And If I Could Be Who You Wanted
Chapter Six: Life In a Glasshouse Part Two
James Moriarty x f!Reader
Summary: American reader is sent overseas by her family, but finds herself at Oxford instead of the family she was supposed to become a governess for. After becoming entangled in the alleged crimes of James Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes, a friendship, and maybe something more, blooms between the three of them as they work together to clear their names. (1.7k)
TW for mentions of suicide!
AN at end
gif by @inevitable-destruction
The woman raises her hand, her bony finger and long nail pointing at you, an accusation not yet spoken.
“Sherlock, who are… who are these people?” She asks, fear and anxiety coating her every word. She steps back, her hand reaching for the door handle behind her, getting ready to run. Sherlock rushes to her side, gently setting his hands on her arms, trying to calm her.
“No, Mother, these are friends of mine.” He says, extending his arm, gesturing at you and James. James slowly steps forward, hands outstretched to show he means to harm. He approaches like a person would approach a wounded animal, cautious and light on his feet, ready to escape if something goes wrong.
“Hello.” He says, calmly. “My name is James Moriarty.” The woman relaxes, her body releasing its tension in an instant. She puts her hand on Sherlock’s chest, nudging him away.
“Oh, that’s spectacular!” Her voice is soft and airy, contrary to how you had heard her speak just moments ago. She walks up to you and James, extending her hand. “Sherlock never had any friends growing up.” Her smile is infectious, lightening the air in the room. James shakes her hand, laughing slightly.
“Oh really?” He glances back at Sherlock for a moment before turning his attention to Sherlock’s mother again. “Well, It’s an honor to meet you Mrs. Holmes.”
Mrs. Holmes turns back to Sherlock, her eyes now unfocused and cloudy. The pace her emotions change is rapid, waves crashing down and replacing each other as fast as they had appeared. She reaches out to Sherlock, patting his shoulder and running up the stairs.
“Darling, do you hear that music?” She shouts, pointing at the floor above. “That’s you!” She disappears, leaving you, James, and Sherlock in the foyer. Sherlock looks down, avoiding eye contact with either of you, and hurries after his mother. You glance at James, words unspoken but still clear between you both. Mrs. Holmes wasn’t exactly sane. Both of your smiles fade, realizing why Sherlock had been absent for so long. He had been breaking his mother out of an asylum. You take a breath, and step closer to the stairs.
“Let’s go.” You mumble, grasping the railing. You reassure yourself, “It’s just Sherlock’s mother, and you’ve seen women getting sent away for something as small as speaking out.” It doesn’t fully console you, not addressing your larger fear. In another life, you could have been her, a deteriorating mind trapped in a world of the unforgiving, forgotten by society.
You follow Mrs. Holmes through rooms and hallways, watching her chase an imaginary Beatrice. She stops at a door, calling the girl’s name. Her voice becomes panicked, her eyes widening. Sherlock steps in.
“Perhaps we should sit down, Mother.” He says, his voice cracking and wavering like he was on the verge of tears. He leads her to a nearby bench, bending to be at eye level with her. She sighs, leaning her head back against the wall. Serenity finally settles back into Mrs. Holmes' face.
———————————
You watch out of a window as Sherlock runs out of the manor, calling for his mother. James is beside you fiddling with some old trinket he found in a nearby room.
“I wonder what it does to a person.” You say, James glancing up at you. “Being in an asylum, I mean.” You fiddle with your fingers, scratching the skin of your palm. You hardly notice, distracted by your rushing mind. James quietly reaches out, taking your hands in his own to stop you.
“I don’t know.” He quietly admits. “I’m not sure how much it helps, though.”
“It was- no, it is a fear of mine to be sent to a place like that. Every time I tried to speak my opinion, or disagreed with anyone, it was always there. Lingering in the back of my mind.”
James moves his hand over your’s, entwining your pinkies together. It’s a small action, barely noticeable to anyone but you. It communicates so much, yet stays so silent. It silences your racing mind, providing a small comfort for a moment. Your heart skips a beat, and you turn away from him, watching the sway of the trees in the wind. The clouds diffuse the sun's light, casting soft shadows across the terrace. It’s a beautiful afternoon, and you can only imagine what it would be like with the sun out. Sherlock and his mother approach the manor, and you reluctantly let go of James’ hand to help them inside.
“Let’s get you warm and dry.” Sherlock says, ushering his mother through the door.
———————————
Sherlock’s deduction about Professor Thompson, Shou’an’s escape, these had both brought you here. To Lawson Jaggers, Esquire. A building with the most pungent and disgusting scent wafting from its door. Sherlock had immediately gagged after taking a breath, pulling away.
“Smells… interesting.” He coughs.
James takes his turn looking through the letter box, pulling away just as fast.
“That’s repulsive.” You gag, covering your mouth with your hand. Your eyes water, the stench infiltrating all of your senses. Sherlock reaches into his pocket, pulling out a container of lock picking equipment.
“You all ready?” James mocks, smashing in a window and opening the door.
“There’s more than one way to skin a cat, James.” Sherlock sighs, covering his nose and walking through.
“And some ways of skinning a cat are more effective than others.” You mumble, voice distorted from holding your nose. Inside, flies buzz around you, nipping at your hair and clothes. The stench is even more putrid inside, a sickeningly sweet smell of decay and rotten flesh.
“Rotten flesh?” You think, eyes widening. You stiffen, the pieces falling into place. Flies, decay and the terriblely sweet scent? It wasn’t just any rotten flesh, you realize. You recognized it from your journey across the sea, when one of your fellow passengers died from pneumonia half way through the journey. It was the smell of human flesh. You hurry to the next room, following the buzzing flies when you see him, a man strung up from the ceiling, a noose tied around his neck.
“Oh my god.” You sputter, the shock of seeing a corpse, an old one at that, freezing you in place. Your stomach churns, threatening to expel your lunch.
“That’s the last of Jaggers, Esquire.” James walks past you, inspecting the body. Sherlock stays back, fighting the same shock and nausea you are also experiencing. James reaches out, delicately touching the corpse’s fingertips.
“Is that… blood?” Sherlock blurts, James stiffing the corpse’s hand.
“Sign of a struggle. He got in a scrap.” James is calm, so calm. It worries you how collected he is in the face of death, like it’s a completely familiar state for him. You don’t dwell on it.
“A rather…” Sherlock swallows. “Convinient suicide don’t you think?”
“Diaries. May have some records of your mother.” James tosses various journals Sherlock’s way, never taking his eyes off the body.
“Should we report this to the police?” You choke, using all of your strength to step into the room.
“And do their jobs for them?” James dismisses, searching the room.
Sherlock comes to your defense. “I have been suspected of a murder before.” He counters. “I would rather it didn’t happen again.”
“Seneca says the problem with this life is not that it’s short. It’s that we waste an awful lot of it dicking about.” James hastily walks out, and you follow him, eager to leave the revolting smell and crime scene behind.
———————————
You read and re-read the wire sent for Sherlock at the police station, panic setting in.
“They are coming for her?” You think. “They can’t have already found her.” James and Sherlock shout at the horses, yelling for them to go faster. You arrive at Appleton Manor with a commotion just inside the gates. Mrs. Holmes is screaming, strange men holding her by the arm. You jump off the carriage, racing up the steps. You make it to the top, James at your heels, just as Mrs. Crowle points a gun to the chest of a man with spectacles.
“Is the double-barreled 12-bore hammer gun not persuasive enough for you?” Sherlock says, stepping closer to the man. Mrs. Crowle cocks the gun, staring the man dead in his eyes. The man weighs his life, and calls for his subordinates to let Mrs. Holmes go.
“We’re only acting in her best interests.” He explains, eyeing the gun.
“You knew. You knew about the recordings, about Professor Malik.” Sherlock accuses, raising his voice with every word.
“You’ll have to ask him. I was merely paid to look the other way.” The man avoids Sherlock’s piercing gaze, looking anywhere but at the towering figure next to him. In a split second, Mrs. Holmes steps forward and slaps the man, hard, right across the face. You can’t help but feel a surge of pride as you watch her strike her abuser. Sherlock hugs his mother, stroking her hair and whispering apologies about his absence.
“Can I suggest that ye all respectfully fuck off?” James gestures down the stairs, and the ‘psychiatrists’ shuffle away, throwing hateful glances back up once and a while.
——————————
You sit in an armchair beside James, Mrs. Crowle setting a tray of snacks between you.
“Thank you.” Mrs. Holmes smiles, setting down her book.
“Did it feel good? To slap that man?” you ask, leaning forward. James copies your movement, resting his elbows on his thighs. Mrs. Holmes laughs, staring up at the ceiling.
“It was such a tonic.” She responds, James chuckling slightly at her words.
“So what now?” Sherlock asks glumly, cutting through the silly mood of the room. “We’re still no closer to figuring out why you were involved in any of this.” He trails off, just before there is a loud knock at the door. You four look at each other, sitting straighter. You are all weary to open it after today’s events, anxious of what may be behind it. Sherlock stands, quickly rushing to open the door. You can’t see what’s behind the door, but you hear a voice from behind it.
“Sherlock, my boy. I heard you had a spot of bother.”
————————————————-
AN: So sorry this took a bit long to come out! I got writers block (a terrible, awful thing) and I could hardly bring myself to write anything. I feel a little annoyed now because I timed myself and it took me 3 hours to finish this. 3. And I put it off almost two weeks. I think I need to start taking my adhd medication again.
OGOGMOGGOGMGOGM OMG OMG OMG
