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.
february writing prompt masterlist // february prompt challenge list
Pairing: Jim Moriarty x Reader
Prompt: Cold water
Warnings: Moriarty deserves a warning of his own, mentions of a dead body/corpse, crime scene
[Request: Hey Connie I don't know if I'm doing this request correctly but from the February prompts 18. Cold Water with Jim Moriarty from Sherlock?]
A/N: I'm trying to make most of my writing gender neutral and inclusive (unless a specific request asks for a gender or back ground) so let me know if I haven't done that successfully! I'm open to being educated :)
When you'd been asked to assist Sherlock on a case, you had jumped at the chance. Admittedly, when you had originally 'retired' from the secret service and later your job as a private detective, you did not long for anymore cases. You were sick to death... Of death. You'd had enough of corpses and misery. When an old friend offered you a boring 9-5 job as an accountant, you had eagerly accepted. Back then, you missed the mundane, you missed the normal routine and you missed feeling safe and knowing your friends and family were safe.
However, that was over three years ago. Things had changed. And, while you still liked the routine and the comfort that a normal job brought you, part of you longed for the adventure and intellectual stimulation that Sherlock could offer you.
"You know when most people want to be challenge their brain, they play sudoku," John comments, looking over you and Sherlock as you sat on their living room floor, surrounded by case files.
"It's nice to see you too, John," you smile up at him, and he offers you a weak smile back.
"Are you sure you want back in?"
"Don't patronise them, John," Sherlock cuts him off, "I told them everything, and they can make their own decisions."
"Yeah, John," you smile and tease your old friend gently, "Besides: being patronising is Sherlock's job."
John rolls his eyes and Sherlocks comment, but can't help agree with yours. You knew he was just trying to protect you. This job had almost destroyed your psyche the first time, and he was just making sure you were truly okay with what coming back meant. You did; you were ready.
"I know where his body will be. And, I think he wants me to come alone."
"What the body?" John asks, confused
"No-"
"-Moriarty," Sherlock interrupts you and you nod.
"You can't go alone," John puts his foot down.
"I know," you reassure him, "We just have to make it look like I'm alone. I'll keep a tracker on my phone and have back up mic on my person. I'll tell you my location and I'll signal if I need help."
Neither Sherlock or John really like this idea, but you knew Moriarty wouldn't play the game unless you played it his way. Or, at least let him believe you were playing it his way. You took a deep breath: you hadn't seen James Moriarty in years, and you hated to admit it but part of you was a little bit excited at the prospect of seeing him again.
~~~
"You took longer to get here than I thought you would," Moriarty greets you, walking from the darkness of the woods near the lake you were waiting for him at, "Though, I'll give you the benefit of the doubt- put it down to you being rusty."
"Why thank you, you're such a gentleman," you comment, still looking out onto the lake and not making eye contact with him.
"I thought you'd enjoy this one," he continues.
Moriarty stands near you, barely a meter from you, and it almost sent a chill down your spine. He looks to the side at you before joining you in looking over the lake. A body of cold water like this in such a remote area was the perfect place to hide a body. You imagined Moriarty had weighed down the body, but you weren't ready to ask him about it yet. The ball was in his court- and you were waiting for him to make the first move.
"Not very talkative today, are we?" Moriarty smiles, "What's changed in the last few years, darling? That accounting job of yours hasn't dulled you too much, has it?"
"Asking a lot of questions for a dead man, aren't we?" you retort, and finally make eye contact with him.
"Ah, there's that spark. I can't wait to play this game with you."
Before you can process what's going on, Moriarty closes the gap with you, and takes your hand. You can't respond: you're frozen. He whispers something in your ear but your brain is working over time so you can barely hear him. And, within minutes, he is gone. Your body jolted back into reality, and you realise he has slipped something in your pocket.
Sherlock Preference: Them Catching you Singing and Dancing
A/N: Sorry for the long wait! Some of the preferences are just singing but some are dancing too. Enjoy!
Request: Preference with Sherlock, Mycroft, John, Moriarty and if you are open to it Irene Adlers reaction on catching their female crush singing and dancing to a song?
Gifs are not mine, I found them on google. Credit to owners/creators.
Sherlock
“What are you doing?”
The (h/c) haired girl turned to face him, a smile spreading across her face as soon as her eyes met his gaze. She put the clothes she was folding down and turned around.
Her voice wasn’t half bad, he supposed, but she was definitely a terrible dancer. She had only been swaying her hips but she had done it with as much grace as an elephant learning to walk.
“Dancing,” She said, “Do you want to dance with me?”
The smile on her face was almost enough for him to say yes. He kept a straight face as he looked at her. “No,” he replied, turning around so that she couldn’t see the soft smile that spread across his lips. She knew it was there though, as she watched him walk into the kitchen. She turned back around and picked up her clothes, the soft sound of her voice once again filling the apartment.
John
John opened the door of your bedroom, placing his jacket on the armchair that sat in the corner. He heard the sound of your voice coming from the crack in the bathroom door, its soft sound echoing around the room. He took a few steps closer so that he was only a few inches away from the door.
A smile spread across his face as he listened in on the voice that trailed out of the shower. You had a nice voice that complemented the song well, keeping in tune the entire time. It was the first time he had ever heard you sing and your voice had him stuck to the bathroom door.
He heard the sound of the tap turning off and the water stop running. He didn’t even pause as he leapt away from the bathroom door, hurrying to make it look like he had only just entered the room.
Mycroft
Mycroft looked up from the stack of paperwork on his desk and over to the girl who sat on the chair in the corner of the room. She sat with her legs hung over the arm of the chair, her head buried in a book that sat on her lap. She was muttering the lyrics to a song that had been popular in the 60s, her head moving from side-to-side without any conscious thought.
“Are you singing?” He asked, his eyes narrowing. She looked up from her book to meet his gaze.
“Yes,” She said before looking down again at her book.
“Hmm,” he mumbled, forcing his eyes to look back down onto the paperwork on the table. She was a distraction, but one he could never turn away no matter how hard he tried.
Moriarty
Moriarty opened the door to the room, the sound of the stereos blasting all around him. His eyes immediately fell on the girl dancing around the middle of the room, her hair swaying as she jumped up and down to the rhythm of the song.
She turned around, her smile already touching her eyes when her gaze stopped on him. She danced her way over to him, grabbing his tie and pulling him to the centre of the room. He bit his teeth in her direction, her eyebrow immediately raising.
“Come here,” he mumbled as he pulled her by her jacket towards him, kissing her full on the mouth. Her smile widened against his lips, kissing him back with as much urgency and passion as he had started with.
Irene
“What is that lovely voice that I hear?” Irene asked, walking into the room. A seductive smile played on her lips as she watched you turn around to face her. Her eyes followed the outline of your almost bear body, the thinnest of lingerie gracing your frame.
You smiled at her, your unruly strands of hair falling around your face. She stalked over to you, leaning down close so that your noses were almost touching. She closed her eyes, placing a kiss to the top of your collarbone, allowing her lips to linger over your skin for a while.
“Has anyone ever told you that you have an amazing voice?” She asked, her kisses beginning to trail down your collarbone until they reached your lips. You moved to wrap your arms around her shoulders, pulling her down onto the bed with you.
“No, but I like the sound of it.” You said between the heatedness of your kiss. She smirked against your lips.
The prompt: How do the boys handle summer vacation with their S/O?
Rating: K
SHERLOCK MASTERLIST
Sherlock Headcanons
Going on a summer vacation with Sherlock will be a struggle.
Mostly because he does not want to leave his beloved flat because the world is woefully boring.
Best way to entice Sherlock out on a vacation is to either 1.) go on your own and he’ll follow along like the lovesick puppy he secretly is or 2.) find an enticing case to lure him out. If doing the second be prepared for him to get heavily involved with the case and frequently sneak out to investigate. And possibly force John to come along.
That being said regardless of what happens when Sherlock is actually at the destination he’ll accompany you wherever you’d like to go (although if a case is involved he may leave halfway through and come back an hour later like nothing happened).
He may not be much of an activity person, but he loves you and wants you to be happy so he’ll indulge your desires with minimal fuss.
He’d enjoy seeing music shops, though. Especially one that handcrafts instruments like violins or violas.
His favorite part of the vacation will be seeing your happy face, though.
Going by train or boat will always be better than airplane. Sherlock gets antsy on planes and will be especially bratty if he has to be in close contact with strangers for a prolonged period of time.
If you absolutely do have to go by plane, be prepared to pay a little extra for roomier seats. Entirely worth it to prevent Sherlock snapping at someone and making them cry hysterically the whole way there.
He likes traveling by trains more than other mode of transportation because he likes to be able to move when he wants to.
Packs sparingly, only what he absolutely needs. This may or may not include his violin.
Will research the weather ahead of time.
Always prepared.
Mycroft
Mycroft isn’t that hard to persuade to take on a vacation, but it will be difficult to find an appropriate time with his work. It’ll definitely take months of planning in advance to coordinate it and a good amount of luck to make sure no huge disaster happens to cancel the trip.
He likes to take vacations in quiet, relaxing places. A lovely cabin in the mountains would be his ideal trip.
He detests crowded areas. If you want to go someplace bustling then he’ll of course come with you, but it’s really not his cup of tea.
That being said visiting authentic or local-exclusive restaurants will be his all-time favorite thing to do on vacation (aside from being with you, of course). He loves sampling and trying different kinds of foods.
Take him to a pastry shop and you will make his heart sing.
Inwardly, though. Outwardly he’ll smile at you that special kind of smile reserved just for you.
Big fan of indoor activities.
Please don’t make him go on roller coasters. They’re too… unclean and dull for him.
(Sherlock is enough of a roller coaster for him, thank you.)
He loves traveling by private jet.
Packs for everything.
“Why are you packing wolf repellent? We’re going to Paris.”
“You never know, my dear.”
Moriarty
Definitely the adventurous type when it comes to vacations. He lives for thrills and excitements, so a calm and relaxing vacation will make him lose interest pretty quick.
But he does love going to really gimmicky, or obvious tourist-attraction places and acting like a stereotypical tourist.
Plans parts of the vacation to surprise you, but doesn’t have every little detail planned out. Likes to be sporadic and random.
“Let’s go to Tokyo.”
“We just got to Paris?”
He loves shopping with you. Will buy anything and everything that catches your attention.
Definitely wants to explore everywhere you go.
Don’t be surprised if you wake up and he wants to go skydiving that morning.
Overall it’ll be a very energetic and probably exhausting (in a good way) vacation.
Likes to go by boats, surprisingly enough. If he can’t, then private jet is the only way to go. He hates traveling with strangers.
Doesn’t pack (except his phone). Buys everything when he gets there.
Disclaimer: I obviously don’t own Sherlock, credit to the owner of the gif
Warnings- Language, mention of blood and death, angst
Summary- Sherlock is faced with something that- in the end -will break him.
A/n- this is short af- sorry. I got bored in class and thought this up. If you guys like it and I get good feedback, I’ll more than likely make a pt 2. Thankyou for reading, I hope you enjoy. Constructive criticism is welcome, if you notice a grammar mistake please feel free to point it out. Requests are open.
She could feel them, the cold, ashen hands of death lightly pulling her into his comforting embrace. She could see it, the way his thin, bony fingers slowly covered her tired eyes, willing the lights to dim. She could hear it, his silent whispers- promising her the relief she so desperately wanted and, she could feel it- his fulfilling kiss. The world around her slowly came to a hauls. Allowing her heavy eyes one last glimpse of the ever fading world- she let go, giving herself entirely over to him.
-
The door opened- disturbing the cold silence that was 221b. Sensing that something was off, a baritone voice called out, “y/n-love, are you home?”
He began to remove the scarf from around his neck when a cocky yet- menacing chuckle caused his blood to run cold. Nervously making his way across the living room, he crept toward his bedroom. Reaching foreword, he gave a soft nudge to the door. As it creaked open, the color drained from his face, a sick feeling taking over. Collapsing to his knees, he took in the sight of her.
The sight of him.
“What did you do-“ his voice cracked as his eyes began to fill with tears.
“Oh sherlock, I told her to watch her mouth,” an exaggerated pout flashed across his face.
“Don’t be mad-“
“I’ll kill you, you-you bastard!” Choking back a sob, he looked toward the man, noticing the small flecks of crimson that stained his button up.
“Really? ‘I’ll kill you’— that’s so unoriginal,” rolling his chocolate eyes, he glanced toward her bloodied body.
“It’s a shame isn’t it?— now, if you’ll excuse me, I have somewhere to be.” Turning on his heel, his eyes met the barrel of a gun.
“You’re not going anywhere,” growled the gunman.
“Ah, John Watson, I was wondering when you were going to show up.”
He could practically feel the strokes being created on his arm. Really, this soulmate business was a nuisance. He had to be careful about what he wrote on his skin, if the ink from his notebook would transfer over to his flesh- whether or not he caused his soulmate to hate him before they even met. And before you ask, yes. The world’s most nefarious criminal mastermind was worried about what his soulmate thought of him. Heck- he had been since he was a child.
Most people’s soulmates didn’t become set until their teens, and therefore, most kids didn’t have little pictures of stick people and abstract kittens drawn on their arms. No, it’d only been him. It was… comforting. His soulmate always seemed like such a happy and loving person, and in his darkest days, he would sit and watch the colorful doodles stretch across his skin while his father drunkenly destroyed what little he had to call ‘home’ in the background. He’d let the drawings take him far away, to a place where someone cared for him. His soulmate.
Now, he played off the drawings as that “soulmate-nonsense” to anyone who asked, and well, too. Sebastian was positive that Jim didn’t even believe he had a soulmate, that this was just a phenomena that people convinced themselves was more than it was. That was, until he witnessed Jim photographing a particular set of drawings on his arms, smiling to himself like an idiot. It was really quite telling. He wished he could stop himself, but- he couldn’t. Each work of art adorning his flesh was a reminder that, out there, somewhere, was you. With the most gorgeous handwriting he’d ever seen. Sometimes, with a very precise hand, he’d go over each letter, practicing the carefully constructed lines as if his life depended on getting them exactly right. He’d sometimes even sign off using the calligraphed letters.
The idea itself, he thought was idiotic. The idea of your skin showing up with the marks your soulmate made on themselves seemed stupider than anything else in the world. Yet, he chose to believe the pathetic rumor. But that was because it was, well… you. He didn’t exactly know who you were, but the random doodles and drawings you made was all he needed.
But that’s besides the point. The point is, you were out there. Whether he met you or not, you were out there. But that was the thing…
If you were out there, he had to be very careful what he wrote down on his skin.
“I don’t know, they haven’t written anything in a while.” You giggled at Mariah. She’d been your best friend since preschool and if there is one thing you can always remember you guys talking about, it was your soulmate.
“Oh crap—what if they’re dead?! Before you two even had a chance to meet!?” She cried, clearly horrified by the idea. It wasn’t unheard of, actually… it was tragically almost common. Then again, it was just as common for a person’s soulmate to have another person as their soulmate. Just like love could be one sided, so could a soulmate.
It wasn’t like you had to worry about that, it was proof enough that you two were each other’s when they would trace your words.
“I don’t think they are, Iah.” You said, sighing softly as you rolled your eyes. She had a way of reading too much into things, this was actually the fifth time she suggested they might be dead. She went to try and argue, when you suddenly felt the usual tingling on your wrist.
“Wait—I think they’re writing something?” In all the years you’d known you had a soulmate, never once had they written something first…
“Hold on one second—no, Mr. Crump, I’m not trying to ignore you, just let me find some paper-!” Jim was still scouring around. This wasn’t good, if he didn’t figure something out soon, he’d lose the client. And a presidential candidate who wanted to conspire outside their country wasn’t a client he was willing to lose. Without thinking, he wrote down the request on his forearm as the man was saying it.
“Yes, My men will handle it right away—yes sir, thank you.” Jim ended the call, and sighed in relief. That relief was soon replaced with an utter feeling of sickness as he looked back down at his arm. Right beneath the looming sense of doom;
“Russia dignitary + win guarantee… American election rigging… 10,000,000 quid’? What. The actual. Hell?” You stared at the words on your arm, suddenly feeling something pressing into your opposite palm, as well. Your jaw dropped, looking at the words that had appeared there…
“Shite-” Jim cursed as he looked at the imprint he’d just left on his hand from the still drying ink, '3 billion pounds for disguised explosive—nitroglycerin base.’
“Y/n, what’s wrong?” Mariah asked, seeing your utter panic. The message was quickly being clouded, like they were panicking to get rid of it, but the damage had been done. You tried to stand, but your legs immediately gave out beneath you.
“I-I can’t- I can’t believe this…” It had to be some sort of nightmare… right?
