It’s Enough To Make A Girl Blush <3
James Moriarty x Reader
Word Count: 3.5k
Premise: James Moriarty is a flirt and Sherlock Holmes cannot read a room. This results in quite strange and happy circumstances on occasion…
When the doors to Appleton Manor swung open on that fateful day of Sherlock’s return to his childhood home, James expected many things. Some sort of labyrinth, full of abandoned science projects and blackboards scrawled over with equations, a house as eccentric as its occupants. Maybe a cold, abandoned sanctuary, furniture coated in a thin layer of dust, some haven untouched by time. What he did not expect was a recently swept floor, a dying fire in the hearth and a woman of about his age fast asleep in a rocking chair, knitting half finished in her lap.
“Who’s that?” James thought, moving closer to get a better look at the face of the sleeping girl. His boots made the floorboards creak with his movements. The woman in the chair stirred, then yawned, then opened her eyes. Panic flashed across her features and in a split second and slightly irrational decision, she leapt from the rocking chair, knitting needle pointed straight at James’ chest.
“Mrs Crowle!” She shouted, hands shaking as she looked desperately around her.
“Calm yourself darling, I’m not here to hurt you.” James lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender. He noticed that she flinched slightly when he did so, and made a mental note.
“What good is a thief’s word? Mrs Crowle! Don’t come any closer.” She ordered, backing up to the fireplace where a discarded poker lay upon the hearth.
“Y/N, it is okay. James is an associate of mine.” Both heads turned to the doorway where Sherlock now stood. Sherlock walked over and attempted to take the girl’s hands in his. Unfortunately, she slapped him before he could.
“Are you trying to give me a heart attack?!” She nearly screeched. “You leave me here, tending to the house, for close to a decade and then decide that you’re going to waltz back in without so much as sending me a telegram. I thought I was going to see myself murdered thanks to your insolence. Now come here, I have missed you and I’m sure you have not been eating well, you look pale and ill.” And with that the fight appeared majorly to drain from her and she took Sherlock into her arms as an old friend.
Three hours later, the dinner things were cleared away and the family dispersed to their corners of the house. While Sherlock was busy attending to his mother’s bedside, James was strolling through the maze of corridors on the second floor. He noticed about halfway down the dark, slightly cold hallway, that one of the doors was slightly ajar. Soft firelight spilled from the crack, throwing shapes along the floor. He knocked twice, rapping his knuckles against old wood.
“Come in.” Y/N, the serving girl or whatever her job was, answered him.
“I need your assurance first that you won’t try to threaten me again.” He joked.
“And I’m afraid I’ll need your assurance you won’t sneak up on me while I sleep.”
“I’ll come in now then.” The bedroom was exactly the sort of thing you would expect if you saw the rest of the house. A bed in the corner was slightly messily made up with throws and pillows, a fire burned steadily in the fireplace and a painting, some sort of sky view, hung just by the door.
“I have been meaning to apologise for earlier.” Y/N admitted. She was seated just in front of the fireplace, warming her hands over the flames.
“Sure look it, you’ve no reason to apologise.” James assured her. She heard the bed give a weak protest as he settled himself on the end. “I gave you a fright. Do you get many people turning up?”
“What do you think?”
“Well, I suppose you probably don’t.”
“It’s been many years since I last saw a new face. The only people in or out of here are the Holmes family usually and they, well, let’s say they’re not fond of the place. Brings up bad memories and this house holds things best hidden, especially for the sake of poor Miss Cordelia.”
“Well, at least we’re here now to keep you company.” James joked, moving to settle on the floor beside her.
“You’ll move on.” The quiet certainty she said it with surprised James. “People always do.”
It took four months and two days for James to find the reason behind her statement. It was after they had returned to the manor on a more permanent basis, Silas’ death hanging heavy in the air over the family home. Y/N remained ever the constant fixture, tidying the rooms and fetching the tea things, always hovering on the fringes of moments, never quite settling. It was as if the girl who could have been mistaken for Sherlock’s sister from the way they behaved had been replaced, and in her place sat, well, Sherlock’s sister. Beatrice now slept in the old guest room, forsaking Y/N to the servants quarters once more. She sat next to James at every opportunity, she occupied the rocking chair once used for knitting. It was as if she was becoming Y/N, and Y/N was becoming, well, nothing more than a serving-girl.
The day itself was dry, but overcast. An almost tangible sense of gloom stuck to everything, pressing down even the most stubborn of optimistic manners, James included.
“We have a visitor.” Mrs Crowle announced from where she stood answering the door. Into the house came a married couple, a very short and squat man with slightly flushed cheeks and very serious dark eyes, a mop of shocking white hair perched on top of his head which gave the appearance of having spent a good few years receding, and a very tall and shrewd old woman. She gave the contrasting appearance of a governess who had been stretched, wearing a blouse with sleeves that were just a little bit too short for her arms, long and grey hair pulled into a tight bun at the nape of her neck and a pair of pince nez spectacles perched precariously on the end of her nose, which gave her the odd appearance of looking constantly down at everyone she met.
“Ah, Mr and Mrs Banks. How lovely to see you both.” Cordelia shook their hands as James arrived at the scene and took in the gathered fray.
“How are you dear? I trust the boys and you are well? And this young fellow?” Mrs Banks enquired, looking down her rather long and pointy nose at James.
“James Moriarty. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.” James clasped the old woman’s hand in his.
“I suppose you’ll all be wanting tea. I’ll set the table.” Mrs Crowle excused herself, smiling politely as she ambled in the direction of the kitchen.
The table which had been laid in the kitchen could only be described as overcrowded. Elbows and knees fought for space between teacups and scones. Mycroft had inexplicably found himself wedged between the Banks at the unofficial head of the table, with the assorted women of the family on his right, and the men on his left. The only person missing from the kitchen was Y/N, though James dismissed this passing curiosity with the reasonable assumption that she had probably retired to her room for a rest, a common tactic to pass the time when the weather was so dreadfully dull.
“Still, at least Beatrice must be nearing marrying age now.” He heard Mrs Banks say in her particularly shrill and nasally voice to Cordelia, who was seated next to her. The topic had clearly moved to matches now that Mycroft had revealed he was courting some girl he had met in London, something to do with his job, whom he intended on proposing to. In all honesty, she sounded painfully sensible and horribly prudish. James made brief eye contact with Mrs Banks’ subject, who stabbed her knife so harshly into the jam pot he became concerned for the old woman’s safety. “She is such a doll. You should find your luck better with her.”
“I should be rather offended, Mrs Banks, at your assumptions of my romantic fortunes when no clear answer lies before us.” Mycroft jovially reprimanded her.
“Oh no, she doesn’t mean you, old sport. She means the girl.” Mr Banks clapped Mycroft lightly on the back as he spoke, in his strange manner of stuttering. James also noted that he never opened his mouth very wide when he spoke, and consequently appeared at times as if he had no teeth. Sitting next to him he also noted that he smelt faintly of boiled cabbage.
“What girl?” Sherlock asked, with a curiosity that caused his elbow to knock into James as he spoke.
“Oh you know-“ here Mrs Banks smacked her thin lips together, evidently searching her mind, “-that darling little servant girl you had, Mrs Crowle’s own prodigy. Such a shame what happened with her and Master Campbell. She was such a sweet thing, truly. Maybe a little plain, but we all have our faults, don’t we?”
“Are you talking about Y/N?” James asked, half incredulously.
“That’s the ticket! Such a sweetheart she was, never met a nicer girl, still, I suppose these things can happen to anyone.” Mr Banks seemed to reminisce slightly on something nobody else appeared privy to.
“Shall we take a turn about the grounds? The weather is dry yet we should make something of the day, whip up the circulation and all that. It is becoming stuffy in here.” Cordelia tried ardently to change the subject. Her children and James all jumped at the chance, helping Mrs Crowle to clear the table.
It wasn’t until a week later that anyone broached the topic with Y/N. It was a late summer evening and a comforting warmth had settled over the house that persisted even until these late hours. The Holmes children were draped leisurely over the assembled chairs, basking like cats in the remaining sunlight that streamed in through the windows. Cordelia Holmes was reclining in an armchair while Sherlock and Beatrice found themselves half-heartedly engaged in a game of chess, though their long pauses and light conversation put to rest the idea that either one considered it a serious competition. Opposite James, Mycroft’s posture remained spitefully upright, to a point that made him wonder whether the man was genuinely capable of proper relaxation. Next to him his fiancée, a rather meek girl named Flossie, with mousy brown hair and a pale, slightly waxen complexion, tried to read a book while Mycroft ran his fingers through her hair in the fashion that one would amuse a housecat with.
“I thought you might enjoy some refreshments.” The collected group turned to the doorway, where Y/N was coming in with a tray of tall glasses, filled with lemon water so obviously cold that beads of condensation made their way down the outside.
“You are an angel, woman, I tell you.” James told her, taking his glass from her. He delighted afterwards in the shy look that overcame her at his praise.
A chorus of thanks were thrown around as the remaining drinks were distributed. She set down the tray once done, and moved slowly to the piano in the corner of the space, where a few pages of sheet music were already laid out. Soon the opening notes to some elegant little ditty began to fill the comfortable somewhat silence.
“Who has been playing this?” Cordelia asked, turning round to peer at the figure on the piano stool.
“It was us.” Flossie answered. “We were considering it for our wedding.”
“Oh, you should dance for us.” Cordelia insisted, eyes lighting up at the prospect of seeing her son preparing to marry.
“Oh do take the floor, brother.” Sherlock encouraged in a tone undercut with friendly teasing.
“If you all insist.” Mycroft caved, rising from the sofa and pulling his fiancée to her feet. They stood for a moment to assume a proper stance and find the tempo of the music, and soon they were gliding and turning and almost floating through the room, vigilant of rogue furniture and outstretched limbs. In the corner, Sherlock offered a hand to his sister, who accompanied him to the makeshift dancefloor. James busied himself with clearing a space for the dancers before proffering his own hand to the lady of the house.
“Madame.” He said, a playful smirk on his lips.
As they danced, Cordelia, who prided herself on being rather insightful, couldn’t help but notice the glances James spared to the girl on the piano. At one time in her life she would’ve been a rather formidable dance partner but at the present moment she seemed to be near constantly stepping on James’ feet.
“Apologies.” She repeated for the hundredth time, giving her fellow dancer a sorry look. “Here, I’ll find you a better partner.” James watched as Mrs Holmes retreated to the piano and nudged the residing musician. The music cut out for a moment as the women switched places, and then resumed again, this time swelling a little more jauntily under Cordelia’s skilled manner. Y/N retired to an armchair, though she did not remain there long.
“Care to join me? I seem to find myself without a partner.” James offered his arm.
“I should warn you I do not dance well.”
“Neither do I.” James was lying and he knew it, but sometimes it was for the good of the situation.
As they rose to the floor, Y/N’s arms settled upon James’ shoulders and James’ found a home on her waist. The pair took a few moments to settle into each other’s company before they were dancing better than even the lovebirds, mainly due to James’ skillful leading.
“Y/N, you really are a natural.” Flossie remarked, arms still around Mycroft as she giggled and twirled like an excited schoolgirl. “Who else’s wedding have you been dancing at?”
James felt his companion stiffen slightly at the remark, and he thought he caught a brief expression of sorrow crossing her face, before she resumed her easy composure and laughed a little, though it didn’t reach her eyes.
“I’m afraid I can’t take much credit.” She admitted. “Though I should really be getting to bed soon. There are things to be done in the morning and Mrs Crowle wants me awake bright and early.” With that excuse made, she detangled herself from James and left the room in a fashion some might call similar to an escape. James sat back down on the sofa and an awkward air settled over everyone except Flossie.
“Was it something I did?” The girl asked, pausing her festivities.
“Don’t worry about it. She hasn’t been feeling well. I’ll check on her.” James lied, taking both of their glasses and leaving the same way.
When he eventually found Y/N, it was in the servants quarters. She was sitting on the slightly cooler stone floor, leaning back against one of the legs of her bed. She startled slightly at the opening of the door, hands reaching blindly for something, before she relaxed upon realising it was only James.
“I shouldn’t have left. I’m sure to have upset her now.” She remarked. “Only you have to understand that I panicked. I could not bear it.”
“Flossie isn’t upset with you, love. No one is.” He reassured her. “Now, do you want to talk about it or should I find out from Mrs Banks?”
The girl’s eyes widened. “What did Mrs Banks say?”
“Only that you hadn’t had much luck being on the market, as it were.” He watched her bury her head in her hands. “Now I can listen or you can tell me to fuck off. Your choice.”
“Sit with me a while.” She asked. She patted the ground next to her and he did. “About a year ago, maybe a little more, I was engaged. He was a few years my senior, awfully charming, not awfully handsome but he didn’t mind my being a serving girl, for in a house so empty as this was, I could fairly be considered the lady of the manor. I moved in with him shortly after our engagement though we maintained separate living quarters. A few weeks later, his wife returned. She had been sick and recovering in the country and I have no doubt that he had been hoping she would pass away. I was disgraced and ridiculed. I came back to this house and I have remained here since.”
“Do you regret it?” James asked quietly, as though he may drop the moment, leave the feelings scattered on the floor, ugly and jagged like glass.
“Can you regret love? I did it all and there’s nothing I can do that will change that now.”
“I hope you realise that while we are here, no harm will come to your reputation. I can assure you of that.” He took her hand in his in some meager attempt at comfort. She looked at him then, almost like she was holding back tears.
“I should go to bed. It is getting late.” She told him, and stood up from the floor. He followed and headed to the door.
“Goodnight Y/N.” He said, turning back in the doorway.
“Goodnight James.”
The next morning, the kitchen was blissfully silent, in one of those rare moments of calm before anyone wakes up. Y/N stood by the counter, kneading bread dough in the sunlight that came in through the window.
“What’s going on in here?” James’ voice broke the tranquil silence with its pleasing Irish lilt.
“I’m making bread. You can sit and watch if you like, though you may find it rather dull.”
“I’ll keep you company then, I suppose.” He settled himself on a chair and took out a newspaper, busying himself with it.
A few minutes passed in that fashion and had he looked up he would have seen the girl chewing on her bottom lip in a rather contemplative manner. Finally, she broke the silence.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.” James looked up. The girl hesitated for a moment and then shook her head.
“You’ll think I’m daft.” She said.
“No more daft than Sherlock, I’m sure.” The girl hesitated again.
“Would you kiss me if I asked you to?” This stopped James in his tracks. It was as if every cog in his brain was whirring at a hundred miles a minute, and yet no coherent thought appeared in his mind. Y/N clearly picked up on the change in the air. “Nevermind, it’s a daft request anyway.” She said, kneading with renewed vigour.
“It’s not daft, only- Why would you want to kiss me?” James stuttered.
“I seem to be going silly, only I’ve never been kissed before. Just wondered what it might be like is all.” She pointedly avoided making eye contact while she explained, incredibly focused on the view outside the window.
“It’s not silly.” He told her. She became suddenly aware of a presence standing behind her. “Would you really like me to kiss you?” He took her chin very gently in his hands, and angled it in such a way that forced her to look into his eyes.
He would have missed the quiet ‘yes’ had he not been so fixated on every movement of her mouth. But he was. So he did. And his lips met hers slowly, leaning in until they were sharing breath and slotting together like something inevitable, a magnetic pull finally finding its target. A hand cradling the nape of her neck like a wounded bird, another on her hip pulling her closer. A noise close to wounded slipped from her mouth into his, swallowed by the soft, languid movements of their lips.
“Well I suppose I’ll be making breakfast then.” The pair separated as though they’d been struck by lightning. A rather confused and slightly disgusted Sherlock Holmes stood in front of them, clearly concerned about how their actions were going to affect the sanctity of the homemade bread.
“Ah, Sherlock. You caught us at a bad time.” James sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck, a flush creeping up to the tips of his ears.
“What’s going on in here?” Beatrice asked as she strode into the room, rubbing sleep from her eyes and looking altogether more than a little bewildered.
“Y/N had something on her face is all.” James’ striking ability to lie quickly was somewhat concerning but functioned well enough for their purposes.
“It was James’ face.” Sherlock added, much to the embarrassment of the two.
“I should go. Mrs Crowle will need me.” The girl excused herself bashfully, a warmth spreading over her cheeks.
“You are an insufferable git, do you know that?” Beatrice admonished her brother, pinching his ear in much the way one might scold a misbehaving dog.
“I’m sure he knows only too well.” James countered.
“You’re not let off either.” Beatrice continued. “I have an eye on you and your intentions, James. Now go attend to your girl, I’ll finish the bread. How hard can it be?”