playing with the boys (moriarty x reader)
- Reads 1,045
- Votes 9
- Parts 19
MatureOngoing47m
Last published Mon, Jul 22, 2019
this story does not coincide with the storyline.
I own nothing in this apart from Elizabeth and William ♥♡♥
THANKS FOR READING SWEETS! ♥♡♥♡♥
All Rights Reserved
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PREQUEL TO Mental: Sherlock x reader x Moriarty ~~~ 𝔚𝔦𝔠𝔨𝔢𝔡, ℑ𝔫𝔰𝔞𝔫𝔢, 𝔊𝔢𝔫𝔦𝔲𝔰 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔇𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔩𝔶 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚀𝚞𝚎𝚎𝚗, 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙷𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛, 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙲𝚊t 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙶𝚒𝚛𝚕. 𝚃𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚞𝚙 𝙴𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚙. Ͳհҽ చօղժҽɾӀąղժ çɾҽա. ~~~ Get a sneak peak into the life of the worlds most notorious unknown killer. Y/n L/n is the queen of hearts, watch her deal with fitting in a new school where she makes friends with the soon to be consulting detective and soon to be consulting criminal ~~~ All Sherlock characters belong to BBC and Arthur Conan Doyle Other characters belong to me Y/n belongs to youComplete
221B Baker Street was not supposed to be my final destination. It was a pit stop. A temporary, financially questionable decision in one of the most expensive cities in the world. A place to exist quietly. To keep my head down, drink overpriced coffee, and avoid unpacking my emotional baggage. Then I met Sherlock Holmes. And quiet ceased to exist. One minute, I was just a tenant in a slightly dysfunctional flat. The next, I was the unwilling documentarian of absolute madness- ✔ Sherlock, the world's only consulting detective, who refuses to function like a normal human being. ✔ John Watson, who has reached new heights of exhaustion thanks to said detective. ✔ Mrs. Hudson, who is not a housekeeper but absolutely runs this place like a benevolent overlord. ✔ Molly Hooper, the forensic pathologist who is finally terrifying Sherlock (to my endless delight). ✔ Mycroft Holmes, who controls the British government but, more importantly, cannot figure out why I exist. ✔ Lestrade, who shows up mostly to suffer. ✔ And Rosie Watson, who is officially my tiny, all-knowing best friend. I am not a detective. I am not a hero. I am just the one thing Sherlock Holmes cannot deduce. My name is Safa. I babysit Rosie for extra cash, I document Baker Street's chaos out of sheer pettiness, and I gloat about my food just to drive Sherlock insane. I tell myself I don't belong here. That I am still just passing through. But the thing about living at Baker Street? You don't realize you're home until it's time to leave. And for once, Sherlock Holmes never saw it coming.
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