I coughed in surprise, instantly looking up from my phone. Setting my phone down, I tried to decipher what he mood he was in. I knew from previous experience that an angry criminal was not someone you wanted to mess with, no matter the circumstances. Many of my clients were taught that lesson in a not-so-pleasant way, to say the least.

And when I was met with only a teasing smile accompanied by the usual fire behind his eyes, I was nothing if not surprised. I understood why he would have been infuriated, considering I both literally and metaphorically kicked him out onto the street. 

Recovering, I hid my surprise and carelessly replied, "Must you be so dramatic?" I leaned back in my chair, setting my phone down on the table and stretching in an attempt to cover my tracks even more. "And, no offense meant, but I'm afraid that seat is saved."

He stared at me for a second, the smile gone. That second stretched on for what seemed like an entire minute, an extraordinarily awkward minute. Cutting through the tension created by our eye contact he replied, "And I'm afraid I'm going to take this seat, saved or not."

Jim's face was a mixed combination of at least two emotions, if not more. The first one that I could see was an apologetic look that wasn't sincere, not in the slightest- it didn't spread to his eyes. The second was an ever-so-slight glint to his eyes that was, if I was seeing correctly, insulted. 

Insulted because I called him dramatic? I couldn't help myself but laugh out loud. I failed to suppress the smile that spread across my face, turning into quiet giggles and then a short laugh, followed by another smile.

"What?" he demanded, glaring at me, now even more annoyed than he was before. . .it was written all over his face that not understanding what was going on was one of his. . .pressure points.

I made a mental note of that. That might just be useful in a sticky situation.

"Nothing, nothing," I blew off the question, keeping the smile on my face simply to make him angry. 

For some reason, he let the anger seem to slip away. There was obviously something more important he wanted to tell me. Everything about him- the collected aura that surrounded him, the pure darkness hidden by a pair of brown eyes, the way he placed his elbows on the table, intertwining his hands- all suggested he was calm, just chatting with a friend. Anyone looking on would think just that. 

But I could read the layers underneath, read them like simple black letters typed on a white page, and all signs pointed to concealed excitement. 

I shifted in my chair, suddenly feeling a thrill of anticipation run up my spine, like an bright blue electric current, making every nerve in my body tingle. 

"What are you doing tonight?" He finally asked, his eyes never leaving my face. Well, my eyes. It was sort of like some kind of ridiculous game - who would be the first to break eye contact? If I was still alive and breathing, it wouldn't be me, that I could guarantee. I wasn't letting Jim have any victories, even a small one like that. 

"I don't know if I heard you correctly, Jim," I teased, "that almost sounded like you were asking me on a date."

When he didn't immediately respond, I interjected, "Here. I'll play nice and pretend you didn't say that, and we can rewind about 15 seconds. Sound good?"

I could tell I was making him angry, and he was doing his best to keep it in. But, he was on the edge, so I decided not to push him any further.

"I'll ask one more time, and then you'll either answer or we can do this the hard way," Moriarty said, his light, airy tone back in his voice, but then I could have sworn his voice dropped two octaves. "What are you doing tonight?"

I opened my mouth to speak, with only an eyebrow raised to question the drop in pitch and change in emotion, but he cut me off. 

"Of course," he continued, back to his normal tone of voice, "I suppose it doesn't matter." He stopped his sentence there, purposely leaving me to wonder what on earth he meant by that. A humourless smile spread across his face like butter over bread, and Moriarty ever-so-politely waited for me to respond.

We still hadn't broken eye contact, but although both of us were blinking, I began to feel slightly awkward, staring into this almost complete stranger's eyes.

Before I had tossed him out of my flat, I had planned on doing some research on him - I had even written a note and stuck it on my refrigerator to remind myself. But alas; every time I had gone there to grab some food, I had always been caught up in something. Sometimes it was a phone call from a particularly stupid person. Other times it was a desperate hunt for food.

"No, I'm not doing anything. Not that it matters, right?" I attempted to make myself sound casual, and judging by his smile, I had done something right.

"You're going to meet me at this place so we can have a little chat tonight, then." When I gave him a look of "really?", he continued, "Don't worry, I'm not inviting you to some greasy, sweaty bar. I obviously have more class than that, don't you think?"

"And what exactly makes you think I'll show up?"

I was a bit skeptical, but I was going to go anyway, no matter where it was. It sounded like an adventure, and besides, I honestly had no plans for that night other than getting a good night's sleep. Which, of course, could be put off until tomorrow. I just wanted to know his motives, see if I could discern what he was planning.

Everything he did was working, the way he wanted it to go, and he was enjoying it. I nearly flicked myself for getting caught in his trap. I wondered where he was talking about. I was questioning what we were doing, and it didn't seem like we were just going to sit and talk about our feelings. I had tripped and fallen right into his grasp, and now I had to get out of it.

Before he could reply, I added another sentence to my response. "And, although, I must agree that you have no lack of class, this sounds a bit. . . dangerous." Smiling with the last word, I non-verbally told him that I could beat him at his own sarcastic game.

"I'm innocent," he smiled back cruelly, convincing me of just the opposite. "And you will show up. Besides, it doesn't matter. I know for a fact that you'll come, and-"

"I'm not afraid of you, you know," I interrupted him, stopping him in his tracks.

The expression that spread across his face was not pleasant, and I held my breath as I waited for his response.

"Ooh. . .that was a mistake. I'll play nice and pretend you didn't say that, and we can rewind about 15 seconds. Sound good?" Moriarty smoothly used my own words against me with a smirk, his canine teeth sharp and brilliantly white, making him look almost like a vampire of sorts. 

It was then that my eyes finally flicked away from his, to rest upon the redhead that had just entered the small cafe, looking particularly displeased, most likely because I was currently sitting with someone else. It probably looked like I had forgotten about her, and I understood why she would have been annoyed that I was just having a chat with a client, or so it looked.

Jim turned, glanced at Lucy, then back at me, the smile never leaving his face. She reached our table in the back of the nearly-full cafe, and looked at me, then Moriarty, then back at me.

"Bella? Am I interrupting your date? Call me crazy, but I was relatively sure that we were supposed to meet here," she said, her voice sounding more monotone than anything else.

I was almost going to threaten her, for assuming I was on a date just because I was talking to a person of the opposite sex, but then I realised she probably was just trying to provoke me, so I shut my mouth. 

Before I could say anything, insulting or otherwise, Jim stood, brushing his Westwood suit off and pulling what looked like a business card out of his jacket.  He set it on the worn table, not even looking at it, and walked away wordlessly.

Lucy surveyed the situation, her eyes following him out of the cafe, then looking downwards at the card. The side that faced up was blank, but I knew the address would be on the other side.

"Please," I said, injecting sarcasm into my voice, "have a seat."

As she sat upon the chair that Moriarty had previously occupied, I had a small internal war with myself.

Do I pick it up?

Will I know the place?

What if he wants me to go to some ridiculous restaurant?

 I ended the struggle inside my brain, and picked up the card.

I didn't recognize the address, but I knew it was somewhere near here.

The card read only three words, plus a time, scrawled on the otherwise empty card in handwriting that managed to be messy and neat at the same time.

221B Baker Street, 8:30