Dancing with the Devil // Jim Moriarty

•Chapter 13: Love Letters and Presents•

"I think we may have overcooked it." John mumbled, grimacing at the sight of the nearly black roasted turkey we had just taken out of the oven. It's charred skin was falling off in places as steam rose in the air.

I sighed in annoyance. "Yeah, I don't think we can eat this." Shrugging off the heat resistance mittens, I threw them on the counter and rubbed my face. „It was your task to set the alarm clock, John."

Dr. John Watson looked offended and stemmed his hands against his hips. "No, it was definitely yours."

I scoffed and crossed my arms in front of my chest. "I definitely remember you telling me you'd set the alarm on your phone."

"I never said that." John chuckled humorlessly and raised his eyebrows. "It was you who was busy typing on your phone and when I asked you to set your alarm you nodded."

Confused, I furrowed my brows and found myself stumbling over my words. "No...That's not...I..." Oh right, I had indeed been distracted by Sebastian's text messages. Damn it, John was right. "Shit, John, I'm sorry, you're right."

John only sighed in defeat. "Well, it doesn't really matter now anyways, does it? You think we can order take-out and make it look like we cooked it?" He looked like he seriously considered the idea.

And it wasn't a bad idea at all. Lestrade and Molly likely wouldn't notice and Sherlock wouldn't care. Yet there was one problem. "Mrs. Hudson would notice it right away. We wouldn't hear the end of it."

Sherlock's baritone voice sounded from the living room. "Lucky for the both of you, Mrs. Hudson was smart enough to not trust you with the task of preparing the Christmas dinner and has already cooked us a no doubt lovely meal. Can't you smell it?"

John and I shared a confused look before the two of us sniffed the air simultaneously. Sherlock was proven right as the delicious smell of roasted turkey (which was definitely not coming from the one in the kitchen of Baker Street 221B), homemade mashed potato and grilled vegetables entered our nostrils. My stomach gave a rumbling answer, reminding me that I hadn't eaten today.

Clearly, our last kitchen accident was still fresh in Mrs. Hudson's mind.

"And you didn't tell us this before we got to work because...?" I asked Sherlock as John and I began to clean the kitchen.

"It must have slipped my mind." He muttered and ended the conversation with the soft tunes of his violin. It definitely hadn't.

It had been two weeks since Switzerland. Two weeks since I had killed my father. Two weeks since the kiss I couldn't stop thinking about.

Apparently, I wasn't the only one affected by it. The days after I had woken up were spent in Moriarty's office, researching everyone of the seemingly endless Mr. Smith's in England. During the conversations Jim and I shared, there had always been a noticeable tension between us. It was like we were magnets trying to resist the pull, waiting to see who would give in first. Without a doubt, the kiss had changed our partnership indefinitely.

I wanted more. No, I craved more.

But did he want that too?

It was a question constantly swimming around in my head. Obviously, Jim didn't seem like a relationship guy at first glance and I doubted he ever had been in a serious one. Still, he clearly cared for me, at least to a certain degree.

Overall, there was no denying we kept dancing around each other when all I wanted to do was dance with him. Screw what Sherlock, Mycroft or John would think of me. This was my life and Jim deserved to be in it.