Dancing with the Devil // Jim Moriarty

•Chapter 1: 221B Baker Street•

"Sherlock! How many times have I told you to stop littering my room with your stuff?" The stack of old newspapers and random books shook dangerously in my arms as I rushed into the living room of 221B Baker Street. I huffed under the weight of them and quickly stacked them on yet another pile of papers on a small table. Sherlock attracted chaos more than anything but he was also often the cause of it. The small flat I called home only proved that.

Every nook and surface was filled with science experiments, books, documents and photographs of various crime scenes the consulting detective had collected over the last years. Even the fridge lacked food. Well, unless you were a cannibal and prefered to eat old fingers or eyeballs. Then you'd be thrilled.

Weirdly enough, I still found it incredibly cozy. The dark, wooden colors and the big fireplace added to the unique charm of the flat. As long as my own bedroom was clear of any mess, I was perfectly fine.

Straightening my skirt, I sighed and finally looked up. Only to break into a confused yet amused chuckle.

For in front of me, lounging in the chair by his work desk, was Sherlock Holmes. So far, nothing unusual. It was the fact that he was wrapped in a white bedsheet with nothing underneath that was a very weird sight to me. Especially considering he was FaceTiming John on his laptop. But to top all of it, there was a stranger sitting in John's armchair. A slightly overweight man, seemingly a good few years older than Sherlock. He looked at me anxiously, sweat gathering  on his forehead. Maybe a client?

Furrowing my eyebrows, I let my gaze wander between the consulting detective, John's face on the screen and the stranger. "I'm sorry, did I interrupt anything?" Honestly, I really hoped I didn't.

John's voice resonated through the speakers. "It's not what it looks like, Lilliana."

Sherlock ignored me. "Go to the stream. Go and see," he said to John, not even bothering to look at me.

A case it was then. I sighed, plopping down on the soft cushions of the sofa and greeted the client sitting on John's armchair with a nod and a small smile. Nothing unusual, after all. Whatever this was, maybe it would finally rid Sherlock of his boredom.

Because ever since I'd returned from New York about a week ago, Sherlock had been nothing but bored. And whenever he was feeling that way, he made sure everyone in his perimeter knew it. Sometimes that meant hearing random gunshots ringing through the flat. Other times it meant him aggressively playing his violin. But every damn time, he would mention "I'm bored" at any given opportunity.

Just because I had gotten used to his behavior during the eight years I had known him, didn't mean I enjoyed his episodes of boredom. Quite frankly, I had been almost glad when Sherlock had told me about a criminal mastermind called James Moriarty who had been playing games with him and his new flatmate, John Watson. Obviously, that was until I was told he had also strapped a bomb around John.

Still, a part of me was thankful that Moriarty had offered Sherlock an excitement no one else could give him.

Unfortunately, Moriarty hadn't shown his face again in months which meant Sherlock had no one to deal with once again. No one who was on his intellectual level that was.

Maybe this was about to change soon. Though it wasn't a good sign he had opted to send John to investigate rather than going himself. Because that meant the case wasn't interesting enough for him.

"So, what's this about?" Directing my question towards John, I mindlessly played with a long strand of my dark, wavy hair, freeing it from where part of it had gotten stuck in one of my earrings.

I wasn't a genius, deducing mastermind like Sherlock but I still enjoyed helping him solve crimes. Or, rather attempted to. Not like I had anything better to do anyways.