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One night only II

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Disclaimer: slight canon divergence from the show, tension in the air, romantic interest or enmity, and fiercely proud characters. Love Triangle??? Love Square???

James Moriarty x f! Reader

a/n: If there are any errors, they are purely human. Keep in mind that this is originally written in Spanish and then translated into English using a translator.

It goes without saying how unforgettable that night turned out to be, though I wouldn't know whether to label it a wonderful coincidence or a sort of supreme justice of fate. Perhaps his words at that moment were quite accurate; maybe it was indeed in our fortune to see each other again. Nevertheless, I would have never thought it would be under these circumstances.

Throughout the entire dinner, I remained with an impassive face from the moment the newcomers crossed the door and sat down under Mr. Holmes's cordial invitation. Evidently, I was not the only one bewildered by the sudden presence of these people, and I find comfort in that idea somehow. Shortly after, the rest of the guests resumed the conversations that had been left half-finished and interrupted, but I could not stop staring intently at the plate in front of me. Mr. Sherlock, a friend of James and Mycroft's younger brother, was distractedly conversing with the latter's solicitor; meanwhile, I could sense out of the corner of my eye James looking at me skeptically, drinking the Chablis almost as if it were water.

I had not spoken another word since the polite greeting toward James. Neither of us expected to find ourselves in this situation, or at least that was how I felt on my part. Sherlock did not notice either how his friend, seated beside him, had not opened his mouth since his scandalous entrance. Or simply, he did not give it enough importance. In principle, and under the brief theoretical practice my father had given me on the way in the carriage, you cannot know someone without having had prior contact. Despite this, and thanks to his preparation regarding the Holmes family and acquaintances, I was already starting to form an idea of what Sherlock might be like or how he might think. On the other hand, Moriarty was like a blank slate.

Unable to bear the agitation I was feeling any longer, I decided to face it. I raised my eyes from my plate to look at him, and just as I was about to utter a word, I was interrupted by him.

“Have we ever met before?” James says with hesitation as he sets his glass down on the table while licking his lips. He had left me perplexed with his question; had he really asked me that? Or was it just his way of starting an informal conversation in front of all the guests?

“Pardon?” I limit myself to saying, still dumbfounded by the question he had asked me.

“Forgive me if I sound impolite, but I haven't been able to stop gazing at you since I arrived, and I could swear I had seen you somewhere before,” he declares with a smile of pleasure upon seeing me react that way. I limit myself to observing my surroundings, paying attention to whether any of the guests or my father had heard that statement, but everyone was occupied with their own matters. And after that, I face him with a firm smile.

“I appreciate the compliment, but I think I would remember a face like yours if that were the case.” I limit myself to questioning his statement cordially while taking a sip of my drink. James nods, whether understanding my words or not, and simply looks toward my father with curiosity before looking back at me with a raised eyebrow.

“Perhaps I was mistaken, and it was not you whom I thought I recognized,” Moriarty replies, staring at me intently with a serious expression. I nod while maintaining appearances in front of him, while inside I am a bundle of nerves.

“Then allow me to introduce myself; I am James Moriarty,” James hastens to introduce himself while raising his half-empty glass.

“Y/N L/N,” I introduce myself as I return his greeting, and we both take a long sip from our respective glasses. It goes without saying that right after that introduction, I barely touched my plate and just drank. Dinner continued normally; James did not hesitate to take advantage of his position as a polite guest and began to establish a conversation with me in which it felt a bit as if he were interrogating me by the way he asked certain questions.

“What is your favorite hobby? Do you usually frequent gatherings or opera evenings on weekends? Are you fond of outdoor walks, or do you prefer the solitude of the library? Have you previously met our distinguished hosts at any other event?...” These were some of the questions he asked me throughout the night, to most of which I limited myself to responding concisely while putting on my best face at the time.

Fortunately, dinner ended and made way for our paths to separate once again; Mr. Holmes led the gentlemen to the smoking room, while the few women who had accompanied these men remained in a parlor. The ladies gathered to play whist while criticizing their marriages; on the contrary, I limited myself to pacing around the room, observing every detail of it. After spending some time walking around the room, a maid approached from where she had been standing impassively, catching my attention. I tilt my head, allowing her to convey whatever she was about to say.

“Young Mr. Holmes requests your presence in his study,” she simply whispered, and once the message was delivered, she prepared to leave the room. I hesitated a bit at the information; one part of me, the voice of common sense, told me not to go, but my impulsive side begged me to leave that parlor. Ultimately, I chose to leave the room; outside in the hallway, the same maid was waiting for me, and I followed behind her up the stairs until reaching the end of the corridor. The girl knocked on the door, announcing our presence, and it was not until a voice behind the door said, “Come in," that she opened the door and stepped aside to let me pass.

I entered a cozy room filled with scientific equipment, books, and maps all around; in a corner of the study, under a window, a tea area had been set up, and in its center stood a desk somewhat cluttered with papers. Sherlock was sitting in its chair writing something on a piece of paper, while Moriarty was leaning on its edge pointing something out to him. Once I entered the room, the men stopped what they were doing to stare at me, like someone catching a thief in the act.

“Did you send for me?” I asked with my head held high, curious about what they were up to. The maid closed the door behind her and left us alone; Sherlock cast her a confused look while James smiled at him with feigned innocence. Confirming my suspicions about the motives behind the meeting.

“It must be an unfortunate mistake, but I have not requested your presence, Miss L/N,” Sherlock confesses after a moment and stands up with the intention of dismissing me from the study. To which James grabbed him by the arm to stop him.

“Unfortunate or not, since you are here, Y/N, wouldn't you like to have tea with us?” he interrupted, turning his attention to me with utter confidence, making me think it was not the first time he used his charms to get what he wanted. And I couldn't help but think about how much of his charm he had invested in courting other women; my stomach turned a little.

“If it is no trouble,” I finish as I head toward an empty chair located next to the window. If Sherlock wanted to throw me out or protest about it, James did not allow him to carry out his plan before sending him out of the room while reminding him of his role as co-host and his responsibility to personally handle the matter of the tea. Which left two complete strangers alone in a confined space from which I had no escape.

Moriarty sat beside me in the adapted area, closing the distance; he had a relaxed appearance and seemed a bit lost in thought. Unlike him, I was tense and a bundle of nerves, waiting for his next move.

“How have you been tonight, Selene? Or do you prefer I call you Y/N?” he finally asks while looking into my eyes with amusement. I cannot help but let out a nervous laugh; Moriarty was no ordinary man.

“Whatever makes you most comfortable, Moriarty,” I limit myself to saying; at this point in the story, it was useless to try to deny it or run away. So I face it the same way.

“Then I shall call you Y/N; well, will you tell me what is going on, or will I have to find out my own way?” he remarks as he leans toward me from his seat, resting on the armrest.

“Is that annoyance I perceive? Are you truly angry because I tricked you?” I did not know if it was the tone I used to annoy him or because I did not react as he expected, but he clearly looked a bit annoyed.

“Annoyed is not the word I would use to describe how I feel,” he confesses, trying not to seem annoyed. “Besides, I am no fool. I knew you were lying to me,” he declared arrogantly.

“And what were the clues that gave me away?” I questioned while brushing it off; if I showed curiosity, I was sure the man's ego would soar.

“To begin with, the name Selene is not a common name for a girl, let alone a maid,” he explained while gesturing with one hand to emphasize the obvious. “Only someone educated with access to documents about Greece would name herself after the goddess of the moon."

“Could she not perhaps be the maid of an academic and have learned by listening to him?” I say, questioning his hypothesis. James casts me a skeptical look.

“Of course, only if the maid had not been dressed in silk and wool poplin, slightly striking colors, and handmade embroidery details—then perhaps I would have believed it,” he joked while looking into my eyes. I looked into his as well, and inside them, I saw a spark different from the one I had seen before. Satisfaction.

“My... and to think I believed my plan was flawless, yet I was so predictable,” I finally acknowledged in disappointment at his explanation.

“Exactly, you were very predictable,” James nodded arrogantly. I rose from my seat and walked over to a frame containing a butterfly, hiding my face from him.

“And despite that, you approached me to help me, and we spent the whole night talking,” I ventured to say in a neutral voice while observing the details of that majestic species, while suppressing my feelings, awaiting a response.

“I may have been a bit tipsy, but I remember helping you and talking to you,” he declared, smiling, unaware of my change in attitude.

“Then you knew from the very first moment that it was me, and you didn't tell me. What you confessed to me in the street that same night—was it true? Did you want to get to know me, or did you just want to mock me once more?” I questioned him, my tone steeped in anger. I felt naively ridiculous; that night I would remember for the rest of my life that I had been ruined by believing that fleeting encounters were like those in books, when the reality is that they are not.

When Moriarty finally noticed my change in attitude, his face, which previously reflected delight, darkened, and before he could contradict my words, Sherlock interrupted into the room carrying a silver tray.

“I hope you enjoy the Young Hyson¹, Miss L/N. I prepared it myself,” Sherlock remarks as he walks toward the table by the window, ignoring the thick atmosphere of discomfort.

“Forgive the intrusion, Sherlock, but I must take my leave,” I declared as I composed myself; out of the corner of my eye, I could appreciate James frowning at my words.

“Oh… that is a pity, but I suppose if that is what you wish, I shall not insist,” Sherlock replies with sincerity in his words.

“Y/N. I…” James tries to say, but I interrupt him by taking a quick leave and walking out the door. In the entryway, I found my father and Mr. Holmes talking animatedly in the foyer. It was Mr. Holmes who first noticed my presence.

“Oh! There you are, Miss L/N; we were just speaking about you,” Mycroft confesses with a smile. I put on my cheerful face and approached them; my father cast me a quick critical look before putting on his mask in front of Mr. Holmes.

“I was telling Mr. Holmes how much you enjoy playing the piano,” my father confirms in a proud tone.

“I suppose you must have also told them about the many headaches my early displays of great piano talent caused you and Mother,” I joked, remembering how much I used to hate piano lessons.

“No, he did not mention that, but he did comment on how crestfallen you look whenever you have to leave your London home to go to the countryside,” Holmes says with a genuine smile as he observes me attentively. My joke had amused him, unlike the expression on my father's face.

“In our country house, we do not have a piano due to an incident with leaks a few years ago, and since then, I haven't had time to order one with my prolific political life,” my father confesses in an embarrassed tone, as if he genuinely cared about my well-being. I have been nothing but a nuisance since I was born, and he hasn't hidden it since.

“I try to fill my time with other activities, but it isn't the same,” I commented, feeling a sense of guilt for lying so blatantly to Mycroft.

“Y/N is a good girl, but I worry about leaving her alone for so long, and I always try to have her accompany me to my social events whenever I can.” If my father were not a politician, he should take up acting, because even I almost believed his words. The one who truly believed it was Mr. Holmes, who grew thoughtful.

“I understand what you mean; I have a younger sister, Beatrice. And ever since she began traveling the world, I haven't stopped worrying about how she is. Perhaps Miss L/N might be interested in a bit of company once Beatrice returns from Rome,” Mycroft finally suggests timidly as he awaits my answer.

Behind me, I hear the sound of footsteps; I turn my head slightly and see James standing at the top of the stairs, watching us solemnly. I smile to myself.

“It would be a great pleasure to meet your sister, Mr. Holmes,” I respond enthusiastically while touching his arm, and I quickly compose myself, pretending to blush at the gesture. Mr. Holmes does not seem bothered by it and instead laughs nervously.

“Wonderful. I shall send a letter with the details,” Mycroft responds, slightly blushing.

My father said nothing regarding the matter; we hurried our goodbyes and took the carriage back home. My father did not utter a word to me, nor did he make any disparaging comments about my attitude. Which was a good thing, as I had no desire to argue right then and could only think of how quickly I would lock myself in my room. Upon reaching the house, our housekeeper, Mrs. Smith, attended to us and helped remove our coats. Father went straight to his study while muttering a few quick orders to Mrs. Smith, and I simply went upstairs to my room while wishing her a good night. Upon entering, Clara was waiting for me to help me undress. I sit at my vanity, letting my shoulders slump forward; I did not care if Clara saw me looking so ridiculous. With her, there was no need to maintain appearances.

“Good evening, Miss. How was the evening?” She asks politely as she helps undo the tight hairstyle I wore that night. It took me a moment to respond, unsure of whether to sweeten the truth or not.

“To be honest, it was interesting. Yes… interesting,” I reply briefly while playing with the hairbrush in my hands. “There were many people; Mr. Mycroft Holmes was there, his brother Sherlock, and…” I murmured until my words turned into a barely audible whisper.

“Who was there?” Clara asked curiously, arranging my loose hair and helping me out of my evening gown.

“There was…” I murmured to myself again. Clara looked at me doubtfully and paused her task of undressing me to face me directly.

“Who was at the party, Y/N?” Clara asked seriously upon seeing that I kept delaying my answer.

“James Moriarty,” I whispered with dread over how she would react to my words, awaiting her understanding.

“The young man from the Green Man?” she asked thoughtfully; after reflecting on it for a moment, her face turned to one of panic. “The young man from the Green Man!?” she shrieked in annoyance. I nod nervously, not knowing what to say. “I told you it was a bad idea, I told you the truth always comes to light, and now we are doomed,” she scolds me as she paces nervously around the room.

“If it offers you any comfort, I am more annoyed than you are about the matter,” I say as I finish changing into my nightgown and throw myself onto the bedspread. Clara stops pacing to see me sigh.

“And why is that? I thought you would be happy, at least a little, to see him again, despite the circumstances,” she confesses with concern as she sits on the edge of the bed; I look up at the canopy of the bed and cover my face with a pillow out of embarrassment, remembering everything that had happened.

“I thought the same; I thought I would never see him again after that night, and when I saw him enter the room, my heart grew restless. I thought I was going to faint,” I managed to say against the pillow. A brief pause causes Clara to gently pull it away from my face, looking concerned.

“However?” Clara asks. I sit back up and sit beside her.

“However, I cannot live off a memory, and the best thing I can do is be objective with my expectations,” I explained while trying to sound mature.

“Are you practically going to ignore what you feel?” Clara ventures to say with a frown. “Very English of you,” she confesses as she gets up from the bed and brings over the washbasin.

“Thank you,” I limit myself to ignoring Clara's sarcastic tone and wash my face.

“I just hope none of this blows up in our faces, especially now that Moriarty knows who you are,” Clara complains as she gathers her things and stands in front of the bedroom door.

“Don't worry, it won't happen,” I reassure her as I get into bed with a book. Clara simply nods and leaves the room, leaving me alone in the dark of the night with a lamp illuminating my reading. After a while, I grew tired of reading and decided to go to sleep; unfortunately, I couldn't stop tossing and turning in bed. I couldn't drop the subject of James; that idiot had played with me. I was just another victim of his conquests, another anecdote to tell the gentlemen, and I hated how it made me feel.

Unfortunately, it took me a while to return to normal after that night.

As Mycroft promised, he sent a letter to our house inviting us to spend the afternoon at Appleton Manor to celebrate Beatrice's welcome. My father was ecstatic at the news; he sent Mrs. Smith to accompany me to buy countryside attire and spent an entire afternoon instructing me on how important it was that I did not disappoint him. Perhaps it was the first time he bothered to say more than a single word to me; unfortunately, it was only to tell me that. A part of me was excited by the idea of interacting more with Mycroft; the night of the dinner he didn't seem like a bad man at first glance, and I believe we could be good companions if we were to marry. However, a part of me, which always attempts to shine through my thoughts, couldn't stop thinking about Moriarty. Damn it! The image of his gaze that first night in the alleyway appears, and I cannot help but blush.

Why did Mycroft have to be the brother of the rebellious Sherlock Holmes? Why did Sherlock have to be the way he was and be friends with James Moriarty? Why couldn't Mr. Moriarty stop clouding my mind with his presence and vanish from my sight?

It goes without saying that until that day, I did not stop walking, walking, and taking in the fresh air in the vast garden of my home as my way of escaping the world. As for the piano, I didn't even bother looking at it; I couldn't play a single note without losing focus. And the closer the day came, along with the possibility of perhaps crossing paths with him, an idea took root inside my head. I had to be flawless, unattainable, and above all, majestic. Make him regret his actions. Perhaps I was letting myself be carried away by pride, but the moment my foot touched the grounds of Appleton Manor, I knew it was already too late to back out.

I walked alongside Clara up to the front door and knocked on the knocker several times, waiting for someone to answer. After a short wait, an elderly lady opened the door.

“Welcome to Appleton Manor, I am Mrs. Crowle. You must be Miss L/N?” the older woman asks politely as she lets us in.

“Indeed, ma'am. I hope you do not mind, but I have brought my maid, Miss Smith. I dislike traveling alone, and I hope she can assist you in any way possible while I am visiting,” I commented as I took in the grand foyer of the house; at first glance, no residents were visible nearby.

“Miss L/N, you are a darling; you didn't have to go through so much trouble,” Mrs. Crowle quickly excuses herself.

“I insist. Besides, Miss Smith is delighted to help,” I contradicted with a kind smile.

“It will be an honor, ma'am,” Clara limited herself to saying, nodding out of respect. Mrs. Crowle laughed in delight at our charm.

“In that case, I was about to prepare tea and refreshments. If you follow me, I will guide you to where the others are,” the woman explained, bowing slightly and showing us the way through the huge mansion. After walking for a bit, we stepped out into the rear garden, where everyone was gathered on the terrace.

An elderly lady was sitting on a stool painting a still life of a table set nearby. Mycroft was standing at a distance watching Sherlock and a stunningly beautiful young woman with brown hair playing chess intently. The sound of our footsteps alerted Mycroft, who looked up from the board and smiled at me upon seeing me standing in the doorway.

“Miss L/N, welcome. How was your journey?” he asked as he approached me.

“Mr. Holmes, thank you for receiving me. My journey was tolerable, but it was worth it upon seeing this beautiful scenery,” I indicated with a smile while appreciating nature.

“Please, call me Mycroft. I feel uncomfortable being called Mr. Holmes,” Mycroft apologizes, smiling kindly.

“In that case, you may call me Y/N,” I respond in kind.

“Mycroft, dear. What kind of manners are those?” says the woman, having risen from her stool. Her dress for spending time in the garden was stained with oil paint spots from her artistic activity.

“Mother, forgive my manners. This young lady is Y/N L/N, daughter of MP L/N. Y/N, this is my mother, Cordelia Holmes,” Mycroft introduces us kindly. I attempt to shake her hand, but Cordelia interrupts me.

“My dear, it is better if we leave greetings for another time,” showing me her hands, which were also stained. I nod, and she takes her leave to wash her hands.

“Since when does Mycroft have friends, Sherlock?” asks the girl who was playing with Sherlock as she approaches us alongside him.

“Since never, but we could certainly find out, sister,” Sherlock replies in the same mocking manner.

“Y/N, surely you remember my dear brother. He was at the dinner that James and he abruptly interrupted,” Mycroft replies, slightly annoyed by his siblings' teasing; I laughed. So this is what having siblings feels like…

“It is a pleasure to see you again; I hope my brother's monologues do not bore you enough to prevent you from staying awake until dinner,” Sherlock replies, picking on his elder brother once more.

“And this right here is the guest of honor, my sister Beatrice Holmes,” Mycroft announces, ignoring his brother's words.

“Delighted to meet you, Miss Holmes. I have heard a great deal about you,” I greeted cordially.

“And yet, I know nothing about you. We must catch up if I want to make you my ally in annoying these two,” Beatrice replies politely with a wink. I laugh before her words and nod. “Now that we are all here, we can play croquet, right?” she asks, looking at her brothers.

“I agree, but we must wait a moment,” Sherlock interrupts, looking inside the house impatiently.

“Who are we waiting for?” I asked, curious and a bit nervous.

“Forgive my lateness, but I took the wrong path and got delayed a few minutes,” announced a voice behind me. I turn around to face him, and standing with his casual air at the doorway is James Moriarty. He stares at me with an arrogant smile.

“Y/N,” James simply let out. I look at him with confidence.

“Moriarty.”

The game has begun.

¹ Young Hyson: Early-harvest green tea, valued for its freshness.

a/n²: Can we talk about me being such a people-pleaser and single-handedly trapping myself into writing a fanfic that’s clearly not going to be just 2 parts but a whole series? Also, why do I love writing dramatic characters so much? I hope you like it, and please be patient with Y/N!

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