His ransom - Moriarty x Reader

Will you play for me?

      I opened my eyes slowly. Judging by the light pouring on the bedroom floor, I deduced it was already at least 10 AM. I hated to sleep late, but that day, I was grateful for the resting time I had gotten. I got up too fast, causing me to fall back on the bed. I let out a groan when the throbbing pain from my right side spread to the rest of my body. My muscles were heavy, and I was bleeding because of the missing part of skin on my ribs. I walked towards the bathroom to try and clean the wound. I let the clear, cold water wash the painful memories from the night before. I then picked a new outfit in the wardrobe. I decided that black trousers and a white shirt would do. I opened the door, trying not to make noise. I wandered in the corridors for a moment. I ended up in a huge dinning room ; I was amazed by the place. It looked like a castle from a fairytale. But what got most of my attention was definitely the piano resting on the red carpet. I hadn't played for months, but still felt the same love for the instrument. 

"- Good Morning, miss. Mr Moriarty left early, but he asked me to bring you breakfast."

      I turned around to discover a man about 30, holding a tray with a typical French breakfast. I gave him a huge smile when he left it on the table and got out. I realized it would be the first thing I'd eat since Moriarty had visited me at Sherlock's flat. I grabbed a croissant and ate it faster than I thought I would. There was also hot chocolate and other pastries I was used to. The food was so good I wondered if he made it come directly from France. I didn't know what to do. I felt like the piano was calling my name, but I was afraid of Moriarty's reaction. Maybe he didn't want me to touch it. I certainly didn't want to spend another night tied up to a chair. I let my fingers run on the leather seat. I would maybe regret it later, but oh well. I sat in front of the piano. I was still half asleep, so I started to play slowly "Clair de Lune". I had learned it in France during all those years I had spent away from every person I knew. I then played "Pour Chopin". It was one of my absolute favourites on the piano. I was getting faster and faster, but suddenly, I stopped. He was there. I could feel him, standing behind me, waiting. I didn't turn around. I couldn't look at him in the eyes. My hands were shaking and silence filled the room.

"- Why did you stop?

- ... I, well... Didn't ask if I could play. I thought maybe...

- I didn't know you could play the piano. Will you play for me?"

     I looked up, confused. He was so changeable. He sounded like a child. I wasn't thrilled by the idea of having him close to me, but I didn't want him upset. I knew what would happen if I made him angry. I reluctantly moved to let him sit next to me. Some would expect a man like James Moriarty to have a cold body. The type that would freeze you to the bone. I did, until just a few days ago. But he was not. I could feel the heat through his pants, against my thigh. He was waiting. I tried to control myself and keep my hands from shaking. After all, he was in a good mood. I knew exactly what to play. "The Last Rose of Summer". I was hoping an Irish melody would preserve his nice attitude. He closed his eyes, listening carefully until I played the very last note. My hands were resting on the keyboard when he suddenly opened his eyes and took  one in his. He dropped a soft kiss on the back of my hand. Every single muscle in my body tensed up. Jim probably noticed it, because he smirked. Not letting go of my hand, he stood up, pulling me.

"- I want to take you out for diner tonight. Is it alright ?"

      Ha. It was obviously not a question. 

"- Sure.

- Good. Wear something fancy, and be ready at 8PM.

- There's only fancy clothes in the wardrobe, you know that, right?" I chuckled.

      I instantly regretted my familiarity. I just couldn't help it. Something about him made me feel ... accepted. That was ridiculous. The man was a murderer, a psychopath, and when I was with him, I felt like I could be my sarcastic self. Even though he wanted to show how powerful he was, I knew he liked to be contradicted. By me, at least. But maybe, for once, I could listen to what I was told and... play his game.

"- I have some more work. You can do whatever you want. That doesn't include running away" He smiled.

      I was not used to seeing him smile. Ever since I had discovered his true identity, I could never completely get away from the cold, hateful killer. But when he smiled, he seemed different. Like the man I had met. The sweet, caring guy.

"- Will I be allowed to ask questions, sir?

"- As many as you want. If you call me by my first name."

      He left the room silently, just like he came in. I had much time on my hands, so I decided to explore his house a bit. I got lost many times before entering the hugest office I had ever seen. Who could possibly need that much space to work? I hesitated before sitting in the big black chair. His desk was covered in papers of all sorts and colors. I went through all the mess, looking for something distracting. My eye got caught by a familiar name in a corner. My own. I Grabbed the file and opened it. Pictures of me with Sherlock. Me when I lived in France. My phone number, a list of my favourite things, my fears, people I cared about. He knew me better than I did. How was I supposed to fight a man like that?

      Moriarty knocked on my door at 8PM. This almost looked like a normal date. Except my date was a criminal. He looked at me for a moment and led me to a cab waiting outside the house. The ride was short, so I deduced we were not too far from central London. He was sitting a few inches away from me. He smelled good. I wished for a second he was not... what he was. I wished he was a regular man? But what did I expect, huh? That a man would actually care for me? Of course not, why have y/n Holmes when you can have the great Sherlock instead? Before I knew it, a tear had rolled down my cheek. I missed Sherl, but I was also so angry at him. >For ruining 5 years of my life. For getting me into this. Now I was trapped with his enemy, used as a bait maybe, or an hostage that'd be executed when the time was right. Moriarty noticed my tear. I faced him, my eyes lighting up.

"- Why don't you just kill me now?" I spat, slightly more violently than I had planned to.

"- Do you want me to?" he simply replied.

"- Maybe."

      I read something on his face. Something new. 

He leaned closer. I tried to hide to goosebumps covering my body as he put his hand on my thigh. It was wrong. All of it. I wished these goosebumps were the expression of my hatred and disgust. 'You have always been attracted to danger', Sherlock had once said to me. 

He was right.

      And who better than Jim Moriarty could embody danger?