Finally, I have a story ready! I started writing this in the first week of December last year. And it is done thank the Lord!

This one is rated T only because of graphic domestic abuse.

I hope you really like this story!

By the way, I started a page on fanart page on smauglockbatch . deviantart . com Do check it out :)

So Abrupt Was His Appearance

She was living a life of comfort.

But a life of compromise.

A life of fashion.

But a life of misery.

She was thankful for all the wealth she had.

But she had hoped for something else.

Something like love.

She remembered the day she was apprised of the fact that she was to wed James Moriarty.

Apparently, her parents and the to-be-bridegroom's parents had already harmonized on the wedding, when her mother was one month from her due date.

She was a trainee pathologist and so was a keen reader of books, newspapers and articles. She had read, many times, that parents fulfil their child's every need before the child realizes the particular need.

Her parents certainly had done their job. Before even holding her in their arms, they had fifty percent married her off.

Very well done.

It wasn't that she hated her parents. She loved them and held them very dear. But they could, sometimes, prove to be quiet gullible. She wasn't aware of the exact conversation that had taken place when the wedding was negotiated, but she was sure the Moriarty family knew which cards to play. The Moriartys were distant relatives of the Hoopers and followed the tradition of keeping family wealth within the family.

Her parents had given a handsome amount of dowry to her on the wedding, much to the pleasure of her in-laws. She still remembered what she had thought, when she had seen the look of satisfaction and glee on the Moriartys' faces when they saw the dowry, "At least that's done."

The Moriartys had a large, old mansion, housing the father of the house, Jeremy Moriarty, mother, Glenda Moriarty, eldest son, Joseph Moriarty, the youngest son, James Moriarty, and her.

Jeremy Moriarty was a very stern, close-mouthed, literally, but a generous person. To her, he seemed the nicest person under the roof.

Glenda Moriarty, on the other hand, was quite an intrusive woman, with a dangerous habit of gossiping.

Joseph Moriarty. There were a few words that suited that person. Ill-fated. Talkative. Depressed. He had tried his luck in every field of work, where his father could send him through sources and due favours, but never succeeded. He had married a very beautiful woman, Irene Adler. But they were now divorced, and rightly so. No one, who preferred an extravagant life, would want to live with an unemployed person. He would usually spend days and days at home, then weeks and weeks away from the house. No one knew where he went. In fact, no one bothered to ask.

James Moriarty was a quiet, disciplined man. He would leave for work early in the morning, before anyone woke up, and come home early in the evening, then had dinner with the family, and went to sleep.

That's what everyone knew. But his wife, Molly, knew more.

Behind closed doors of their bedroom, there was pain, misery and torture. Every evening, after excusing themselves from the dining table, the couple would return to their room quietly. Molly would dutifully, close the door after her husband, while he would rummage for a riding crop, a sturdy rope and a piece of smelly rag. He'd order her to strip, then he would tie the rag over her mouth, the rope around her wrists, tight enough to hurt and make her lie on her stomach on the bed. Then the lashes of the crop would meet the skin of her back, her buttocks, her thighs, her arms and legs. Over and over again the crop would strike her tender skin, her moans and pleadings of mercy getting muffled into the cloth. He would say nothing during the ordeal, which would last for an hour. But for James, it was hardly five minutes, and to Molly, it felt like days. After that, he'd pull the cloth off her mouth, the ropes as well and massage her chaffed wrists with his cold fingers. She'd lie back on the bed, but would hiss with obvious pain when the crisp bed sheets would touch her lacerations. He'd then possessively pull her against him in bed, and hold her to him. It felt less like warm cuddling, and more like holding a prison in chains. As if he was scared. Scared that she would leave him in the middle of the night.

And he was. He knew she didn't love him. He also knew that she was more educated than him. He had graduated with a doctor of philosophy in business management, while she had been practising general pathology at Cork University Hospital, when they had got married. He felt inferior and threatened. He had coerced her into resigning after their wedding, and had resolved to beat, all her medical training out of her. He felt exceptional and superior when he had her tied and helpless in front of him. It took him some time, but he figured out that the bashing benefited him in another way as well. His wife, wanting to keep his husband's secret covert, had to hide her wounds and bruises with clothing. That meant wearing full sleeves, long trousers. But clothes couldn't be tight, or it would hurt. So loose shirts and trousers it is. He would welcome the pity he would receive from people, for having an ugly wife, with close to no sense of fashion. He had the power to change people's perception of her. He felt proud and sated.

Just like any other day's routine, she was at home. With her husband gone to work and brother-in-law gone to God knows where, only she, her mother-in-law and her father-in-law were at home. She had retired to the library, her only best friend in the scary household, just like every other day. She was reading her favourite novel, Pride and Prejudice. She was sure she had read it about fifty times since her wedding day, but she just couldn't put it down.

"They were within twenty yards of each other, and so abrupt was his appearance, that it was impossible to avoid his sight. Their eyes instantly met, and the cheeks of both were overspread with the deepest blush. He absolutely started, and for a moment seemed immovable from surprise; but shortly recovering himself, advanced towards the party, and spoke to Elizabeth, if not in terms of perfect composure, at least of perfect civility."

She put her nose in the book and took a deep breath. It smelled intoxicating and delicious. And with that thought, she fell asleep, with her head on top of the dog-eared book. She sighed in her sleep and dreamt of a nineteenth century man wearing breeches, tailcoat and a cravat around his neck. He held a walking stick and a beaver top hat. She would've thought it was Mr. Darcy, had it not been for the curly dark hair on his head and striking pale blue eyes boring into hers.

She woke up with a start. Dreaming of Mr. Darcy would have made sense. But she had been dreaming about a person she vaguely recognized, but couldn't really put a finger on who that really was.

She discarded the thought as she placed the novel back in its place and went to help out her mother-in-law in the kitchen. Little did she know that the events of the following night would change her life for good.

I need reviews! Please leave reviews whether it be just a small smiley face or criticism or how lovely the story was. I will post the next chapter soon, I promise. I have everything written down, so I will update soon!