Fleeting Impressions | J.M.

4: james moriarty

Of course, just when my day couldn't get any worse, the weather decides to not be on my side.

I woke again at an ungodly hour this morning because, once again, I couldn't sleep. The rumbling of thoughts and a certain someone kept popping up in my head. It's no wonder I couldn't sleep when all I could imagine is his eyes piercing into me.

I was so close to knowing more about my mystery stranger, when he decided to throw me for a loop. I've always been able to read everyone around me. What makes him different. Are my feelings blocking my normal thought process?

Then the thought of that other man comes to the forefront of my mind and I add a scoop too many of sugar to my tea. I'm going to need it in this horrendous weather. I slip on my coat and out the door of the cafe.

It's been a long shift at the ice cream shop and I only worked five hours, but my mood made it drag considerably. That other man.

Who was he? A boyfriend to the Irish man? Just an acquaintance? No, it had to at least have been a close friend.

He was taller than my Irish man. Lighter brown hair and striking eyes. Kind of cute.

I sign and burrow into my coat, a heat is spreading in my chest, but it's not quite anger. I imagine the scene again from the grocery store where they lean in towards each other.

Am I... jealous?

No. That's preposterous. Holmes don't get jealous. They don't even catch feelings for someone. This is just an infatuation on why I can't read him. Yes, that's it. That's all it is. I'm just curious.

I turn the block, dreading my normal route home that takes at least 30 minutes to walk on a good day. But it's raining, and the sprinkle that I saw through the cafe windows has turned into a downpour. Lovely, London.

A black car starts down the opposite direction I'm coming, slows down next to me before coming to a complete stop. I pretend to not notice. But my mind is conscious and body is poised and ready. The car reverses to parallel itself to me before a back door swings open.

An Irish accent flows from the inside, "Well, get inside. We wouldn't want you to be catching a cold, Delia," there's my name again. Sounding all wrong from his lips. The way he says it, it's like he also knows. I turn toward the car.

And I walk right in.

Closing the door I turn to the bright eyed stranger. His Westwood suit secured around his lean body once more, and I have to admire him for a moment.

Yes, the only reason I got into the car was because I was cold. And it was raining. Not because of his slicked back hair and his powerful aura.

I look to the front and see the tall gentleman from the grocery store. I can't help but scowl. And the man next to me laughs.

It's almost demonic, slightly psychotic, and all too childish. But I crack a smile anyway. It's also really contagious.

I wonder why he is sitting in the back if his lover is up front? But I don't get a chance to dwell on it when he asks me a question.

"Did you miss me," he leans forward and the laughter is gone from his face, wiped clean to an impenetrable mask that I once again cannot read.

"You didn't come into the shop today," I say instead.

"That didn't answer my question," his voice turns dark and his brown eyes darker. His hand falls on my leg and he pulls it over, my thighs falling open with the force. The driver rolls up the partition.

I pretend it doesn't effect me, but my breath hitches in anticipation. "What's your name," it comes out more breathless than I would like.

He creeps his fingers higher. Mid thigh now. "James."

"James," I breathe out, testing the name on my tongue and I find that I like it. It suits him. Just like Westwood, and mint chocolate chip, and peaches.

"Oh, my, I love it when you say my name," his hand is dangerously close. His body leaning into me so I can feel the heat. Too close. I can't think.

It feels like he's taunting me. Name. Name. Name. He is always saying Delia like a curse and mentioning name like a threat.

His hand cups my core and I lose though. "James," I practically moan out before I can stop it. What is wrong with me? I'm like a school girl again, shy and putty in his hands.

I snap my legs closed and slide to the other side far away from him. I hear his sigh of disappointment.

His face blank once more. I wonder if this is all an act to him. Does he enjoy playing with my emotions? Winding me up and dragging me around? I can't be sure.

Without my James-induced daze, I finally feel the that car has stopped. For how long it has been, I don't know, but at this moment I want to leave. I need to get away from this man.

Reaching for the door handle, I am stopped by his large hands on my arms. He turns me to him again.

"Maybe we can get ice cream together some time," his plays with a piece of my hair, his grip tightening until he fists the piece in his hands. And for once, I feel fear in his presence. His eyes gleam in satisfaction at the fright in my eyes. He gives my hair another tug. "Maybe this time I can get Napoleon, whoops, I mean Neapolitan."

As soon as he left me go fully, I am out of the car and running for my door. I swear I can still hear his deranged laugh even after I get inside.

And for once, I am able to deduce something about James.  

Either he is really good at hiding his crazy, or he is a psychopath. And I would bet anything on the later.

He knew where I lived, he purposefully slipped up on the word 'Neapolitan'.

My lovely little Irish man is not so perfect anymore, he is James, the Napoleon of Crime.

For once in the past year and a half, I wonder if I should contact my brothers.

They would know what to do.

I could know everything about James with Mycroft's files.

But why do I feel like it won't be that easy.

—-
Authors note:

This has 1111 words. That is very pleasing to me. If you want to find other fan fictions relating to Sherlock, click on the tags that I have on the description page. You can easily find stories similar to mine.