So yes, I wrote another Sherlock fic, and yes, it involves Jim and an OC, again. Bare with me, I have a lot of feelings. Anyway, while reading this, keep in mind that the POV is alternated between Jim's and the OC's, basically there will be a Jim chapter and then an OC chapter and then a Jim chapter and so on... you get the idea. This is basically porn with a plot, and it's gonna get pretty dark. You have been warned. Okay, enough chit chat. Hope you enjoy the story! Reviews are always welcome (:

1. JIM

Today was a horrible, horrible day. Fucking hell, I've had bad days before, but today was the bloody king of bad fucking days. Round of applause.

Also, I seem to have forgotten how to knot my tie. I've been standing in front of the mirror for twenty minutes and I have accomplished absolutely nothing, but there's no way I'm going out without my tie.

I could stay home, but people get mad when I ditch their stupid parties. For some reason, people like to be socially active and stuff. I only go because there may be new clients, new adventures, something interesting. Well, I also go to play my favourite outdoor game. It's called "How fast can I get you out of that dress and into my bed". Sadly, it never takes more than five minutes.

Lately, I've been taking Sebastian with me, to make things more interesting. We play "Who can get you out of that dress and into his bed first". The jackass even wins, sometimes. To be fair, he's really tall. Like, freakishly tall.

"Sebastian!" I call out from inside my wardrobe. No answer. I call out again, and hear his heavy footsteps getting nearer. He leans on the door frame, arms crossed on his chest.

"What?"

"Knot my tie," I say, but he doesn't move an inch. "Pretty please?" I sing-song in my childish high pitched voice which I know he hates.

Sebastian rolls his eyes and approaches me. He takes my tie and knots it. My god, he really is freakishly tall, isn't he? Not that I'm short. He's just... a moose.

"There," he snorts.

"Why aren't you dressed?" I ask, only now noticing he's still in his work clothes, black jeans and an old grey t-shirt.

"I'm not coming, I'm on a job tonight, remember?"

"Oh, right," I furrow my brows. I despise the thought of going alone, and it must show on my face because Sebastian is suddenly pushing me out of the wardrobe from behind my back, firm but gentle, and he's saying that I'll be fine and that he'll be home when I get back. I sit on the edge of my king sized bed and pout.

"James, c'mon, don't be like that."

"I'll die of boredom, and it'll be your fault," I hiss.

"Yes, okay," Sebastian sighs, and walks into the wardrobe again. He comes out of few moments later and hands me my favourite coat. "Here. Now for fuck's sake, get outta here."

I snort loudly as I stand up and put the black coat on, then I storm out of the room without another word. The car is already waiting, I think it's been waiting for more than a hour actually. I get in and sigh, observing the familiar lights of London as they pass us by, all bleeding into one.

I'm already bored.

It's no news, really. I'm always bored.

I'm bored as I get out of the car and I'm bored as I enter the hotel and I'm bored as the waiter takes my coat and I'm bored as I join the faceless crowd in front of me.

Bored.

I spot the host and walk up to him. Thank you for inviting me to your fucking awful Christmas party, I don't remember your stupid name but I'm quite sure you're some kind of smuggler, and possibly I've slept with your barely-legal trophy wife. Or was that your barely-legal trophy daughter? Oh, well.

I go to the bar and get myself a scotch and soda, then I dive back into the crowd. People are talking to me. I have absolutely no idea who any of you are, but since you're talking to me I'm guessing we did business together, or - in the case of the dumb blonde who is now playing with my tie - I slept with you. Maybe both, who knows? I very charmingly take the bimbo's hand off my tie and excuse myself. I need more scotch.

"Scotch and soda," I tell the bartender. "Easy on the soda."

The room is big and noisy and there are people everywhere, I see horrible ties with unmatching shirts and slutty evening gowns in alarmingly bright colors. I got a room this morning, now the question is who do I lure into it? I scan the room, but don't see anything worth the effort. There are a couple of good looking girls, but they're the oh-so-vulgar-and-slutty kind of hot. I like my women having some self-respect, so I can take it from them.

The shot girl is very pretty, but her make up says daddy issues. Way too easy.

Then I see her. How have I not noticed her earlier? Holy hell, I feel like I've been hit by a bus. She's at the bar, talking to some entrapreneur I know to be a wife beater and a murderer. Basically, a shitfaced dickhead.

She's stunning, actually stunning, wearing a long black gown that leaves her back nude all the way down to the dimples on top of her beautifully round ass, and on the front, the dress has long sleeves and covers her up to her collarbone, perfectly fitting her silouhette.

Tom Ford, or maybe Armani.

She doesn't look like a gold digger, and there's no ring on her finger so it's unlikely she's involved with any of these... gentlemen. Could be a high class whore, but there's something about the way she holds herself that screams professional. She smiles at the shitfaced dickhead and brings a martini glass to her lips, not flirting, just masterfully kiss-ass.

Oh god, that smirk. She could kill someone with that. She's got more self-respect than all the women in the room put together, and she looks like a fucking evil queen or something.

I straighten my tie and walk up to the shitfaced dickhead with a charming smile.

"Christopher Morrison, how long has it been?" I greet him. He shakes my hand firmly and smiles widely.

"James! It's so good to see you. How have you been?"

"Good, good, how about you? How's your lovely wife?" I ask, with just a hint of irony.

"Thankfully, under control, thanks to this lovely lady over here," he smiles even wider, and gestures at the mystery woman beside him, who smiles at me. "Gwineth, this is James Moriarty," Christopher adds, and Gwineth - what a beautiful name - holds out a hand and says it's nice to meet me.

"The pleasure is all mine," I flash her my most charming smile and softly kiss her hand. She seems taken aback by the gesture, but her perfect smile never falters. Someone waves at Morrison from other side of the room, perfect timing.

"Excuse me," he says, and Gwineth smiles again as he leaves.

"Another round for the lady, and scotch for me," I say to the bartender, and the woman looks at me with a hint of curiosity. The guy places our drinks on the bar, and I take a long sip of scotch.

"So, I take it you're a lawyer," I smile at her. She drinks her Martini slowly, then licks her lips and I want to do her on the bar.

"Defense attorney, yes," she says.

"You must be a bloody good one to have Morrison as a client," I smirk.

"Half of the gentlemen in this room are my clients," she smiles again.

"Mine too," I say. "And yet we've never met before."

"What do you do?"

"I solve problems," I say, my stare going from her light eyes to her beautiful lips and back up again. She smiles.

"So do I. I'm guessing people come to you when there's no legal solution, though."

"More or less," I reply smugly, then I finish my drink. Gwineth tears her eyes away from mine for the first time when her phone rings. She takes it from the little black purse she'd placed on the bar and answers it. I look down at my empty glass and gesture at the bartender to fill it.

"Gwineth Williams," the woman says firmly, with a hint of annoyance. "I can't talk right now. Drop by the office in the morning and I'll see what I can do," she sighs. "Of course. Goodnight," she says then, and hangs up. She puts the phone back in her purse and turns her stare to me once again. I raise my eyes from the glass to meet hers and smile.

"I need some fresh air," I say. "Care to join me?" I ask. I saw cigarettes in her purse, hopefully she'll jump at the chance to smoke one.

"Sure," she smiles. I lead her to the balcony and she immediately lights a cigarette while I lean on the railing. She stands beside me and watches the night sky. I could try to impress her with my knowledge of astronomics, but something tells me it's not the right move. A woman like Gwineth probably wants someone who isn't afraid of her, who's more powerful than her. Yeah, she definitely likes it rough. No, no, let's not think about that yet, if I get distracted I'll surely screw this up.

Focus. Powerful, unafraid, rough. Basically, I'll just have to be myself. Never tried that before.

I stand behind her, and she notices. She turns her head slightly, not enough for me to see her eyes, but enough to catch another of those killer smirks. I brush her red curls away from her shoulder and lean in closer.

"I must say, Gwineth, your dress could turn saints into sinners," I whisper in her ear, and again she turns around and smiles.

"I know," she says. "That's why I wear it."

She lets out a cloud of smoke and I'm still breathing on her neck, and my god I would like to bite down on it and draw blood. My hands gently rest on her hips, and I slide them all the way up to her waist, then back down. Helena inhales deeply and then another cloud of smoke escapes her mouth, and I kiss her neck so softly that she gets goosebumps. She throws her cigarette off the balcony and into the garden beneath us.

"James," she says calmly.

"Yes?"

"Do you have a room?"

"Of course."

"I'd like to see it."