Fleeting Impressions | J.M.

20: I miss you

While Sherlock has been running around London, James throwing him through hoop after hoop. I sit at the flat and finally turn on the telly for once. I really hate the news, but just like James once told me: I really live under a rock. But I can only stand to watch for a few seconds.

"The infamous Moriarty is back..."

"Sherlock Holmes running to another crime scene..."

"...deerstalker hat and bachelor John Watson..."

"What will Moriarty do now?.."

And the worst was when he sent out that horrendous video to all of London. The video playing on loop for all to see. For me to see. "Miss me"

"Miss me"

"Miss me"

"Miss me"

I swear I see it in my dreams. His face staring at the screen in such contempt. What could he possibly be mad about? Why did he look so smug like usual? He left me in a flat, while he gets to rule the world by himself. If anyone gets to be angry, it's me. I switch off the telly.

But I still hear the words in my mind. I get up to walk around the living room, stretch my legs for a bit. Sherlock said that him and John would be gone for the whole day, possibly into the night. So I will be left alone for the time being.

I grab another bottle of wine from the fridge and remember the great time I had with Molly last night. I then remember all the good times I had with James too, and I end up drinking most of the bottle.

By nine the boys are still not home and I call it a night, throwing out the empty bottle and dragging myself to Sherlock's bedroom again. If he is making me sleep here then he can sleep on the couch.

My face and torso is warm from the alcohol, so I strip down into my knickers and tank top. Climbing into bed, I pull the covers loosely over my legs.

The silence is deafening in this small room. The black dots form behind my eyes because of staring into space too long. My mind drifts to James, as it usually does. At night the most. And I remember those words again.

"Miss me?"

I hear it aloud this time. Groaning, I turn over to smash my face into the pillows. Why can I not get it out of my head? Why do I hear his voice? His Irish accent.

The bed dips beside me and I react on instinct. Flipping over and pinning the intruder to the mattress, straddling his legs to keep him down and pinning his arms. When I relax, I know that he let me do this.

The shit eating grin on his face, and the fact that he is way stronger than me. I must be dreaming.

This man left me alone. He didn't want me. He only wanted my brother. He wanted to use me to get to Sherlock. He played me for a fool. I am a fool.

The heat between my legs intensifies as I see him in his classic westward suit. Now I know I'm dreaming. Who would climb into a window in westward? I drag my hand down the buttons, thinking of the time in the car. When I undressed him.

My conscious can be mad at him all day, but in my dream world, this is my fantasy. And my fantasy wants a devilish Irish man between my legs.

"Miss-"

"Don't talk," I lay my hand over his mouth. I don't want to hear those words anymore. But I answer his unspoken question. My hangover won't remember this tomorrow, but I can speak it into the open air with no one around, "yes, I miss you."

I remove my hand to see a small happy grin on his face. He does look happy. Only I would make him this happy. The fantasy continues as I decend my lips on his. Parting my mouth to run my tongue across the seam between his pink lips. He opens gladly.

His hands on my hips position me farther down. Center to center so I can feel him all through my thin attire.

I hum into the kiss, grabbing lightly onto his hair and running my fingers through it's lightly gelled surface. Of course I remember him like this, this is when I find him the sexiest.

I image him hugging me, with his arms around me while we kiss, and he does. He holds me close and touches my face. Too delicate, like I'm going to break. Too delicate for the real James Moriarty.

My eyelids droop into a euphoric sleepy state. My lips slow until I am just breathing into the air, feeling his closeness.

The next time I open my eyes, it's just dark. No more fantasy, no more figures of James. I fall asleep again. This time, no dreams, just blissful sleep.

Sunlight wakes me up in the morning after the best sleep I've had for a few nights. I stare at the ceiling and remember the images my mind conjured of James. Even if I hate him at the moment, my mind apparently is still trying to catch up with that fact. Or maybe it's just that I still find him sexy.

My head pounds from the alcohol and I roll over to get some pain killers. Beside me sits something that was not there last night. I know it's not Sherlock's, can't be John's.

It's an iPod connected to white wired earbuds. A jeweled crown bedazzled on the back.

Maybe my dream wasn't really a dream. I am a fool.