey from her kitchenette. He has been here a handful of times with Sherlock, but they never linger for long. “That surprised me,” he says. “Sherlock.”

“He’s a strange man,” she says offhandedly, crouched and reaching for her bottle. 

“After this morning, I thought he would give me the noose if he ever found out.”

“He is all bark, that one.” She pours a finger of whiskey for each of them and returns to James as he hovers, dazed yet focused. He takes the glass gratefully. “A reward for our survival,” she says, lifting her glass. He does the same, and they sip. 

“What changed his mind, do you think?”

The whiskey burns in her throat, leaving a trail down to her chest. It warms her from within. “You.”

“Me?” James snorts a laugh, shaking his head. “Certainly not.”

“He knows you’re a good man.”

James makes a face. “Stop, or I may hurl.”

Trying—and failing—to suppress a smile, she does stop. There is nothing worse to an Irishman than to applaud him, particularly for heroic acts. 

She looks down into her drink, swirling it around the glass. 

Something must cross her face because James says, “Let’s sit.”

The two of them perch on the edge of her bed, his hand coming to her knee. She knows he wants to talk about it, but she doesn’t. Not now. She wants to forget the rest of the world is out there for the moment. She wants to pretend she’s back in that closet, cocooned in the darkness with James. 

“Have you ever hurt someone?” James asks in a different voice than she has ever heard from him. 

She looks at him. There is no smile, no light. He is still her James, but something is happening behind those eyes that she knows she will never get a look into. “Accidentally, perhaps,” she answers slowly. 

“Have you ever wanted to?”

Their eyes hold. 

“I’m not sure,” she breathes out. 

James swallows. He’s the first to look away, and he watches his thumb rub the edge of the glass. He tells the whiskey, “Today, I wanted to hurt Moreau. For trying to hurt you. Still do, really,” he mumbles as an afterthought. 

“There’s nothing wrong with wanting to protect the people you care for.”

“Yes, but…I want him dead.” The rage that has always sat buried within James snaps at the end of its leash for a moment, gnashing its teeth: she can hear it in the tightness of his voice. 

His jaw clenches after the words escape. Like he didn’t mean for them to. 

She touches his hand. He looks at her. 

“I’m ok, James.”

His pretty brown eyes are wet. “If something happened to you, I don’t know how I could survive it.”

The words kick her in the gut. She stares at him, her own eyes watering, and she swallows the sadness threatening to rise in her. Her clever, sweet James has never been so serious before. It has knocked her off of her own axis, like suddenly a curtain has been pulled back to show everything making the play work. 

She’s here. So is he. 

She doesn’t want to think anymore. She doesn’t want him to either. 

So she kisses him. A firm, sweet kiss that seals an unspoken promise: I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere. Her hands clasp in her lap, unsure of what to do with themselves, afraid of her own desire.

James breaks the kiss just to put his whiskey on the nightstand beside them. The glass clinks on the wood. His heavy-lidded eyes never leave her, his nose pressed beside hers. He kisses her again, and desperation has possessed him. 

His hands come to her cheeks and he pulls her in, his thumb parting her bottom lip so that his tongue can fill her, dizzying her. She melts, helpless and satyric, and falls into James’s arms. 

Sounds from the outside world whisper into the room—a bird calling, voices down below, a chiming bell—but it strikes her as unreal, like none of it is happening and only this is: James’s mouth, James’s hands, James’s body. 

Clothing starts hitting the ground. First he slips out of his jacket, then she undoes his tie with shaking fingers, then he finds the lacing of her dress. Without a word, James yanks her up and helps her out of her dress as she unbuttons his pants. Excitement shoots like lightning through her and she can’t help smiling against his mouth, like she can’t believe she can be so lucky. It makes her head spin when James smiles, too. She’s happy to make him happy. 

The cool afternoon air raises goosebumps all over her as James takes off her clothes. It is perfunctory, but there is a slowness to their undressing, basking in the resplendence of being together, right here, right now. 

James takes her up into his arms and he lays her on the bed. His fingertips whisper across her ribs, into the divot of her waist, then the swell of her hip. Memorizing her. Watching keenly as she shivers against his feather-light touch. Her nipples harden as her shoulders bunch, staring up at James with wonder. The things he does to her. 

His hot, wet mouth lowers and captures a nipple. A soft moan leaves her chest as her head falls back, trembling beneath him. She is so wet that it’s almost painful. Like he knows this, he touches her: slippery, soaked. She gasps, fingers slipping through his curls. His mouth works at her nipple as his thumb flicks the other, clasping her breast, all the while he slips two fingers inside of her and slowly fucks her with them. 

“Oh,” she gasps out, hips rolling to bury him deeper. She didn’t know she could feel this good. The heel of his palm grinds into her clit, the skin just rough enough that it makes her shiver. 

His teeth pinch over the hard bud and she cries out, a soft keening cry that makes James groan, the sound muffled. She can hear his fingers fucking her and her cheeks warm, embarrassed and unbelievably aroused all at once. She’s soaking wet and squeezing him so tight, especially as he adds a third finger, stretching her more and more. His thick, calloused fingers. 

James releases her nipple with a wet sound, then he’s kissing her breasts, her chest. He sucks on the skin, teeth holding her in place, until dark spots blossom like roses. Memories for later.

Her hips are thoughtlessly rolling, chasing her pleasure, and James rides with her, letting her use him. The pressure builds and builds until she is wriggling beneath him, moaning and sweating as the thread grows tighter and tighter. She knows she’s close. James knows she’s close. 

So when he suddenly pulls his fingers out of her, right before she trips into oblivion, it feels like the worst betrayal. She gasps, eyes fluttering open to stare at him, confused. Her body hums with need, burning with an animal desire for what she wants. “Wh—”

“I never want to see you hanging off of Mycroft fuckin’ Holmes again.”

Her chest rises and falls with her frenzy. Heat pools between her legs. She can feel her wetness seeping into the sheet beneath her, her heartbeat throbbing in her cunt. Her hand, with a mind of its own, moves to touch herself, but James is too quick. He catches her wrist and holds her hand at her side. The other one, too. 

She whines, bucking against his hold. “James.”

“You’re mine, mo chroí.” His brown eyes are almost black. His cheeks are flushed and his cock is hard against her thigh, dizzyingly close to where she wants him. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” she cries. “Yours, James.” He could get her to say anything right now. 

“That’s right, pretty.” He noses at her cheek. Her eyes shut, basking in the touch. He stills for a moment. His ruined voice recites, “‘I do love nothing in the world so well as you.’”

Then he yanks her up.

James pulls her into his lap. He sits with one leg dangling over the side of the bed, the other stretched out. Her thighs fall open as she straddles him, her body trembling. She feels oddly vulnerable like this, breasts under his nose, hovering inches from his cock. 

“Be a good girl for me,” he whispers as he runs a hand through her hair. The Irish lilt, husky with his arousal, only makes her tremble more. 

She wants nothing more than to please James. 

Her fingers wrap around his cock. His lips part, staring at her with heavy eyes, a whisper of a smirk. Her fingers don’t quite meet around him. She runs her hand up and down the velvety length, and perhaps she does know what she’s doing because a soft sound leaves James, one she would very much like to hear again and again. 

A hand holds him up while the other finds her back. He touches her, pulling her close until she nearly falls into him. “Sit,” he says, like he’s being kind. Such an innocuous thing to say with an entirely new meaning now. Just that one word and she’s a goner. 

She sits—slowly. His cock stretches her open and she somehow forgot just how good it felt, like her mind couldn’t handle the memory. There are no words for the relief she feels as he fills her. He curses as he buries his face against her neck, his hands moving to her hips as he helps her lift them before sinking back down. 

The last dregs of coherence leave her. 

She is nothing more than a body seeking pleasure from a man she loves. James meets her thrusts, his hips rolling, and he buries himself deeper and deeper as she moans, calls his name, begs for more. He holds her waist until there are bruises. He tells her she is doing so good, taking him so well. 

She holds his shoulders and grinds down on him, James’s hands all over her as his mouth explores her neck, his mouth greedy and hot. She moves a hand to his hair, pulling on his soft curls as she rides him. 

The pleasure builds and builds again, her clit rubbing against him every time he sinks into her. James has his face in her hair, his mouth right beside her ear, when he asks if she can come for him. 

She shudders, gasping and holding him tighter, and James holds her down, thrusting in and out of her until a broken moan leaves her and heat flushes through her. 

She comes with stars behind her eyes. Her body quivers as her back arches, pushing deeper and deeper. “James,” she moans, loud and begging. 

“I know,” he breathes out, a wild look in his eyes. “I’ve got you, pretty girl.” 

He holds her as he softly uses her, burying himself and caressing her as he fucks her, like she is a piece of glass he can’t help wanting to shatter. Her arms circle his neck and he kisses her breasts, smothering her in adoration as he comes, warmth filling her. 

She falls into him, spent and tired and content, as her cheeks rests on his freckled shoulder. Her eyes linger on the curtain as it sways, dancing from the window before falling back into it. She catches her breath, coming down from her pleasure as James traces shapes against her spine, soft and caring. 

After the chase and making love, she wants nothing more than sleep. She doesn’t know she has drifted off until she feels James laying her against the pillows. He curls in beside her, kissing her forehead and her cheeks, his fingers dancing along her sides. He loops an arm around her, his chest against her back. He’s so solid and warm that it instantly relaxes her. 

As sleep tangles her in its web, she hears James whisper one last thing: “Stay, mo chroí.”

HIM

You were the kind of person everyone on campus seemed to know.

Not because you tried to stand out, but because people naturally gravitated toward you like sunlight through open windows.

Your smile lingered in people's minds long after conversations ended. You remembered names, noticed small changes, listened as if every word mattered. Even the quiet students who preferred corners over crowds somehow found themselves speaking to you without realizing it. Professors greeted you warmly in the hallways, classmates saved seats beside you without asking, and strangers softened the moment you looked their way.

You moved through the campus with an ease that made everything around you feel lighter, laughter spilling from cafeteria tables, familiar greetings echoing across corridors, hands waving from classroom doors.

It was effortless for you.

Not only were you adored, you were envied.

You were beautiful in the effortless kind of way people wrote poems about without meaning to. Smart enough to leave professors impressed, yet gentle enough to never make others feel small beside you. Your life was the kind that looked carefully crafted from the outside, a loving family, loyal friends, good grades, a future already glowing brightly ahead of you.

Everything about you seemed perfect.

The perfect daughter.

The perfect student.

The perfect girl.

People often said you lived like the main character of a dream.

And maybe you did.

Until you met him.

He ruined you without ever touching you.

Just seeing him was enough.

Enough to crack the polished version of yourself you had spent years maintaining so carefully. Around him, your perfect smiles became strained at the edges, your practiced composure slipping in ways no one else seemed to notice. He planted something ugly inside you—something obsessive, restless, hungry—and it spread quietly beneath your skin like a fracture hidden under glass.

For the first time in your life, you became imperfect.

And it terrified you.

So you buried it.

You buried every lingering glance, every racing heartbeat, every thought that kept returning to him no matter how hard you forced it away. You locked those feelings somewhere deep inside yourself, behind smiles and gentle laughter and the flawless image everyone adored so much.

No one could know.

No one could see the way your chest tightened whenever he walked past, or how your eyes searched for him in crowded hallways before you could stop yourself. You hid it so carefully that even you began pretending it wasn't there at all.

But hidden things rarely stay buried forever.

Soon, curiosity turned into habit.

You told yourself it was harmless at first — just small things, normal things. Searching his name late at night. Finding his accounts. Memorizing usernames. Watching the little green activity icon beside his profile as if it meant something important.

But his social media was almost empty.

He has no posts, no captions, no tagged photos.

Nothing that revealed who he was beyond the cold profile picture and the date the account had been created.

It frustrated you more than it should have.

Everyone else on campus lived so openly online, their lives scattered carelessly across pictures and stories and late-night thoughts. But him? It was like trying to follow the shadow of someone who didn't want to exist.

And maybe that was what pulled you in deeper.

The absence of information became an obsession of its own. You started lingering outside classrooms just to see where he went afterward. You memorized the rhythm of his schedule without meaning to. Which vending machine he used. Which stairwell he preferred. The exact time he usually left campus.

You convinced yourself it was only observation.

Just curiosity.

But curiosity didn't usually make someone stay awake at two in the morning wondering why he hadn’t been online for seven hours.

You became desperate for pieces of him.

Small details weren't enough anymore. You wanted to know the things people couldn't learn from passing glances in hallways. What music he listened to alone, what kind of coffee he drank when he was tired, whether he stayed up late, whether he laughed differently when no one was around to hear it.

So you started asking.

It has to be carefully. It has to be casually. Always with that same sweet smile everyone trusted too easily.

You slipped his name into conversations like it meant nothing.

"Oh, you know him, right?" "He seems quiet." "What's he actually like?"

People answered without hesitation. Why wouldn't they? It was you asking.

And when simple questions stopped working, you learned how to guide conversations exactly where you wanted them to go. A little praise here, harmless curiosity there, subtle nudges disguised as concern. You made people talk without realizing they were giving things away.

His favorite convenience store near campus.

The classes he hated most.

The fact he never answered calls after midnight.

The old scar near his wrist someone noticed once during gym.

You collected every detail carefully, storing them away like treasures no one else understood the value of.

Sometimes, after hearing something new about him, you would lie awake replaying it over and over in your head, feeling your chest tighten with a satisfaction so intense it almost made you sick.

And still, it was never enough.

────*୨ৎ*────

HER

He had always been good at control.

Control over his emotions, never making it slipped.

Control over his time, making sure its only for him.

Control over every decision that could possibly interfere with the future he had planned so carefully for himself.

Distractions were weaknesses, and weaknesses ruined people.

That was why he kept his distance from everyone. No unnecessary friendships, no meaningless attachments, no room for emotions that could cloud his judgment. His life moved with strict precision, cold and calculated, exactly the way he wanted it.

Then he saw you.

And suddenly, control meant nothing.

He tried to ignore it at first. Really, he really, really did. But no matter where he sat, his attention drifted toward you like something instinctive, something beyond his control. The sound of your laughter cut through crowded rooms too easily. Your voice stayed in his head long after conversations ended. Even the smallest things about you became impossible to overlook. The way you tucked your hair behind your ear while reading, the rhythm of your footsteps in the hallway, the soft crease between your brows whenever you concentrated.

It was maddening.

His eyes searched for you automatically now. Every classroom, every corridor, every passing crowd. Before he even realized it, he had already memorized your schedule more accurately than his own.

You were everywhere.

Sometimes he caught himself staring too long, watching the people around you with quiet irritation curling in his chest. He hated how easily others touched your attention. Hated the way they made you laugh like they deserved it.

They didn't.

None of them noticed you properly.

Only he did.

Only he paid attention to the things others ignored, the moments your smile looked tired around the edges, the way your expression dropped whenever you thought nobody was watching, the subtle shift in your mood depending on who stood beside you.

He noticed everything far more than he should have, far more than was normal.

But every time he told himself to stop, his obsession only sank deeper, rooting itself inside him until thoughts of you became impossible to separate from his daily life.

You had become his distraction.

His favorite one.

As much as he hated wasting time on things unrelated to his future, he found himself reshaping that future around you instead.

You became the exception to every rule he had ever made for himself.

His new goal.

His new motivation.

Whenever cruel rumors about you began spreading across campus, they disappeared before they could fully take shape. Posts vanished. Messages were deleted. The people who started them suddenly grew quiet, avoiding conversations whenever your name was mentioned.

And the people who upset you? The ones who made your smile falter even for a second?

He remembered every single one of them.

The senior who mocked you behind your back found his scholarship application mysteriously ruined days before submission. The girl who spread jealous lies about you became isolated after private screenshots leaked online. A boy who made you visibly uncomfortable during group work ended up transferring classes after relentless anonymous complaints.

He destroyed lives carefully.

Without ever allowing the blood to stain his own hands.

All for you.

The walking home is his most favourite part.

Every evening, he followed several steps behind you, hidden safely within crowds and dim streetlights. Close enough to keep you within sight, far enough that you never turned around suspiciously. He memorized the route so perfectly he could walk it blindfolded. The convenience store you occasionally stopped by, the stray cat that lingered near the corner bakery, the exact moment you adjusted your bag on your shoulder whenever you got tired.

To anyone else, it would have looked pathetic.

But to him, it felt almost romantic.

Like the two of you were walking home together in silence while the rest of the world remained unaware. Sometimes he matched the rhythm of your footsteps unconsciously, pretending, if only for a moment, that he belonged beside you.

You never noticed him there.

At least, that was what he told himself.

And yet, every now and then, you would slow down slightly during those walks, just enough to make him wonder if some part of you already knew.

────*୨ৎ*────

You knew it was wrong.

Disgustingly wrong.

The kind of thing that would shatter the perfect image everyone had of you if they ever found out. The kind of thing that could ruin your reputation completely, leaving behind nothing but whispers and horrified stares.

But by now, your obsession had already grown far beyond guilt.

You wanted more of him.

You wanted access.

Real access.

And so, one night, sitting alone in your dark bedroom with trembling hands and your heartbeat pounding violently against your ribs, you crossed a line you could never uncross again.

You hacked his phone.

The moment the screen finally loaded, something inside you snapped with terrifying ease. Fear should have stopped you. Shame should have made you close everything immediately.

Instead, excitement flooded through you so intensely it almost made you dizzy.

Pieces of him unfolded before your eyes one by one, intimate in ways he had never willingly allowed anyone to see. You stared at everything greedily, devouring details like a starving person finally handed food.

He set alarms absurdly early.

He barely texted anyone first.

He listened to the same songs repeatedly late at night.

He had dozens of unread notifications because he rarely cared enough to answer.

You loved every single detail.

Your fingers hovered over the screen longer than they should have, lingering over private parts of his life that no one else was meant to witness. It felt invasive. Filthy. Intoxicating.

You should have felt like a criminal.

Instead, curled beneath your blankets in the dead of night with his entire digital life open in your hands, you felt closer to him than ever before.

────*୨ৎ*────

He knew this had crossed the line a long time ago.

Normal people didn't break into restricted rooms after campus hours. Normal people didn't sit alone in front of glowing surveillance monitors with their heartbeat steady and calm while committing crimes that could easily destroy their future.

But the thought barely bothered him anymore.

Not when it involved you.

The dim light of the CCTV control room reflected against his face as rows of security footage flickered across the screens. Hallways, stairwells, classrooms, entrances. An entire campus reduced to silent moving images beneath his fingertips.

And somewhere inside all of it was you.

He had planned this carefully for weeks. Memorized guard rotations. Learned which staff members forgot to lock doors properly. Studied the outdated security system until bypassing it became almost embarrassingly easy.

All because he wanted to see you.

Beside him sat a second phone, the one dedicated entirely to you.

His real phone remained at his bag, desk or whatever. Too risky to carry both. This one existed for a single purpose only: storing recordings, screenshots, schedules, notes. Every trace of his obsession hidden neatly behind passwords only he knew.

You lived inside that device more than anyone else ever could.

His fingers moved quickly across the keyboard as lines of code and security prompts flashed across the monitor. One by one, he rerouted access, quietly linking camera feeds into his private system. The process should have made him nervous.

Instead, he felt almost impatient.

Then finally he had success, a small notification appeared on the screen.

Live access enabled.

His grip tightened slightly around the phone as the camera feeds loaded onto it one after another. Grainy footage flickered to life in tiny squares: empty corridors, classroom doors, students walking through campus under evening light.

And then he found you.

There you were, standing near the vending machines with your friend, smiling softly at something they said. Such an ordinary moment. Meaningless to everyone else.

Yet he stared at it like it was something sacred.

The corners of his mouth lifted faintly without him realizing. Now he could watch you anytime. Anywhere on campus.

No distance. No interruptions. No waiting desperately to catch glimpses of you between classes anymore. You were finally within reach whenever he wanted.

"𝑨𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒖𝒔𝒄𝒓𝒊𝒑𝒕 𝒂𝒅𝒅𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒉𝒆𝒍𝒗𝒆𝒔."

“It is with great delight that I announce this term,” Bucephalus Hodge proclaims from the front of the dining hall, his voice carrying easily over the glitter of silverware and the afternoon light pouring through the tall windows, “the opening of my new science building. A brilliant addition to this already illustrious university.”

Around you, the students practically drink in every word.

Their faces tip toward him with open admiration, eager and shining, exactly as he expects.

Your gaze drifts over the sea of upturned faces before, inevitably, landing on him.

Already, he is fixed on the dais with that razor-edged intensity that never quite leaves his expression—still as a portrait, yet never passive. There is always the suggestion of motion beneath the surface, as though his mind is three steps ahead of the room and quietly inconvenienced by having to wait for the rest of the world to catch up.

At the front of the hall, Hodge raises his glass higher. “Now, scholars… on your feet.”

The room rises in a rush of rustling robes and scraping chairs, and you stand with them, smoothing your palms over the skirts of your gown as applause swells around you.

“I present to you my Hodge Scholars,” he announces grandly to the distinguished men seated beside him. “Take a good look.”

The hall erupts, the sound rolls up into the vaulted ceiling in waves—pride and praise and blind devotion.

And through all of it, your attention catches on him once more.

This time, he is already watching you.

Beneath the brim of his cap, unruly dark curls fall over his forehead, impossible to tame, softening nothing of the keen intelligence in his face. His mouth curves—not quite a smile, something more knowing than that—and his gaze remains with a disquieting sort of amusement, as if you are the far more compelling spectacle than Hodge’s performance at the front of the room.

For one unnerving beat, it feels intentional.

Like he means for you to notice.

You are the one who looks away first, forcing your attention back to the dais just as Hodge’s voice sweeps through the hall again.

“These students,” he continues, sweeping a grand hand toward the assembled tables, “will be generals, prime ministers, leaders who guide our world into the twentieth century. Enjoy learning. Enjoy your youth. Welcome.”

Lunch resumes in a bright clatter of silverware and conversation, plates passed down the table, goblets refilled, voices rising with the easy thrill of the new term.

The girl beside you—Penny, you recall from your first introductions—nudges your arm with poorly concealed excitement.

“Is he not the most intriguing man you’ve ever seen?”

You follow the pointed tilt of her head, though of course you already know exactly who she means.

“James Moriarty. Ugh,” Penny sighs dreamily. “Even his name is spectacular.”

You let out a quiet scoff, reaching for your goblet to hide the tinge of irritation.

“Do not fall for his traps, Penny.” The warning leaves you as you risk one last glance across the table.

As though he has heard it from this distance, his eyes find yours yet again.

This time, his brows lift ever so subtly, almost teasing, almost...provoking.

You tighten your fingers around the stem of your glass.

“He is a rake.”

At last, the students are dismissed, the long tables emptying in an eager tide of robes and chatter as everyone begins funneling toward the doors for their first course of the term.

You rise with the rest, gathering your skirts as you ease into the slow-moving line of scholars winding its way out of the dining hall.

The vaulted room feels narrower now—crowded with bodies, voices, and the restless electricity of new beginnings. Penny remains at your side for another moment, prattling on about professors and schedules, before a cluster of girls sweeps her ahead, their laughter trailing brightly into the corridor beyond.

For the first time all morning, you find yourself briefly alone in the procession.

Or so you think.

“A rake, is it?”

The words arrive in a baritone beside your ear, velvet-smooth and threaded with that rich Irish lilt of his—the blurred consonants, the almost musical cadence, the amused skepticism turning each syllable into something far too intimate.

Your breath catches.

For one mortifying second, you close your eyes, already knowing exactly whose voice has slipped so effortlessly into your space.

Then, despite every better instinct, you glance over your shoulder.

James Moriarty is directly behind you.

Far too close.

Up close he is even more unnerving—the sculpted planes of his face, the clever, watchful eyes that never seem merely to look but to dissect, and that infuriating tilt at one corner of his mouth that suggests he is forever in possession of a joke no one else has yet understood.

“I confess,” he begins, his accent wrapping warmly around the words, “I had imagined a far crueler first judgment.”

The line shifts forward again in a rustle of robes and scraping shoes, forcing you onward, but he keeps perfect pace behind you, matching every step as though this, too, is some private game he has already decided he intends to win.

You face forward, schooling your features into composure even as heat prickles along the back of your neck.

“Rake was me being charitable.”

A quiet sound slips from him, somewhere between a laugh and a hum of approval.

“Was it?” he asks. “Then I should very much like to hear what you call me when you stop being kind.”

The line bottlenecks near the great doors, compressing the space until the warmth of him hovers at your back, close enough that every nerve in your body becomes newly aware of his presence.

“As first impressions go,” he continues, lowering his voice until it brushes the shell of your ear, “being called a rake by the most inscrutable girl in the hall is far more interesting than the usual simpering admiration.”

You lift your chin, refusing to grant him the satisfaction of seeing you flustered.

“And what makes you think I care whether you find me interesting, Mr. Moriarty?”

That crooked smile returns, slower this time, touched with something almost wicked.

“Because,” he replies, as sunlight from the corridor slips across the angles of his face and the line inches forward again, “you kept looking.”

You let out a quiet laugh, turning just enough to meet his gaze fully now.

“You were seated at an entirely different table,” you remind him, letting challenge thread through every word. “How can you be so certain it was you I was looking at?”

For the first time, his smile opens into something openly devious.

There it is. The opening he wanted.

His gaze moves over your face with deliberate patience before returning to your eyes.

“Because,” he murmurs, his accent dropping lower, silk over steel, “every time you looked away, you did it like you’d been caught.”

For one suspended moment, the crowd seems to divide around the two of you, as though the tide of students bends instinctively around whatever current has risen here.

Then, with a calmness that feels almost insolent, James lifts a hand.

Your breath snags.

His fingers brush the tassel of your cap, the touch feather-light as he catches the silken strands between his thumb and forefinger. He lets them slide slowly through his grasp, the smallest ghost of contact grazing your temple in the process.

It is such a harmless gesture in theory.

Yet the intimacy of it lands like a spark thrown too near dry kindling.

“Enjoy class,” he whispers, far too pleased with himself.

The look in his eyes tells a different story.

He means to unsettle you.

He means to linger.

He means to see what you will do with it.

Before you can gather a reply cutting enough to leave its mark, he releases the tassel with a lazy flick of his fingers and slips past you, his shoulder brushing near enough to send another wave of heat down your spine.

Then he is gone.

Swallowed by the tide of dark robes and echoing voices pouring into the corridor beyond, as though he had never been there at all.

Except your pulse refuses the illusion.

And all through the walk to your first lesson, you can still feel the ghost of his touch near your temple—light, maddening, and altogether too easy to remember.

By the time the evening welcome gathering is in full swing, you have spent the better part of an hour artfully avoiding Peregrine’s attention.

Every time his voice drifts too near, every time you catch sight of him weaving through the crowd, you turn in the opposite direction, slipping between clusters of laughing students, ducking beneath raised glasses, letting the crush of bodies swallow you whole.

At last, after no small amount of effort, you manage to wedge yourself through the crowd and reach the bar.

At last.

Or so you think.

The bartender passes in front of you once.

Then again.

And somehow manages to look everywhere but at you.

“Excuse me?” you call, pitching your voice above the din of music and conversation.

He keeps walking.

You lean forward over the bar. “Excuse me?”

Still nothing.

A frustrated breath escapes as you tip your head back with a groan.

“For fuck’s sake.”

“Leave this with me.”

That maddening Irish accent brushes your ear once more, smooth as smoke and just as invasive.

Your eyes slide sideways and a slow sigh leaves you. “Just what I needed.”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “I’m wounded.”

He mutters something to the gentleman wedged beside you, and the poor boy startles before abruptly shifting away, leaving just enough room for James to slip into the newly opened space at your side.

He moves like he belongs there.

Like he belongs anywhere he pleases.

Before you can ask what exactly he thinks he is doing, he bends over the polished wood of the bar with shameless confidence and reaches for three glasses, a bottle of whiskey, and then—

Your breath catches.

A tiny vial of something suspiciously green.

Your gaze snaps to his hand. “Is that—”

“Shhh.” He cuts in without looking at you, his voice dropping into conspiratorial softness as he tips a measured drop into the glasses.

Then he slides one toward you.

“It’s a Sazerac.”

The amber liquid catches the golden light, deceptively innocent.

You arch a brow, glancing from the drink to him. “And should I trust anything you hand me, Mr. Moriarty?”

His eyes flash with unmistakable mischief.

“Certainly not.”

He lifts his own glass.

Annoyingly, that only makes you want to take yours more.

A reluctant smile ghosts across your mouth as you raise it. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.” The rim of his glass taps against yours.

Then he turns with effortless ease and lifts his drink once more toward a young man standing just beyond your shoulder.

Tall.

Strikingly out of place.

And then, as though summoned by the disturbance itself, Peregrine appears.

He cuts through the crowd with the confidence of someone convinced every room belongs to him, his expression darkening the moment his gaze lands on the unfamiliar face.

“You’re the scout,” he accuses, suspicion clipped into every word.

The young man inclines his head with maddening calm. “Indeed.”

Peregrine’s eyes narrow. “How exactly did you get in here?”

“I invited him,” James supplies smoothly before the tension can gather any further.

His tone is careless, almost bored.

The lie is so elegant it nearly sounds true.

You nearly laugh, because you know perfectly well neither of them had any formal invitation to begin with.

Peregrine’s attention shifts to James. “And who, pray tell, invited you?”

You take a slow, deliberate sip of your drink, letting the whiskey burn pleasantly down your throat as the silence stretches.

James parts his lips. “No one—”

“Oh, don’t be coy. I did.”

The words leave you before he can finish.

You step forward, your shoulder nearly brushing James’s as you place yourself squarely in Peregrine’s line of sight.

The lie comes easily.

Far too easily.

“He’s with me.”

For the first time since you have known him, James Moriarty goes still.

His gaze cuts sideways to you, and for once the usual devious demeanor is gone, replaced by something rarer.

Surprise.

As though he had not anticipated you to step into the game beside him. As though, for one brief and delicious moment, you have managed to wrong-foot him.

Peregrine studies the two of you, displeasure sharpening every line of his face.

“If I wished to socialise with a cleaner,” he drawls, eyeing the young man beside James with open disdain, “I should simply throw a party in the servants’ quarters.”

A laugh slips from you before you can stop it.

“That sounds infinitely more entertaining than this one.”

The scout beside James smirks into his glass, while James’s own mouth tilts with immediate approval.

“He may be a cleaner,” James replies, his accent lending the words an almost lazy elegance, “but he is an exceptionally clever cleaner.”

Peregrine’s jaw tightens.

His gaze swings back to you, irritation now fully soured into offense.

“If you do not mind,” he begins stiffly, “I should like to ask your friends here to leave.”

“I do mind, actually.”

You set your glass down and take another step forward, unable to resist the spark of sly inspiration already gathering shape.

“In fact,” you continue, a smile curving slowly at your mouth, “I have a better idea.”

Peregrine narrows his eyes.

“If you can outsmart my friends here, they will leave without protest.”

The challenge lands between you like a gauntlet thrown at his feet. For a beat, the room seems to hush around the four of you. Then James buys in at once, sliding seamlessly to your side as though the two of you have always played the same games.

“Excellent,” he purrs, eyes brightening with evident delight. “Take a good, long look at our friend here and tell us what you can glean.”

He gestures toward the scout.

“Then,” he adds, that maniacal half-smile returning in full, “he shall return the favor.”

Peregrine squares his shoulders, clearly too proud to refuse now that the trap has been set.

“And who, exactly, decides the winner?”

“Oh, I do.”

The voice cuts in crisp and amused.

Edie—Hodge’s ever-watchful assistant—steps elegantly into the circle, her gaze flicking between each of you with instant interest.

A small crowd has already begun to gather, drawn by the scent of competition.

“I should be delighted to judge.”

You glance at Peregrine, no longer bothering to hide the satisfied glint in your eye.

“On your marks,” you begin, stepping back toward James’s side.

Your shoulder brushes his.

“Get set…”

Peregrine’s attention fixes.

You tilt your head, smiling sweetly.

“Go.”

And as the game begins, you can already feel James beside you nearly humming with pleasure, as though the prospect of watching someone be publicly dismantled is his preferred form of entertainment.

Which, you suspect, it may well be.

He leans closer, just enough for the warmth of him to graze the edge of your sleeve.

“Thank you.”

You keep your eyes fixed ahead on the two young men circling each other in verbal battle, refusing to give him the satisfaction of looking his way.

“I do my best work when I am owed a favor.”

“A dangerous philosophy.”

“Only for the people foolish enough to underestimate me.”

Beside you, you can feel rather than see the way he angles himself closer, his attention dividing between the contest before you and the far more private one unfolding at your side.

“And what sort of favor,” he asks, his voice lowering until every word feels poured rather than spoken, “does a girl like you collect?”

Now, finally, you turn, letting him sit in the silence. Letting him wonder.

“That depends.” Your voice stays calm despite the traitorous beat of your pulse. “How valuable do you imagine yourself to be, Mr. Moriarty?”

“Ah.” His eyes dip briefly to your mouth before returning to your own. “So that is the game.”

Your chin lifts. “Were you under the impression there wasn’t one?”

The contest in front of you continues, voices rising, laughter following each clever observation, but it feels distant now. Secondary to the charged space between your shoulder and his, where another kind of contest has quietly taken hold.

One with no clear rules.

And, more dangerously still, no obvious victor.

“I do hope,” he says, leaning in just enough for only you to hear, “you intend to make it difficult for me.”

A smile traces your lips.

“Oh, James.”

Your gaze darts toward the duel, then returns to him with quiet promise.

“I intend to make it impossible.”

The words have barely left your mouth when the crack of a fist against bone shatters the charged little world the two of you have built at the edge of the room.

Peregrine’s fist collides squarely with James’s friend’s jaw.

The sound snaps through the gathering like a gunshot.

Gasps ripple through the nearby students as the carefully curated civility of the evening dissolves into chaos.

You tilt your head toward the fight.

“I do believe your friend could use some assistance.”

Beside you, James releases the most theatrical sigh.

“Tragic. I was having such a lovely time.”

He presses his glass into your hand for safekeeping with infuriating confidence, as though there were never any doubt you would hold it for him.

Then he turns.

What happens next is almost unfairly quick.

James steps into the fray with the same graceful precision he brings to conversation, all easy balance and startling speed. Peregrine barely has time to register him before James’s fist lands cleanly across his cheek in a strike so neat it feels almost insulting.

The sound of it sends something wicked sparking to life inside you.

To your private shame—and very real bliss—a laugh tumbles free.

Another one of Peregrine’s friends lunges at James.

Misses.

Lunges again.

Misses again.

James ducks both attempts with ease, moving like he had anticipated each blow before the thought had even formed. Then, with a swift, brutal drag of his fist upward, he sends the man sprawling backward into a cluster of horrified scholars.

For good measure, James gives the next overeager fool a careless shove just as the boy works up the courage to join in, sending him stumbling into the crowd before the fight can even begin.

Show-off.

He turns back to you, curls disheveled now, breath just slightly uneven, and somehow the chaos only makes him look more alive.

“Until next time?” 

You glance at the glass still in one hand, then toward the abandoned bar.

“For the road.”

You snatch up a bottle of whiskey and toss it toward him.

He catches it one-handed without looking.

That, more than anything else tonight, makes him laugh.

Then, with one last lingering look cast your way, he and his companion disappear into the flood of bodies rushing from the hall, swallowed by laughter, shouts, and the thrill of scandal.

And though the room still hums with the wreckage they leave behind, all you can think about is the certainty that next time cannot come quickly enough.

And James feels it happen; The switch in his behaviors, the drift of his attention, the second you walked into a room. And of course, because his love is so unsuspecting, it's only fitting that it makes itself known at such a vulnerable moment.

You’ve been irritable all day. That’s how James knew something was going on. Sherlock had made a joke, and you didn’t laugh. That was odd. James made a snide remark, wanting simply to make you smile. But instead, you blow up in his face and storm off to your dormitory.

James hasn’t known you long, but thus far he has never seen you so aggravated for seemingly no observable reason. Of course, you had called him a cock sucker before, but it had been with an eye roll or a smile you attempted to hide, but he still saw. Never had you been so serious or cruel with your intentions when you said it before. If it weren’t for the way you stormed off after you’d said it, James would have taken earnest offense. But as you ran, he thought he saw tears welling up in your eyes, and instantly all hostilities were dropped before they began. Sherlock hadn’t noticed, too busy giving all his attention to some inconsistencies he found in what Mycroft had told him earlier.

James is quick to follow after you, leaving Sherlock with some made-up excuse he'd be too preoccupied to question. He follows after you through halls and down corridors, calling out your name. You just keep on until you finally make it to your room, where you shut the door in James' face.

With a huff, he calls your name through the door. "Come on. I did not mean what I said. You know I didn't mean it." James his head against your door, catching his breath.

"Please just go, James." His breath catches as you speak.

"Not until this is settled," James says definitively, trying the doorknob. It's locked.

"I forgive you. There it is settled." You utter through the wood. But James can hear the sniffle you let out, so he presses on.

"If you forgive me, why is it that you still sound upset?" He tries, leaning into the door as if that will somehow get him closer to you. "Was it really me? Or did someone else do something?"

"James—"

"Because, as you know, I am not above getting my hands dirty."

"James, stop." You announce, cutting through his words. There is a stillness where neither of you speak; all that can be heard is shuffling from your side of the door. The sound of a key sliding into a keyhole pulls James to step away from the door.

The door is pulled open tentatively. When you finally come into view, you look somewhat disheveled. It pulls at James' heartstrings uncomfortably. Your eyes are red and puffy. Clearly, you've been crying more than he initially saw. James' nonchalant persona cracks just slightly under the weight of the sight.

"It has nothing to do with you." Your voice quietly. Like every syllable claws at your throat as it comes out.

"Then what is it?" James dips his head down to meet your gaze. You shift your weight from foot to foot in hesitant contemplation. James holds his gaze steady.

Reluctantly, you step aside to let James in. He steps through the threshold of your room and gazes around. Lying across your desk, which sits near the door, he sees letters scattering the surface. Some are unfinished letters, a couple are crumpled up, but in the center of your desk is a letter clearly not in your distinct penmanship. On this letter are creased wrinkles left in shapes only tears could make.

"Tell me what’s wrong." James tears his eyes away before you notice. He faces you now, concealing his anguish behind furrowed brows of curiosity.

It takes you a minute to gather the courage to tell the truth. You trust James, but you also know that behind his facade of charm and quips, he holds so much weight. He doesn't need yours. But his stance is unwavering. He holds his ground as he waits for you, ever the gentleman.

“It’s my father.” You divulge. You say it as though if you say it too loudly, your father himself will hear you from across the Atlantic.

"Ah," James voices solemnly. That must be what the letters have been about. He takes a moment to mull over his words.

“You’ve never mentioned him before,” James decides. No connotations as to not upset you more. He is not sure of your own opinions on him yet.

“I don’t like even thinking about him.” You let out a self deprecating noise that leaves James with a familiar understanding and distaste. One thing he feels often when thinking about his own father.

Your mind runs a million miles a minute, trying to compose itself. The mere thought of him brought feelings that, if you could, you would have killed and buried and never spoken of again.

“Why’s that?” James' eyes don't leave you for even a second. His gentleness is so exposing, so stripped down and bare, it makes you curl in on yourself. You’ve never been one to get much attention unless you explicitly put yourself in the spotlight. No one had ever looked at you without you predetermining it and deciding it would happen. That is, until you met Sherlock and James. They both look at you without you having to grab their attention with some big gesture or loud character trait. They see you even when you don't want them to. And even worse, James can read you even when you wish he couldn't.

James knows you in some impossible way. In the short time he has known you, he has learned almost everything about you. Your tells, the way you cower ever so slightly when someone makes you upset, how you fight tooth and nail to be tolerated even though you are so easily loved. He knows that just about everything you do is calculated to push you higher and get you further. He knows you as if he has known you his whole life, and you see it. And it excites you, it terrifies you.

"He's like an insect," You being. "He crawls into the weakest parts of you and terrorizes and taunts and calls it love." You don't elaborate, but it seems to you that James understands. He always does. As grateful as you are, a part of you aches for him. You would never wish your pain onto him, but he seems to always already possess it.

“I seem to always be doing something wrong. I can never make him happy." You continue. James's presence is a welcome anchor that seems to be calming the waters of your mind.

"The only reason I’m here is that I thought that if I agreed to go to Oxford, he would finally let me be. But I was sorely mistaken." More tears well up in your eyes as you take a seat at the foot of your bed. James takes a step closer.

"Is the letter from him?" James cautiously asks, but it only seems to bring more tears and a grave nod.

"If I do not improve my marks, all familial ties will be cut." A sob leaves your throat as you sink into the mattress. "I will be estranged and left destitute to fend for myself in a country that I do not belong to. I may never see my mother again." James sits with you now, warmth and comfort radiating from him.

"No. I will not let that happen," James affirms, jaw set tight. You struggle to control your uneven breathing.

"I promise you this," He says, your name as though it is a vow never to be broken, and takes your hand in his. "He will not hurt you again." Your breath hitches at the stubborn crease of his brow.

"Even if you fail out of Oxford, you will see your mother again." His words are resolute. He says them as if they are fact rather than simple hopes. "His threats are empty. You have me, you have Sherlock. You will never be on your own again."

The damn collapses, and you slam into James' sturdy frame. You cry freely now, no longer able to hold back your fears. James is startled only for a moment before he sinks into the feeling of you in his hold. He holds you securely and lets you set the weight of them down. He lets you come apart with the knowledge that he will be there to help build you up again.

And that's when he feels it. Sitting in your bed on an unsuspecting Sunday afternoon, he feels it. That ache deep in his chest, the pulsing in his veins, the confirmation in his heart. He loves you. And because he loves you, he will never let you go.