Stretching, she let out a small contented groan. She was sore. But pleasantly so. She was under the heavy blankets of the bed in the rented flat. Muted sunlight was streaming through the lace curtains.
She took a second to just enjoy the moment. The beautiful violin music drifting through the space. The coziness of the bed. The fact that for just that one solitary space of time, she could justbe.
And not have to deal with the fallout of who was playing the violin.
And what they’d done the night before.
And what they were about to do going forward.
But like the fading of a dream, she had to get out of bed and deal with those things.
Climbing out from under the sheets, she wasn’t surprised to find out she was naked. Irene Adler woulddefinitelysleep naked. And after what they’d done the night before? Who cared what Moriarty saw? She pulled on a dressing gown, tying it at the waist, and went to go find the man in question.
He was standing on the balcony, eyes shut, still playing themournful piece of music that he had been when she woke. Leaning against the door jamb, she waited for him to finish, not wanting to interrupt him.
Professor James Moriarty really was something to behold, even in just a tucked-in white dress shirt and black pants. Beautiful. Intense. Intimidating. And the music he was deftly producing spoke to such depth within his soul that it almost made her want to weep. But she knew he was entirelyinaccessible.
She had more of a chance romancing a literal rock than she did him. Sherlock and Moriarty had no ability forlove.That was a constant feature in their stories. Sherlock cared for his friends, however. Moriarty did not. And it was Sherlock’scaringand attachment to Watson that this all hinged on. In more ways than one.
When the song finished, Moriarty lowered the violin. “I hope I did not wake you.”
“No, but you might have woken the rest of the neighborhood.”
“It is nearly noon.”
Ah. “Then thank you for letting me sleep in.”
“You are welcome.” He smirked. His gaze was focused on the apartment across the street where Sherlock had spied on them. She assumed he was long gone. “The trap will be very well baited now, I expect.”
“I think you’re right.”
“And if not, the price was nottooinsufferable, I hope.”
Was he asking her if she enjoyed the sex?Seriously?With an incredulous laugh, she turned and walked into her apartment. “Tea or coffee, James?”
“Coffee.”
“Good man.” She headed to the kitchen to brew them a pot. She had no idea how Victoriansmadecoffee, but she figured somewhere in her head she had the information. Or rather, the story knew how. She just had to let the fiction guide her. “Cream? Sugar?”
“Neither.”
“Coffee as black as your soul.”
“Indeed.” He shut the door to the balcony and placed the very-likely-extremely-valuable violin and the bow carefully and meticulously into the case. Interesting that he brought it over. He had expected to spend the night. She’d be annoyed at his making assumptions if that wasn’t his entirething.
Moriarty stood in the kitchen and watched her silently as she went about making the coffee. It was a French press system, it turned out. Which was good, because she knew how to work one of those, and not one of those wacky alchemical-steam-engine looking things she’d seen in a book once.
Finally, when she placed the cup of black coffee in front of him, she couldn’t take the silence anymore. “Are you expecting me to say something?”
“I suppose, yes.”
Pouring cream into her own mug, she topped it off with coffee. She always put cream in first,thenthe coffee. It just made more sense that way. One, she could see how much cream she was putting in. And two, that way it self-stirred. She never understood people who did it the other way around. “Perhaps you expect me to be upset? Or to tell you that I had hidden cameras in the house and now I plan to blackmail you?”
“I searched for those before you arrived.”
She shot him a look.
He merely smiled as he sipped his coffee. “I heard what you did to the Grand Duke. You cannot blame me for simply being prudent.”
