"Hello, dear. Thought I'd pop in for a chat."

I swallowed, the lump in my throat disappearing, but it was replaced by sharp, cold fear, like the inside of my throat was being stabbed by a frozen dagger that was covered in icy, white frost.

James took a seat directly across from me, in an armchair that was black leather, looking like he was at his own house, not mine. He didn't sit stiffly, but his posture was still relatively good. I barely knew him, yet I felt as if I had been dealing with him for years. But I thought I might as well get something out of his visit- I should figure out how he works, how his mind works. I exchanged probably around 10 words with him the other day on the street corner, but the dazed expression that had been plastered on his face wouldn't get out of my head. It didn't seem like an expression he used often, and his confident aura at the moment contrasted from it drastically.

Time to find some things out.

"How do you know Holmes?" I may have just decided to interrogate him, but that didn't mean I couldn't feel the danger radiating from his every pore. I tried my best to act as if I didn't feel the cloud of risk that surrounded him.

His brown eyes seemed to be drilling holes into my face. No matter how much I averted eye contact, I could tell he was staring into my eyes. It was intimidating even for me.

Internally taking a deep breath, I forced myself to stare back into his eyes with a slight amount of annoyance. I could do this. 

You've done this a billion times, I told myself, just act like he's merely another pesky human.

All it took were those words of self-encouragement, and a switch flipped inside me. Suddenly Moriarty lost all his terror, and he seemed like just another human being. 

He was quiet, oddly quiet. The sound of our nearly silent breathing was the only noise present, and it seemed deafening. His eyes never left me, or my face. 

"I don't have all day," I patronised him, yawning and turning my head to the right to look at the time, stretching my arms as I did so, "speak now or forever hold your peace."

Then he started smiling, a cruel, white, sharp-toothed smile that would have sent chills through any sane person. As fast as it had come, it left, his face wiped clean of any amusement. 

"Someone's demanding," he mocked. "I respect that. Of course you would want to know about dear Sherlock."

There was a brief period of silence as I raised an eyebrow, wordlessly prompting him to continue.

"But then, of course, there'd be no fun if I just told you." 

"I suppose you have a point. But I don't know anything about you, and you're sitting in my flat. Bit odd, don't you think?"

He didn't answer my question, but instead stood up, looking around the room.

My eyes followed him as he took in the fireplace behind him, the rather pointless abstract art hanging on the otherwise white wall to his right, the 4 windows behind me, and then, finally, me. 

Moriarty took a step forward, his black shoe that matched his shadow-coloured suit making a soft noise as he flattened the brown carpet beneath it. "Let's play a game, shall we? If you so badly want to learn about me, I might as well oblige. But it has to be fun." His tone was light and flirty, but I could hear a plan carefully concealed within it.

I rose from my chair, almost being tall enough to be eye level with him. "Tell me about your game," I casually said, trying to look commanding, as he began to walk in circles around me, like a shark circling its prey. 

"It's a question game, you see. I'll ask you a question, and if you answer it, you can ask me a question. But, if you don't answer it," he sounded glum, but still ever so slightly sarcastic, "the game's over. If the game ends before I want it to, you won't like the consequences, Bella, no no no, you will not like the consequences." He dragged the last s out for a few seconds, sounding like a snake, his cold breath on my neck. He smelled like mint gum and ridiculously expensive cologne.

I understood now. It was a test, a test to see if I would crack under pressure. There was only one question I still had. Why was he so. . .interested in me? I'm not saying I'm not interesting, I knew I was plenty absorbing, but Moriarty didn't seem like the kind of man who would pursue me.

I then had to assess the situation. If I went on with this "game", I could learn valuable information about Moriarty. But, on the other hand, I risked him learning more than I would like to share about me. 

I sighed, mentally settling on a decision. "Let's start then, shall we?" I proposed, sitting back down in my armchair, it making a whooshing noise of protest as the air escaped from the cushion.

James smiled again, not as an expression of happiness, but as a sign that he was glad I easily complied and that he didn't have to convince or threaten me. He turned, and sat back down in the seat he had previously occupied. 

"Tell me about Lucy," he commanded. 

Inwardly cursing, I sat up straighter and took a deep breath, ready to give him as vague an amount of information as possible. "Lucy Bowles is a woman my age, whom I have relations with."

"Tsk, tsk," he scolded me, "let's be a bit more specific." 

"You didn't say how much information I had to give," I retorted, matching his tone. "Best be more specific next time," I used his own words against him.

This angered him, I could tell. It was a tug of war battle, and I was winning. I grinned.

I liked winning.

"Let me try that again. Be. More. Specific." Now he was insisting, demanding. His floaty way of speaking was gone. His eyes had gone from brown to almost black. Then, suddenly, between sentences, he resumed his normal aura. "Go on, I haven't got all day."

I decided to humour both him and myself and be more definite. "Lucy is what you might call an enemy. No, that's not right. Lucy is my. . .entertainment. She's enthralling, and I like to watch her find her way out of situations. There. Is that better?"

"Much better," he replied, smiling again, his two canine teeth making him look almost like a vampire or wild animal. "Your turn."

"Who is Sherlock Holmes and how do you know him?" I reused my previous question, hoping he would actually answer me.

What happened next is not something I anticipated. 

"Okay, this is getting b-o-r-i-n-g," he stated, spelling out the last word, and dragging out the g. "Let's make this more interesting." 

Although I agreed with him, that simply sitting there and exchanging questions had gotten old very fast, I almost just wanted him to leave. At the same time, however, he was fascinating and I wanted to know more about him.

Moriarty stood, walking over to my armchair and nodded at me to do the same. It was as if some weird force had come over me, and for some reason, I obeyed. 

Again came the circling around me like a predator, and if I was in my normal frame of mind, I would have bashed his head in. He was observing me, watching the way my chest slowly rose and fell with my breaths, taking note of my posture, and examining my hands that were sitting limply at my sides. 

Without warning, he stopped walking right behind me, and wrapped his hands around my neck. 

The shadowy veil of ignorance that had been over my mind abruptly left. It was almost as if I had been asleep, and the moment his hands made contact with my neck, someone had thrown open the curtains, bright, white, startling light pouring in, and I was forced to squint and desperately try to assess the situation and what I could do. 

My reflexes taking over, I used a trick I had learned a very long time ago. Maneuvering my way through the steps that I knew so well, I managed  to unwrap his hands that were trying to stop my breathing and push him away from me. He stumbled back, off balance. I then grabbed his suit with my left hand and punched him as hard as I could, the air parting to make way for my fist making a noise. There was a sharp crack, and I knew that I had broken his nose.

I dropped his limp body, and crouched down and checked him to make sure he was just unconsious. He was, and I stood up, brushing myself off. Blood began to come from his nose, but I ignored it for the time being.

There was a hint of a sinister smile still managing to stay on his face.

So much for getting information.

I took a step away, and nearly stepped on what I assumed was his phone, which had fallen out of his suit. Curious, I picked up the silver device off the carpet.

There was a text from someone named "Moran". I tapped on it, and it took me to a conversation. I was surprised someone like Moriarty didn't have a passcode of some sort. Then again, I assumed pretty much nobody except him ever got to touch it.

First I read Moran's reply.

"Okay boss, try not to get hurt too badly this time."

What?

Then my eyes landed on the one before that, the one Moriarty had sent.

"I'm going to test her reflexes, don't fire."

My mind reeling, I read the two texts multiple times to confirm what I thought I had read.

He had known.