Not Exactly Prince Charming

Breaking into 221B hadn't been difficult at all. Downright banal; boring even.

The flat was empty, so Jim took the door and descended the stairs leading to the ground floor. He knocked on the door of 221A and flashed his most dazzling smile to the elderly landlady.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Hudson," he said, all innocent charm and sweet words, "would you happen to know where Sherlock is? I tried his flat, but he's gone off somewhere to play detective again."

"I'm afraid not, dear. You know how he is, always dashing about. I didn't catch your name," she asked, polite but also cautious.

"Oh, sorry, I'm Jim," he said, smiling more, "I'm Sherlock's squeeze," he added and as a final touch took her hand to give it a fleeting kiss.

Mrs. Hudson's eyes widened and her mouth cracked in a delighted beam. "Do come in then, have a cup of tea and tell me everything!" She all but dragged him inside.

Half an hour later, Sherlock was back and as he opened the front door, he was greeted by an affronted Mrs. Hudson.

"Young man," she said, stabbing him in the middle of his sternum with a finger in accusation, "how could you not tell me about Jim Moriarty?"

Sherlock went ashen-faced.

"Keeping from me you had such a sweet boyfriend!"