Summary: Surrounded by luxury and chaos, you tell Jim Moriarty the truth he never expected to hear.
Jim Moriarty had a habit of making entrances.
Sometimes it was noise, sometimes silence, sometimes a grin that promised disaster.
Lately, it had been gifts.
They arrived without warning.
A velvet box left on the kitchen counter.
A silk garment draped across your chair.
Jewellery so fine it felt almost absurd in your hands. Diamonds that caught the light and fractured it, sharp and beautiful and impossibly expensive.
You did not need to ask where they came from.
Jim watched you every time you opened one.
Not subtly. Never subtly.
He leaned in doorways, sprawled across furniture, eyes bright with anticipation as though he were waiting for applause.
“Go on,” he said once, bouncing on his heels. “Try it on.”
You did. Because refusing outright felt cruel, and because there was something strangely vulnerable beneath his theatrical pride. He wanted to impress you. Needed to.
“They suit you,” he said, voice softening just a fraction.
“They’re beautiful,” you replied, honestly.
But beauty was not the same as comfort.
The gifts kept coming. Rings. Necklaces. Dresses that whispered against your skin. Shoes that cost more than most people earned in a year. Each one a declaration, loud and glittering.
You began to feel buried beneath them.
Late one night, you found him alone in the living room, lights low, counting something on his phone, probably money he would never miss. A fresh box sat on the table beside him, still sealed.
“You’re awake,” he said, glancing up, smile immediate. “Perfect timing.”
He pushed the box toward you.
“Jim,” you said quietly.
He froze, just a little.
“You didn’t even see it yet,” he replied, half joking, half defensive.
You sat across from him instead of reaching for the gift.
“I need to talk to you.”
His grin flickered.
“That sounds ominous.”
“It’s not, I just don’t want to do this anymore.”
His fingers curled against the table.
“Do what?”
“This,” you said, gesturing to the box, the room, the quiet accumulation of luxury. “All of it.”
Silence stretched between you, unfamiliar and heavy.
“I thought you liked them,” he said finally.
“I do. But that isn’t the point.”
He tilted his head, studying you, eyes sharp now.
“Then what is?”
You took a breath. This was harder than you had expected.
“You don’t need to buy me, you don’t need diamonds to make me stay. Or love you.”
His expression shifted, confusion giving way to something rawer.
“I’m not buying you, I’m giving you things.”
“I know, but it feels like you’re trying to prove something.”
He laughed, short and brittle.
“Of course I am. That’s the whole point.”
“Why?” you asked.
He opened his mouth, ready with something clever, something flippant, then stopped. The answer caught in his throat.
“Because it’s what people understand. You give them things. You make yourself impressive. You don’t give them a reason to leave.”
Your heart twisted.
“I don’t need any of it,” you said, reaching across the table, touching his hand. He stiffened but did not pull away. “I just need you. The parts of you that aren’t polished or shiny or terrifying.”
His eyes searched your face, as if looking for the trick, the hidden punchline.
“You’re saying, that all this,” he gestured vaguely, “is unnecessary.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re still here.”
“Yes.”
The silence that followed was different. Fragile. Honest.
“You know, “I’ve never been very good at believing that.”
You squeezed his hand.
“I know, Jim.”
He looked down at your joined hands, then back up at you, something almost shy flickering through his usual bravado.
“So, what if I like giving you things.”
You smiled.
“Then give me time. Or sit with me like this without trying to distract me with diamonds.”
He snorted softly.
“That sounds dangerously intimate.”
“Exactly.”
He leaned back in his chair, exhaling, tension draining from his shoulders in small increments.
“You’re infuriating. Do you know that?”
“You adore it.”
“I really do.”
He pushed the unopened box aside and stood, pulling you up with him, arms looping loosely around your waist. His forehead rested against yours, no theatrics, no audience.
“I don’t know how to be enough without excess,” he admitted quietly.
“You don’t have to know yet. Just don’t hide behind it.”
His arms tightened, just a little.
“I’ll try. For you.”
And for the first time, the room felt lighter without the glitter.
