She calls him when her computer breaks down.
Well, not him, but IT, but it's him that they send.
She calls him when her email won't open.
She calls him when there's a virus.
Finally she calls him for a coffee.
He tells her, with a nervous, sweet smile (nothing like His) that he's had his eye on her for a while.
Donovan stands in the cold, huffing out clouds of breath. She shoves her hands farther into her coat and wishes Anderson's wife hadn't thrown her out. At least his bed had been warm- warmer than hers, at least, in her empty flat. She'd been halfway home when her snitch had texted.
She curses and wishes she could have a fag and checks her watch- he said he'd be here five minutes ago.
She looks around again, irritated.
“Heya, sweetheart.” Jimmy drawls, slinking out of an alley. Despite the cold he's wearing a black vest, tight jeans, worn out Doc Marten's- no jacket but it shows off the goods. Donovan wishes she didn't notice.
He smirks, looks her up and down, chocolaty eyes rimmed with messy eyeliner. Every inch of him, from the makeup to the slouch screams prostitute.
Jimmy slinks up beside her, smooth as a cat, chafes his arms a bit.
“Well?” Donovan demands, angry she's staring at his arms, more curious about the lean muscles than that he knows about the double homicide last weekend.
Jimmy shrugs. “Can we go somewhere warmer to... talk?”
She thinks about it. It's not the first time she's cheated on Anderson. Jimmy's not bad in bed, but she does make him double wrap it just in case.
Anthea has a whole dossier on Moriarty when he picks her up in a bar. She knows he's a bad man but he buys her Glenlivet and he looks good in Westwood and she can keep her head through anything.
The sex is good. Very good. But as he's looking for his left sock she's already texting, half watching as he ties his tie, and he frowns irritatedly.
“Can I call you?” Moriarty asks, at the door.
She says, “Sure.” after a second, when she has a chance to glance up. He looks furious at the slight.
He does call. He calls several times. He ties her up. He fills her bath with bubbles and rose petals. He brings his boyfriend with him one weekend.
She's always texting by the time he leaves the bed. He always looks like he's going to snap and kill her when she picks up her Blackberry.
He never does.
As she gets dressed she picks out something comfortable, the pattern faded with wear. She puts on flats that feel more like slippers and passes by her little table with her jewelry stand and her perfumes. There's been no point since her husband died and even if they weren't her boarders Sherlock and John certainly aren't interested in her. Mrs. Hudson smiles a little at that, the silly idea of Dr. Watson courting her- he's a ladies man, but she's quite old. She giggles and steps out to do the shopping.
One the way back from Tesco with her little cart of groceries she spots the sandwich shop boy loitering out front on break. He's half wearing his apron. She reflexively wants to feed him- everyone these days looks so underfed.
As she passes he smiles and coughs awkwardly. “Uh. Miss-”
“Mrs.” She corrects with a smile, still flattered this thin young man is talking to her.
“Oh.” His face falls and he glances back into he sandwich shop, disapointedly. “Never mind then- I suppose there's no point...” He shrugs, looking sheepish.
“What is it?” She asks and he pauses, half a step towards the door.
“I don't- it's not proper- I'm sorry.” He keeps glancing at the window, at his boss.
“My husband has been dead for more than eight years.” Mrs. Hudson admits.
He smiles brightly. “It's probably not proper for me to say- but- my boss, he's- he likes you. He doesn't want to say anything- he'd probably fire me if he knew I said...” He shrugs nervously again.
The next time Mrs. Hudson goes into the sandwich shop she wears a nice dress, her pearls, and her perfume. After a few dates she vaguely wonders why she never sees that boy working on the shop.
She forgets all about him when Sherlock tells her the sandwich shop man is married.
He pretends to be a client at first. Irene sees right through him, just enough to be scared of him. She ties him up, beats him bloody, sends him home and hopes she never has to see him again.
He sits down across from her at The Langham during tea and the waiters scurry over with a new saucer and teacup, showing the whites of their eyes.
Irene can respect that but she wishes he wasn't eating her scones.
“I don't believe we have another appointment, Mr. Moriarty.” She says loftily, using his real name, which she'd discovered after his little visit with her.
He tips his head to her and adds ten sugar cubes to his Ceylon. He smiles and tips back the entire cup- people are staring in shock despite his very finely cut Westwood suit.
“Miss Adler,” He drawls and spins his teacup around on it's saucer- even more people are staring because of the sound. He reaches over and taps his nails on her phone- she feels her spine stiffen at the unpleasant touch, as if he's touched her. “I think this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”
She sniffs delicately and put her cup down, only just not rattling it.
“I don't want to be friends.”
“But you really don't want to be enemies, dear.” He smiles cheerfully and starts counting more sugar cubes into his empty cup- “All I want is to help you out. Make you some money. Everyone loves money.”
She thinks about leaving. It'd be so easy to walk out of the tearoom. Moriarty makes her skin crawl- the look on his face says he knows that.
“How much money?” Irene asks.
“More than you could ever hope to roll around in naked.” He teases.
He's sitting in the Black Horse Tavern, holding down a table watching rugby, waiting on Sherlock to come back with two more points. Its a good day- no cases, nothing bad happened at the clinic, Sherlock hasn't gotten desperate enough for distraction that he's overdosing on nicotine patches yet. It's a good day, a great day.
A young man sidles up beside him, grinning and putting down two pints of Strongbow. John stares at him- he's good looking, a bit scruffy, lean.
“Hello.” The young man drawls. “You looked like you could use a drink-” He nudges one pint closer to John's hand. “And maybe some company.
It's flattering that post war, post shoulder, after not working out for months that this young man if flirting with him.
John smiles. “Piss off- I'm here with my boyfriend.”
The young man's face falls, gets ugly for a second- for a moment John thinks there's going to be a fight- but the young man slinks off with both drinks, shooting John a mean look over his shoulder.
John doesn't see it because he's looking back to the match and to Sherlock who's threading through the crowd with two pints held high.