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Evenings were dark on nights like this. Loneliness and worry to no end for the man she loves. Yet she can’t help but hate. Y/n cares so deeply about James. Glad he is finding a place to nurture his mind and educate him. He's smart, that's for sure, but seemingly unable to keep himself from trouble.
She was hoping he would do well. Graduate from Oxford, get a well-paying job. Her parents would approve. A nice little wedding could ensue. And if they're lucky, a few children to run around and play on the green grass of the Irish moors.
That's not James though. Levelheaded, certainly not, following any agenda, that's a double nope. But she can’t stop herself from loving him.
Y/n sits at the end of her bed. Brushing through her hair. She had seen the papers. The bold photo in black ink. James Moriarty, wanted for breaking a so-called murderer out of jail. Just when he had some chance he blew it, for some bloke named Sherlock Holmes.
She brushed her hair plenty, already silky between her fingers. Now just a habit to stop her from wanting to throw the brush as hard as she can at the wall. He is always so mischievous, yet she is always following.
Y/n is interrupted though, the cycle of brush through hair thrown off by the creak of an open door. She turns her head, she shouldn’t even be surprised. His curls disheveled, his shirt not buttoned all the way, the dried blood on his spilt lip, and most of all that cocky grin which hung on his lips. She should be outraged, she could picture herself hucking the brush at him and cursing. Though that would wake her parents down the hall. She's certain she should be upset, but all she thinks is ‘even when running from the cops, he made time for me!’
Utterly pathetic.
“Y/n, darling,”
He says, walking closer. Head held high as James kept his arms outstretched. As if presenting himself to her. A jester to a king.
“You have some explaining to do.”
She says with a huff, trying her best to stay stern and angry though her hearts practically jumping out of her chest.
“Yes, but first I must say I missed you so much.”
There it is again, avoiding the issue. She would press further but he sat on the bed beside her, resting his head on her shoulder. Looking up at her with those dark brown eyes. She also might add he didn't smell magnificent, but he surely looked it. He always did.
“No excuses James, you're running from the cops!”
She says, her words still slightly hushed. She hears him chuckle, deep and soft. His breath brushing against her neck, making her shiver.
“Well I'm certain they won’t look here.”
He says. His Irish accent twisting the words, melting like sweet honey from his lips. It always intoxicates her. He is simply her weakness.
He presses his lips against her neck, slowly traveling down her neck. Gentle for a man who had to fight off police officers just a few hours before. Her hands sift through his curls, itching to get closer. Without another word she is picked up and placed onto his lap. Hands resting on her hips, she can feel his smug grin against her neck.
“If they do find me here… I hope they’ll at least have the decency to let me finish first.”
She gasps as he presses his lips against hers hungrily. Like he's been starved of her for years. Moving his mouth against hers as she does with him. One hand pressing onto the back of her neck, holding her closer so he can press his tongue into her mouth. Both pressed together, mouths moving in tandem as they spill secrets through soft sighs and starving whines.
Warm bodies pressed together enough to create a fire through her body. One light enough to make evenings like this not so dark.