The Villain's Lover

I was lucky to have a lazy day for once. Somehow, I managed to spend several hours curled up in my favorite dark blue armchair, reading everything that I could get my hands on, whether it be Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets or Bank Robberies for Dummies. There was always something interesting to read in Jim’s house, but nine out of ten of those interesting reads involves evil in some way, shape or form. He kept a nice collection of storybooks too; novels, fairy tales, children’s books, the like. This was where I liked to spend my time, reading through old stories of creepy villains and rambunctious heros. Every once in a while, I’d come across a dog-eared colume that was full of little pen scratches and footnotes—something that Jim found ‘inspiring.’ These made me giggle. As much of a genius as he is, he can’t think of everything on his own.

“Knock knock!”

My eyes flickered upward at the enthusiastic sound of Jim’s absurd voice, before glancing back at the page I was reading. “Nobody’s home!” I shouted, trying not to laugh.

“If nobody’s home, then who’s that talking to her precious Jimmy?”

I rolled my eyes as he swept through the door, planted a kiss on my forehead, and strutted toward the kitchen. “How was your day?” I reply sarcastically.

“Disastrous.”

“Oh really?”

He snickered. “Not for me, of course. My latest client wanted me to push her husband off a cliff. Apparently he’d been sleeping with her high school nemesis.”

“And that’s the most creative death she could come up with?” I shot back with a smirk.

“Oh, ordinary people. If only they thought like you.” I examined my fingernails, listening to Jim ramble. “It’s always ‘help me, my husband’s cheating’ or ‘help me, the government’s after me’ or ‘help me, I need to cover the mysterious disappearance of whatever I stole’ or ‘help me, I need more money!’ Money, money, money! These idiots don’t care about anything else!”

His voice had risen to a shout, and I rolled my eyes again, fully accustomed to these ridiculous outbursts. “You tell me, Jim, what else is there to care about?”

I could practically hear him frowning, making that traditional Moriarty-is-a-puppy-dog face. “Fun,” he whined. “Making yourself a nice image. Being sexy. Like me.”

“Of course,” I chuckled.

“Alice, you’re mocking me.”

My fingers tapped a tango on the spine of my freshly closed book. “It’s so fun. And so easy, when you do your little ‘I’m a puppy dog, I’m so sexy’ act.”

“But I am sexy.” He strutted back into the living room with two cups of tea in his hand and leant on the doorframe, his dark eyes wide. “Right?”

“Yes, you most certainly are,” I purred, putting my book down. He handed me my tea—dark, with only the tiniest dash of sugar—and our hands brushed briefly. His skin was cool. “Why else would I put up with you?”

He snorted. “I could pay you.”

“I’m not one of your clients.”

“I could bribe you in another way. I could threaten you, I could drug you, I could tie you up and—“

I chuckled rather suggestively and batted the air with one carefree hand. “That would require quite a lot of work, Jim.”

“It’d keep me entertained.”

“And I don’t do that on my own?”

The same cool hands started to flutter through my hair, twisting the blond locks in random circles again and again and again. “Of course you do. Even Sherlock was never as interesting as you. You’re so ordinary and yet so… entertaining.”

“Well, it’s a good thing that Sherlock’s dead now, so that I can have you all to myself.”

Jim snapped a single strand of hair off of my head, and I didn’t bother to wince. He liked messing with my hair; for whatever reason, it fascinated him to no end. “Yourself and my clients.”

“Forget about them! They’re just clients! It’s not like they’re strippers or anything.”

His arms looped easily around my neck, and he hugged me in an oddly gentle display of affection. “And that’s why I keep you around. You’re free!”

“And mentally stimulating. It’s not like strippers make you solve a riddle before they give you a lap dance.”

I giggled at his pouty face. “Their riddles would be easy, anyways. They’re strippers. They’re boring.”

I stood up, shaking Jim’s arms off of my shoulders, and added the newly-finished book in my hand to the tottering stack next to my armchair. “I like books,” I mused softly, not really to Jim but just in general.

“Maybe I ought to start you a library as well.”

Surprise lifted my well-groomed eyebrows. Though I knew that Jim liked to have me around, it was a relationship built mostly on need and sex; if I ever uttered the words ‘I love you’ he’d blow a hole through my brain faster than I could say it again. That’s just how we worked. I needed company and a safe place to stay, and he needed someone ordinary, someone relaxing, to have around when he needed a break from his hecticly boring life. But sentiment of any kind was strictly forbidden beneath Jim Moriarty’s roof (just look where it got his precious Sherlock Holmes!), and gift-giving generally implies some sort of sentiment toward another being.

“Alice?”

I shook my head to clear my mind. “I like that idea. Libraries are nice. Especially ones that don’t contain entire sections devoted to ways to kill someone with seemingly non-dangerous household objects.”

He chuckled. “I know you have that section memorized.”

“Yes, and I could drive a pair of tweezers up your nose faster than you could say ‘that’s my brain, Alice darling’.” He was right; I knew more about creative murdering techniques than almost every one of his clients. Mostly, this was for protection, since there was always the threat that another Sherlockine client might come along and actually figure out where Moriarty lived. However, there was the slight off-chance that he would someday get angry with me, and only a miracle would let me live to tell that tale.

“Of course you could. Are you going to drink your tea?”

I rolled my eyes and turned my back to him in order to grab the teacup, flipping my long hair over one shoulder in the way I knew he liked. One sip of the tea revealed that he had spiked it with something alcoholic, most likely in an attempt to get me drunk, but hadn’t bothered to hide it. “Really? Alcoholic tea? I didn’t think anybody would ever think of that. Of course, nothing is beyond Mr. Moriarty the Odd,” I called over my shoulder.

“Oh. You noticed.”

“What kind of idiot do you think I am? I know what you’re doing. You could have just said ‘hey Alice, I’m bored, let’s have wild crazy drunk sex’. You don’t have to be all sneaky about it.”

He repeated his pouty face as he slipped his chin onto my shoulder, hugging me briefly from behind, and I noticed that he had removed his jacket to reveal a crisp, well-kempt white dress shirt. “It’s more fun that way,” he whispered in my ear; that voice would give anyone else the willies, but I simply cocked an eyebrow and took another sip of the whiskey-tea.

Obviously frustrated by my silence, Jim pushed me away jokingly and stormed off into our bedroom in the most childlike way possible. Smirking to myself, I finished the tea, feeling the tiny buzz of the burning whiskey, and peeled off my sweatshirt. As if he had stripping detectors implanted into his brain, Jim whisked back out of the room, once again leaning on the doorframe with his hands behind his back. He was clad, of course, in only his underwear, knowing the effect that it’d have on the semi-drunken me. Feigning disinterest, I yawned and sat down on the arm of my armchair, flashing a ‘come-and-get-me’ glance in his direction.

Before I could move an inch, Jim’s lips were molded to mine, his cool hands grabbing at the small of my back, his fluffy hair tickling my forehead. Oh well. I give up, I thought to myself, wrapping my arms lopsidedly around his neck and pulling him closer to me. As always, I revelled in the feeling of his smooth skin on mine. You love me, Jim Moriarty, whether you like it or not. And I love you too.