My Weakness- Moriarty x Reader Chpt. 7

3am, time to get up. You opened your eyes quickly and sat bolt upright on the couch, wiping the sleep from your eyes. Yawning, you stood, smirking at the fact that your body clock had woken you up precisely when you needed to. Still dressed in your attire from the date, you glided effortlessly through the main room and into the bathroom, even though it was pitch-black. You had selective photographic memory, meaning that you could remember the appearance of anything you wanted, providing you found it meaningful.

Closing the bathroom door softly, you removed your clothes a jumped into the shower, sighing as you breathed in the steam. After almost falling asleep several times, you padded out of the shower and dried off. You shared Sherlock’s affinity for staying up late and sleeping till noon, so only having about four hours of sleep made you very unhappy. Still it needed to be done, and you couldn’t do it any other time. Yawning again, you were pleased to see that Sherlock had touched your bag that was still lying on the bathroom tile. Searching through it, you pulled out some loose-fitting jeans and a black hoodie, then made your way out and through the door of the flat, grinning to yourself. This was going to be fun. It took you many hours, but you made sure you were back before first light, slumping on the couch once again.

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“(F/n).”

Groaning, you rolled over onto your stomach, covering up your head with your arms in defiance.  “No. Go away.”

Sighing, Sherlock reached over to you and pushed you off the couch, your body landing on the floor with a soft thump. “What the hell did you do that for?” you yell, jumping to your feet and narrowing your eyes at him.

“Give them to me,” he told you, sticking out his hand and waggling his fingers in front of your face. “Now.”

You smirked, your anger about your rude awakening melting disappearing for triumph to replace it. “Sorry, what was that? I do not know what you mean, brother dear,” you answer, your eyes shining with mock innocence.

Sherlock looked at you, his face screwing up with impatience, his hands fidgeting with the sleeves of his blue robe. His curly locks were in disarray and there were bags under his eyes. And he just couldn’t keep still. It was, in every meaning of the word, hilarious. “My nicotine and caffeine, where are they?” he snapped, walking away from you quickly so he could pace around the room, nearly slamming into an amused looking John as he did so.

“You’re going to have to be a little more specific.”

Sherlock, spun around to you, his slender fingers tangling up in his dark curls. “My tea!” he yelled, “My tea, my coffee, my cigarettes, my alternate buzz other than solving cases and then next to getting high. Where. Are. They?”

“Ohhhhh,” you say, fake realisation spreading across your smug face, “them. I first I intended to hide them,  but then burned them in the skip outside instead.”

He gaped at you, while John laughed hysterically in the background, you joining in with him. Sherlock, looking at both at you with disdain, then stamped away and flopped onto the couch, curling up into the foetal position and groaned. You chuckled, walking over to him as he sulked and patted his head. “There, there Sherlock. Tell you what, if you apologise and promise never to get involved in my romantic life again, I’ll go and buy some more for you.”

Just as Sherlock was about to answer you, the door was flung open by a very irritated-looking Mycroft. “Where is it?” he asked, holding his hand out to you.

“Where is what, brother mine?” you reply, enjoying how your siblings reacted exactly the same way.

He huffed, running a hand through his hair his equally messy hair, “My umbrella.”

You giggled, offering him a small shrug. “Dunno. Around here somewhere, I’m sure.”

Mycroft sighed, walking over to the couch that still had Sherlock sulking on it, and mumbled for him to move over.  For once Sherlock did what Mycroft asked, sliding up into a sitting position but pulling his legs up to his chest. Mycroft was slumped there, hands folded across his chest and a frown plastered along his brow.  You couldn’t help but laugh, they looked like misbehaving children, but then again that’s exactly what they were.

“Did she?” muttered Sherlock to Mycroft.

“She did,” answered Mycroft, hanging his head.

“I’m sorry, (F/n) what did you do?” asked John from his chair,  clearly enjoying watching the Holmes men squirm way too much.

“Well, Mycroft has this little mental tick that everything in a room has to be straight. The furniture, the paintings, everything. So when he annoys me, I break into his estate and move everything five centimetres to the left. And when I mean everything, I mean every chair, every art piece, every single item that can be moved will be moved. It takes a long time but the end results are worth every drop of sweat and every stain in my muscles. I also take his umbrella for good measure.”

“It took me hours to correct everything,” Mycroft said miserably.

John’s reaction was perfect; he actually fell of his chair from laughter. Grinning at him, you turned your attention back to your brothers, you were both staring at the floor. “Now, what did we learn?”

Sherlock sighed, lifting his cloudy eyes to meet yours, “That we shouldn’t pry into your romantic life.”

“And that we are truly sorry for upsetting you and we shall never do it again,” Mycroft finished, offering you an apologetic smile.

“Excellent, it appears you learnt you lesson, gold stars for everyone,” you say approvingly, leaving for a few moments to retrieve their items.

You return with Mycroft’s umbrella in one hand and a plastic bag in the other. You tossed Mycroft his item, his face lighting up with joy as he caught it. He stood, gave you a hug and kiss on the cheek and waltzed away and out the door, making you giggle at how out-of-character stress could make him. Beaming at Sherlock you threw him the bag; which contained all of his confiscated items. He frowned at you and you rolled your eyes. “In case you’re wondering, I didn’t burn them.”

He scoffed and stuck his nose in the bag, breathing in the combined fumes deeply. He sighed contently, and stood. “Excellent. You can have this back now,” he says, handing you your phone before he scurried away to the kitchen to make tea.

It was your turn to frown now, turning your phone on. Five missed calls and multiple messages, all from Jim them. Sighing, you walked over to Sherlock’s violin and began to dismantle it, humming a little tune as you pulling out the strings.