This is my first attempt at a Sherlock fiction, I've got lots of idea's for this fic, and I'd really appreciate any feedback!
When I originally wrote this, I had Lana del rays Ride in my head, for those of you who want to know about the song.
Chapter 1
Jim Moriarty did not frequent bars, much less smoky, sticky dive bars. Yet here he was perched on a tatty bar stool, turning over a half empty glass of whisky in his hand. He didn't know why he was here of all places, he could be in the most exclusive of clubs right now, instead of a shit hole like this. All he knew is that sometimes it was nice to be alone, just one more anonymous face, without having to listen to the whining voices of his staff and clients.
"Can I get you another mate?" Jim simply pushed the glass towards the barman without a word.
"You sticking around to watch the girl? She's good" Again Jim didn't reply, briefly considering killing the idiot who was interrupting his peace and quiet, he hadn't come to make conversation, nor had he come to watch some hopeless, second rate singer crooning into the microphone about their tragic life. Thankfully the barman had taken the hint and turned away after handing Jim his whisky, grunting something about a tab. Jim decided he'd finish this and leave, coming here was supposed to be about peace and quiet, now all that was about to be ruined by bad acoustics and a whiny singer, there really was no point.
Then he saw her, the girl, walk onto the makeshift stage with a cd in her hand (really who used cd's these days?) her face hidden by a curtain of black hair, handing in waves to her waist. She was not dressed for the chilly night, high waisted jeans, a ripped up crop top hanging off one shoulder and worn out sneakers. Defiantly not Westwood.
She was adjusting the microphone now and he had yet to see her face. She had sparked his interest, but he knew it wouldn't last; she was probably dull, ordinary like everybody else. She would only disappoint him.
Lost in his thoughts he didn't notice she had turned on the cd until the music started to play. It was soft, mournful, almost as if it was telling a story. She was standing at the microphone now, her head still bowed, really somebody needed to tell her that slouching really wasn't attractive. Then she finally looked up from the microphone and started to sing, and Jim forgot how to breathe. She was enchanting. She had all the makings of a Vargas girl, with her pale skin, plump rouge lips and her slim yet well-proportioned figure, but it was her eyes that captured him. Catlike, sparkling blue and full of sorrow, like she had seen too much of the world and was weary of it. He didn't know if this was just a pose to go with the act, an expression to match her voice and the music, but he knew something in him wanted her, wanted to make all the sadness go away, wanted to rip the heart out of anybody who had touched or hurt her before. Despite the anguish in her eyes and her voice, he saw a fire in her, something behind it all that told him she was tougher then she looked, something that would not extinguish so easily. He had been wrong, she wasn't ordinary at all, she was his she just didn't know it yet.