My Weakness- Moriarty x Reader Chpt. 2

“Ohmygodimsosorryididntseeyou-“you began, trying desperately not to mumble incoherently like you did when you were embarrassed.  

But you were cut off by a cheerful, Irish accented, “it’s alright, it’s alright no harm done!”

The man was already on his feet, holding his hand out. He stood there, a slight smile on his face.  You immediately started to analyse him. His dark eyes watched you with a curiosity that was slightly unnerving, but there was something deep within them that wasn’t quite right. He hadn’t shaved for two days. His suit was exquisite, Westwood judging by the weaving of the material. Whole outfit rounded out with a crisp, white shirt and a complementing black tie with little skulls on it. Right handed at first glance due to the fact that he was holding out his right hand, but upon further analyses it became apparent that he was ambidextrous due to the smudged graphite on the side of his other.  He cared about his appearance, his sleek black and purposeful stubble evidence of this. Sophisticated, yet upon considering the small amount of dirt under his fingernails implied that he was no stranger to getting dirty.  

The man sighed, a bored look replacing his curious one.  “Come on, my arm’s getting tired,” he whined, wiggling his fingers in front of your face.

You took his hand cautiously and he lifted you to your feet.  “Thanks,” you mutter, lifting your (e/c) eyes to meet his.

His smile widened as he moved to kiss your knuckles. You struggled to hide the blush spreading across your cheeks, pulling some of your (h/l) (h/c) hair in front of your face in an attempt to cover it. He pulled away just as his phone started ringing; Stayin’ Alive by the Bee Gees. He mouthed an apology, then skipped away to answer it. You just stood there, not knowing what to do with this situation. You could leave, but the idea of leaving your back exposed to him made you a little uneasy. He was nice enough, even charming. But you knew too well that looks were most often deceiving, almost everyone was hiding some dirty little secret. But that was the point, EVERYONE had secrets, and that happy little Irishman was just that, a man. Plus he was an interesting case, and Holmes’ loved interesting cases. You decided to wait, a feeling of intrigue washing over you.

It took a few minutes, but he eventually came sauntering back. But he didn’t look happy. His lips were pulled back into almost a snarl, and there was a dark glint in his eyes that didn’t look human. He stopped in front of you, leering at you for a moment. You stared back, but it was like his eyes here drilling holes into yours, and you could almost feel the pure hatred radiating of him.  He suddenly blinked and the glint was gone. He flicked his gaze to the ground, a frown forming on his face, and mumbled something.

“Pardon?” you asked, leaning in a little closer.

He didn’t answer; he just thrust a piece of folded paper into your hand and hurried away.

It was your turn to frown now, looking from the paper and back to him until you couldn’t see him anymore. You bit your lip thoughtfully, and unfolded the note.  You grinned as you read the elegant swirls of his handwriting that simply stated, “Here’s my number, so call me maybe?”  with a series of digits trailing after it.

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You skipped up the steps of 221B, stopping outside the door. You looked at the doorknocker, which was straight. Sighing you opened the door, knowing that Mycroft was up there waiting. But so was Sherlock, and his apparently adorable flatmate, which made you grin.  Excitement suddenly pulsing through your veins, you bolted up the stairs. Having almost tripped half a dozen times, you made it. You fidgeted with your clothes, not being able to sit still. It had been years since you had seen him, your partner in crime, and now he was just a piece of wood away. You closed your eyes, and knocked on the door.