The Devil's Charm (James Moriarty X Reader)

• four •

You stood there silently on the pavement for about twenty seconds, your heart still beating incredibly fast. What if they're not home? What if Sherlock doesn't want to see me? Oh god this was a stupid idea. I should never be spontaneous. Idiot, idiot, idiot!

Then you heard footsteps thumping inside the house. You froze, and swallowed back your anxiety. You were breathing so hard that your lungs almost hurt.

Then the door swung open and you stepped back, heart in your throat.

Standing in the doorway was not Sherlock, but a little old woman.

She had short, feathery, slightly grayed brown hair and was wearing a cream-coloured shirt, a gray cardigan and a long gray skirt. She smiled pleasantly as she looked at you, her red-painted lips stretched around rather large white teeth. She had an air of enthusiasm and politeness that you immediately liked; you found yourself smiling despite your anxiety.

"Hello, dear," the woman said kindly, her wrinkled hands clasped together. "I don't think I've seen you before. I'm Martha Hudson, the landlady."

"I'm Y/N Y/L/N. I'm, uh, here to see Sherlock? Sherlock Holmes?"

"Oh, yes, of course dear. Are you a client?"

Client? You swallowed again, scratching your shoe on the concrete. "N-no. I'm...an old friend." That word - friend - bit at your throat as it travelled to your mouth. He never called me his friend...not once...

"Oh!" Mrs Hudson exclaimed with much excitement. "An old friend, are you? I wasn't aware that Sherlock had friends besides John. Well, you'd better go and see them then. Their door is the first one up the first flight of stairs."

John?

The old woman stepped back, allowing you over the threshold into the relievingly warm building. You shut the black door behind you, handbag bumping your side, then gave Mrs Hudson one last smile before hurrying up the creaky wooden stairs to the first, small landing.

You stared at the door in front of you, heart pounding. You took a deep breath and knocked, the wood rough on your cold knuckles.

"Come in!" yelled a male voice you didn't recognize. Even as a teenager, Sherlock's voice had been deeper than that. Is that John, then? Sherlock's...friend?

You squashed the envy and resentment brewing in the pit of your stomach and opened the door, cringing at the icy doorknob as you turned it.

The apartment was small, as expected, and bathed in sunlight that poured through the windows. The room held both clutter and interesting decor in equal proportion; your eyes flicked from object to object until they rested on a short, handsome, middle-aged man sitting in a cozy-looking armchair by the fire. He had a round, pale face, prominent dark circles under his deep blue eyes and prematurely, slightly grayed hair. He was wearing a white jumper and blue jeans and looking at you with an expression of polite curiosity.

He blinked, then got up and shook hands with you, his curiosity having evolved into a warm smile. "Hi, I'm John Watson. Are you one of Sherlock's clients? I don't remember him mentioning anyone coming today..."

"Uh, no," you choked out, retracting your hand. "I'm not a client, but I'm here to see Sherlock. I'm-"

"Y/N?"

A deeper voice sounded quietly in the room, and you raised your head to see Sherlock Holmes standing beside the armchair, wearing a black shirt and jeans with his hands behind his back. His face was tall and pale, his curly dark brown hair sprawled over his forehead like you remembered from high school.