Hannah - A Jim Moriarty FanFiction

Pulling up to the gates of the house, the driver knows that this is as far as he goes, but still, he gets out and walks around the car to open the door for his boss. Jim steps out, a briefcase in one hand and an umbrella in another, quickly and firmly waving the driver away, leaving him in the light downpour. Waiting until the driver is out of sight the tired Irishman slowly turns to the gate behind him.

On his way towards the large entrance gate of his estate Jim is distracted from his homicidal thoughts by a small sound in the darkness, almost like a choke. However, when casting his eyes around the consulting criminal can't see anything past a meters in front of him, not that the fog rolling in helps that at all. Damn London weather. Turning back to the task at hand he reaches into the inside pocket of his Westwood jacket, which is hidden under a dark, calf-length, wool trench coat, then it comes again, that sound.

This time, Jim is able to locate which direction it came from, so, retracting his hand from his inside pocket, he starts to walk off a few paces to the right hand side of his gate, only to find a relatively small bundle a few feet away from where he had stepped out of the car. Taking another step forward the mound on the floor moves, revealing bright, wide eyes, sitting in the face of a young woman, he hair, clothes and skin reflecting what little light there is on the street due to the saturated state of them.

His first thought usually being the one he follows, the crime boss turns around is about to walk away, to retreat to the comfort of his house when he hears a new sound coming from behind him, from the woman.

It's raining,

It's pouring,

The old man is snoring,

He went to bed and bumped his head,

He couldn't get up in the morning.

'Singing? She's singing?' The thought makes Jim pause and listen once more as she repeats the nursery rhyme in a somewhat haunting way, the lyrics layered with certain emotions that once plagued the great Moriarty as well: Depression, Indifference, Boredom. It's this that makes up his mind as he stands rooted to the spot, halfway between a gate and a homeless woman.

What he did next was surprising to them both, the man stood in front of the woman, a briefcase tucked under his arm, one hand holding an umbrella, and the other reaching out towards a stranger, “Do you want any help?” The kind words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.

The woman looks up at him and from his position, Jim can see that one of her eyes is an impossibly dark green, the other being a light brown in colour. The tiny head shake she gives would have been unnoticeable, had he not just been studying her face so intently.

Raising his eyebrows, Jim alters his question: “Do you need any help?” He reinforces his statement by moving his hand closer to the woman on the ground, feeling his mind trying to get him to walk away, but a strange sensation in his chest prevented him, almost blocking out his logic.

The woman sits there for a few more moments, looking between his face and his hand, her wide eyes sparkling and her pink lips still mouthing the lyrics to the nursery rhyme, until she goes completely still, her eyes locked on his as her hand very slowly leaves her lap and climbs steadily higher and higher in the air, coming to rest with her palm against his.