In which James Moriarty decides to "play house" and marry a snarky burglar from Boston. Neither him nor his reluctant wife expect what happens next. Moriarty/OC. Better than it sounds, I hope.

Willow: I don't own Jimmy. He's just one of the voices in my head. Nor do I own the other fabulous BBC shows or the song Theo talks about. Also, I've never even left the US, so my London knowledge is entirely based on Google maps.

I shuffled and peered over Jim's shoulder. "When I said your turn, I meant to tell me more about yourself so I'm not lost in all the sociopath weirdness, and instead you drag me on a killing spree."

"Don't pretend you're not enjoying yourself."

"I'm not doing anything, except shivering on this blasted rooftop while you snipe people when I should be sleeping!"

"Would you like to shoot someone?" He asked courteously, stepping back.

"You really need a hobby," I grumbled, but pull my coat tighter and lean over the gun. "I've never killed a person."

"I'll show you how. Just stand so, and—"

"I know how to shoot, idiot. I caught my fair share of bucks in Western Pennsylvania. I've just never killed another human being."

"Don't call me an idiot."

"Sorry," I conceded.

"It's really quite simple. Nothing different than killing a deer, really."

"Sure there is. With deer, we made venison. Unless you're also a cannibal, there's not a point. And you're a criminal, so I doubt there's a moral reason."

Jim shrugged. I studied him for a moment. Then, as softly as I could manage it, "Why are you killing them, James?" My voice surprised me, even.

"I'm bored and these people have no contribution to society. If there was a reason, I'd send real snipers after them. This is just entertainment."

"How can you tell they're worthless?"

"I observe. I do background checks. Really, are you going to kill them or not?"

I turned my attention back to the rifle, and the turret it was mounted on. Then I smirked at him. "You're wearing gloves, right?"

"Of course."

It seemed my intent was transparent, because his hand shot out to stop me—just a little too late, though I think that was on purpose. The gun fell in almost slow motion, tumbling forward off the building.

"What the hell are you doing?" He snarled.

"You sabotaged my burglary. I'm sabotaging your killing spree."

"It's not like I'm killing your friends."

"You could. What if, on accident, you're out here one night and you kill one of my friends? I had some pretty useless friends, but I wouldn't change a damn thing about them. You understand nothing of friendship, but seriously, everyone you've ever killed is someone's family, someone's friend."

He stared at me, but once you deprived me of sleep, then set me off on some morality hype, I was unstoppable.

"You're a complete sociopath, and so I know you don't give a damn how you're affecting me, but you don't want me as an enemy and I interest you, so that's a no to the Thames. I'm fiery, and emotional, and I'm going to argue with you. But I'm also not afraid of you, so I'm always going to tell you the truth whether you like it or not, and that's a valuable asset. Killing people without reason is a no, James. Please. Get a hobby."

I stopped, breathing heavily. The shouting below us reached my ears and I peered over the edge. "Um, we're about to have cops on our tails."

"Then we should run."

Somehow he'd gone from scowling, to staring, to smirking in less than a minute.

I beat him to the stairwell and we sprinted down them, bursting out onto the street.

"There!" Someone yelled.

We skidded to a halt, and we whirled around and ran down another street, Dover.

I started to turn down Stafford, but one glance down that road and he told me we'd better keep going. "They expect us to go that way, they'll cut us off."

The next branch off was a downhill slope and curvy, and it connected to a street that went two ways. Perfect. He grabbed my hand as the crowds swarmed us, and dragged me down Lansdowne Row.

A black car pulled up to us on Fitzmaurice—I saw the phone slip back into Jim's pocket—and we climbed in. "Might as well take us to the manor now. Arrange for our things to be brought down too."

I was still trying to catch my breath, and then a thought occurred to me that made me wheeze with laughter. "Oh—my—God." I gasped.

"What?"

"How is it, when I dream this, it's a nightmare; but when I live it, it's the most fun I've ever had?"

"This was your nightmare? Being chased by NSY?"

"Oh, shut up. Nightmares aren't meant to be rational."

"Seriously, this is the most fun you've ever had?"

"My life has been very boring. Crime was thrilling, but it was just a way to supplement my college fund. I put so much emphasis on getting out of my old life that I never considered a new one. I also minored in English Lit, in case you can't tell by that horribly clichéd statement that I just made."

"And your major?"

"Criminal Psychology. The irony amused me."

"How'd you end up in London?"

"I looked up crime rates and followed them here, but I couldn't catch a break as a writer, a psychologist, or burglar. Why are you here, Irish?"

"Same reason, though for very different intents. Don't call me Irish."

"You spend the entire day telling me not to be such an idiot. I'm not an idiot."

"Could've fooled me."

I looked around the back of the car in frustration.

"What are you looking for?"

"Something to throw at you."

Theo: LOL. My theme song in this hellhole known as Willow's brain.

Willow: This is but a small room of my mind palace.

Theo: Pfft. Mind palace. I have a mind HOGWARTS. Hahahahaha.

Jim: She is not okay up here. *taps head* Coming from me, she is NOT okay.

Theo: Suicidal sociopath telling me I'm insane. Ah, the irony.

Jim: It always goes back to suicide with you.

Theo: "Your life is not your own" in the words of Sherlock Holmes.

Jim: Must you?

Theo: Oh, yes, I must.

Willow: Review?

Theo: Or else.