Pairing: Moriarty x Reader
Warnings: Bit of depression, mentions of bullying, and a gunshot wound (barely a graze).
A/N I posted this earier, but it didn’t, I suppose. I posted this last Sunday actually, for a prompt contest, but it’s whatever. It didn’t work, so I’m so sorry for the delay, and I’m sorry to the host of the contest, as well. I should’ve checked.
Normally, you abided by every rule. It was like an obsession to always be the perfect little angel. So when people had found out you were… involved with a criminal, they couldn’t believe it. Actually, many thought it was a sick joke Moriarty was playing- the last little piece to his great game… the kindly assistant of Mycroft Holmes who always kept her head down, and always aimed to please.
Your boss was not happy to find you were the beneficiary of about 90% of Jim’s personal effects. Pretty much the only thing you didn’t “inherit” was his criminal web and his “small” arsenal. But you weren’t happy, either. Because if you inherited his effects, that meant he was gone. For good…
Of course, people had questions when they had first found out- not all of them pleasant. And you still heard whispers about yourself whenever you left the room. Especially around this time of year. The anniversary of his death, of the day he left you for good. Sometimes, if you concentrated hard enough, you could block out the whispers of your “betrayal” and replace them with the dancing, irish-kissed words.
Of Jim whispering in your ear, “Come’ere, Angel, I missed you today,” and could practically feel his lips press to your cheek. “I’m the Napoleon of Crime, Darling, what do you expect?” After you saw a particularly nasty photo or heard an exceedingly heated exchange. You’d swear you could feel the heat of his hands on your shoulders as he tried to calm you… it’d never been his strong suit, but you thought it was a bit sweet. Sometimes.
Today wasn’t one of those times. Today, your coworkers’ words ricocheted around your mind like a .22 caliber bullet. They’d gossip about all sorts of things. Not-so-quiet whispers talking about how you were a traitor to your country for loving that man. They’d reason with each other that you’d been tricked, because a psychopath like him couldn’t love. That you’d been manipulated for his own sick entertainment. They’d ask how you could love a man with so much blood on his hands, but no matter how you answered, you knew they’d never understand.
Maybe that’s why you just stayed, and listened to their words, letting each one chip away at you. Maybe if they got deep enough, you could break the “spell” Jim had put you under. Just like this time every year, you stumbled back to your flat, choking on your tears as you tried to convince yourself they were wrong, or that they just couldn’t understand.
Your blubbering cries were stopped when you saw the lights of your home on, even though you’d turned them all off that morning. Slipping your gun out of your purse, and lifting it to aim, you slowly pushed the door open to find a man standing by your mantle, covered mostly by shadows. Before he had the chance to turn around, a loud BANG echoed through the walls, and a short yelp as the bullet grazed his shoulder.
“Holy hell, Angel- what was that for?!” Jim clutched his barely bleeding shoulder, palm getting splotched in thick crimson liquid.
“Y-You’re- You’re dead!” You proclaim, swearing your mind was playing tricks on you- that this man couldn’t be your Jim. No, your love had killed himself on the roof of Saint Bartholomew’s hospital four years ago- to the day.
“So you shot me? What made you think shooting me was a good idea?!” He hissed, sitting himself down on your loveseat. It wasn’t a severe wound- heck, it wasn’t even that deep. He’d been shot many times before, and this one was barely bad enough to leave a scratch. What hurt was the fact that YOU shot him…. his little Angel. Your bottom lip quaked, eyes welling up with more tears, like the day’s hadn’t already been enough. His suit was just as crisp as the one he’d been wearing when you last saw him, minus the small traces of blood leaking onto his sleeve. His hair smothed back, almost as if it wasn’t single strands but one solid piece. He was the exact same man he was all those years ago. He was Jim.
“Jim?” Your breath was thick with disbelief. The sound of his name caused him to look up at you with those same puppy eyes he’d had upon waking up in the mornings, and his lips curved into a gentle smile, reserved only for you.
“Yes, Darling?” Sobs escaped your lips as you stumbled over to him. In response, he stood to greet you, eyes sparkling with a certain glee. Once he was right in front of you, the scent of irony blood mixed with cedar and mint from his expensive cologne engulfed you in it’s sweet presence. You crashed into his arms, violently sobbing as you clutched onto him like he was your lifeline. With his free hand, he softly rubbed your back, setting his chin on your head, and letting you cry it out. “I hate you, you complete and utter arsehole.” You grumbled, causing him to vibrate with laughter. He tsked a few times, and brought his lips to your temple, pressing them firmly against your skin. Despite his weak arm, he managed to pull you slightly closer. “I love you, too, Angel.” Because despite what anyone thought, he’d missed you more than anything- maybe even more than you’d missed him. “Now, let’s get this arm fixed, yeah?”