Dancing with the Devil // Jim Moriarty

•Chapter 6: The Woman•

My night was spent tossing and turning underneath the warm sheets of Moriarty's bed. No matter how hard I tried, sleep wouldn't come to me. There was only one thought swimming in my head, sending my brain into a frenzy: Jim Moriarty.

Whenever I closed my eyes, his face kept appearing in front of my eyelids, like a painting demanding to be looked at. The ghost of his touch still lingered on my skin, almost as if he was next to me in this very moment. Which of course wasn't true. He was still in his office, no doubt planning the next crime of a client. Did he ever sleep at all? So far, I hadn't experienced it.

Outside, the wind hurled snowflakes against the windows. It was supposed to be the last night of a snow storm looming over London and I was already missing the winter wonderland. Tomorrow, it would go back to constant rain and clouds, perfectly imitating my mood. I wondered what Sherlock and John were doing. Was he still hung up on that Irene Adler woman? Or had Mycroft given him a case interesting enough to truly distract him from anything else? Knowing Sherlock, it seemed highly unlikely. Impossible even.

As if on cue, the screen of my phone on the nightstand lit up with a message from the consulting detective himself. Talk about immaculate timing. My tired eyes took a few extra seconds to decipher the words.

Tomorrow, 2 pm. Meet me at the morgue.

Unsure about what to make of that, I simply responded with an 'okay' and my phone stayed quiet after that. Maybe he found a new clue leading us to who killed the librarian and therefore one step closer to finding my father. Yawning, I ran a hand over my face, staring at the white ceiling. Eventually, I got sick of waiting for sleep to finally overcome me and decided that some warm milk with honey could fasten the process.

My bare feet carried me towards the kitchen, cautious to not make too much noise. The fireplace was the only source of light but it was easy to navigate my way through the living room. The warm air hit my bare legs and arms nicely, the black tank top and shorts proven to be a great choice for night clothes. Thanks to me, Moriarty would probably receive a high gas bill for all the extra heating. Not that his bank account would take any damage by that.

After I turned on the lights underneath the upper cabinets, I got to work and put some milk into a pot on the gas stove, waiting for it to heat up. Gently humming a random melody to myself, I made sure to stir the milk to prevent it from burning. It didn't take long for it to reach the perfect temperature, so I carefully poured it into a mug and mixed a teaspoon of honey into it. And because I was too lazy to go to the sofa, I simply heaved myself onto the kitchen counter. Here from the kitchen island, I had a niece view of London's skyline at night. The marble countertop was cold against my thighs at first, but the feeling was refreshing and it warmed up pretty fast.

Steam rose from the mug and I gently blew against it to not burn my throat at the first sip. The hot beverage instantly filled my body with comfort, causing both my muscles and my brain to relax. I could already feel my eyelids dropping.

"I never did understand the appeal of warm milk to help with insomnia."

Moriarty's voice surprised me so much I nearly jumped from the counter. If it wasn't for a pair of two hands gripping the counter next to my thighs and a torso pushing against my legs, I would have slipped straight to the ground.

Shocked, wide eyes were staring straight at Moriarty's blank face. I couldn't read his emissions but he looked exhausted, his jaw slack and the rings underneath his eyes a stark contrast against his pale skin. His usually neatly styled hair was slightly tousled, indicating he had run his hands through it several times. "Mycroft used to make this for me whenever I stayed at his place after I moved to London."