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you played the thief I played the fool

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She isn't sure why she keeps being surprised. This should have been Rule Number One from the first moment she met Sherlock Holmes - nothing is impossible. The curveballs life throws are far from predictable or comprehensible.

She isn't sure why she's surprised when she picks up the call made by an unlisted number, and when she says hello a familiar voice replies hello back.

"Jamie." Surprise, annoyance, overwhelming, conflicting. "You're supposed to be in jail."

Her laugh is cool and familiar. "I'm supposed to be a lot of things, but when have I ever been?"

Joan's already reaching for her gun, getting to her feet. "Where are you?" 

"Don't be stupid," Jamie answers softly, and Joan doesn't bother getting her coat before opening the hotel door. Jamie's there, of course, and the phone's still in her hand, pressed to her ear, a smile on her face. 

She should call the police, call Sherlock, knock Jamie out and take her in, but then the blonde whispers hello, Joan. No, she can't, not again. I missed you, and that's her Achilles' heel. Jamie Moriarty tastes like the bizarre blend of gunpowder and lavender and mint. She burns the way Sherlock doesn't, and Joan falls apart at her hands, crumbles to ash and clinker. 



She extends her stay in Paris, and the hotel bed can easily fit more than one person.

Jamie kisses like she fucks, quick and hot and rough. Her fingertips dance across Joan's skin and her lips leave hot trails along her collarbone, and no, she doesn't trust Jamie any further than she can throw her, doesn't love her, that's not the word for it - there's no word for it, and maybe there doesn't need to be. 



Six months later Jamie has her fingers gliding inside her, pad of her thumb flicking against Joan's clit and her words are ragged enough to sound dirty. I missed you, don't leave me, I love you.

It stains her lips when she whispers I love you back, and when she gets home that night, she can't look into his eyes. 



It doesn't matter how many times they kiss - it's always electric, always scorches against her bones, always quick, quick, quick. 

So quick, like the way Jamie slides the blade through her ribs. 

So quick, and then there's blood on her hands, crimson as Jamie's lips. 

So quick, when she falls to the ground, and Jamie's words are too loud, too soft, ringing in a crescendo.

"I win."