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I looked back down at my drawing, and began to draw in the shading around him. It wasn't until I heard a cough that I glanced back up.

He was standing in front of me.

"Hello there." He said in a chipper voice. "Just what do you think you're doing?" I noticed a menacing undertone in his voice, and I couldn't help but shiver slightly. He seemed to notice, and his grin grew. Before I had a chance to answer, he spoke again. "You don't look to be a part of his homeless network..." His eyes narrowed, and the grin faded. "Must be a watchdog then, hmm? Taking notes on the passersby?" He grabbed the notebook from my hand, I protested.

"Hey! Give that back!"

"Well, I can't just do that, dear. I don't want any evidence of my being here to reach the Virgin's ears..." He held the pad by his side.

I had no idea what he meant. The Virgin? Who could that be? This guy wasn't some kind of psycho-killer, was he? I did understand one thing though. the man had accused me of spying! I was furious, first he had taken my drawing pad, and then he had insulted me! "I'm not a watchdog," I growled in a low voice, standing up. I was only 5"8, so there was no way I could hope to intimidate the easily 6" man with my height, but I decided to try anyway. "I'm an artist!"

"A likely cover story..."

"Did you not see the sign?" I clenched my jaw, trying to keep from calling the man some very inappropriate things. "Look at the pad if you want, it's nothing but pictures!"

I saw him back off a step, and glance down at the sign in front attached to the back of my easel. With the smirk vanishing, he looked at the pad in his hands. He flipped it open, and browsed through the various doodles of people who had just passed by and caught my interest. As he flipped through, he suddenly stopped, and raised one of his perfect eyebrows. Looking back at me, he spoke.

"This is me." I felt myself pale a bit. He wasn't going to try and go to court against me for drawing a picture of him was he? He looked back at the sketch again. "This is a very good drawing of me."

"I..uhm.." I kept trying to think of a response, but my mouth seemed to decide to suddenly not work.

He held out the sketchpad, and I took it from him. "My name's Jim," He nodded his head towards me and held out his hand. "Jim Moriarty."

I suddenly found my voice again. "Lacie Fowell." I wiped my graphite covered hand on my pants, and placed my hand in his, expecting a handshake. Instead, he bowed slightly and pressed a kiss to my hand. "Oh.." I inhaled sharply, and could feel a blush rising to my cheeks.

"You're quite the artist, Lacie Fowell." His voice had lost the menacing undertone, and I instantly more comfortable around him.

"Thank you." I replied, smiling lightly.

"I'd like to purchase that drawing of me, if you wouldn't mind." He flashed me a charming grin.

I blinked, confused. "Are you sure? I'm sure I can draw a better one if you'd give me a few minutes..."

"I doubt you could," My shoulders slumped a bit, "For this one is perfection in itself." I perked back up at this. I knew I was good, but it was rare when someone else told me so.

"Of course." I carefully tore the sketch out, thankful for the perforated edges on the paper. He pulled out a finely made leather wallet, and handed me a few notes, and small business card, and took the sketch from me. Before I could react, he began to saunter away, his long legs caring him away from me quickly. He turned his head back one last time, and gave me a grin.

"Text me." With those words, he vanished into a crowd of people (tourists, I noticed, the cameras and stares gave them away).

When I looked down at the money, I was shocked to see that he had given me four £50 notes! I felt my jaw drop a bit, and I grinned. Other than a small art gallery in my home city of Cardiff, I hadn't made that much money on a sale ever before. I pocketed the cash, and examined the card.

It was a plain, rich white color, and printed on thick, expensive paper. On one side, it simply stated in a beautiful golden ink "Moriarty". When I flipped the card, a number was printed on the back of it in the same ink.

Feeling a bit tired from the exciting day, I slipped the card in my pocket, and gathered my things. After putting them inside, and I counted out my profits for the day, and placed the card on my bedside table where I placed my simple (and cheap) flip-phone. Putting what I needed in my pockets, I headed out to get the groceries like I promised myself I would. Tonight, I would feast. Tonight, I would decide whether or not to actually text Jim Moriarty.

I sigh. I hate making decisions.