Sherlock, having finished his tea and been ushered by John, picked up his phone and called Mycroft.
"I was expecting you to call. Have you got an excuse?" Mycroft immediately asked upon picking up the phone.
Sherlock made his way down the hall. He needed to talk to Mycroft without John hearing...
"I suppose there's no point in trying 'Moriarty staged it all' with you..." Sherlock muttered, closing his bedroom door behind him.
"Oh God, I hope that's not what you told the others," Mycroft stated in disgust.
"You see, he was trying to get everyone to believe I have poor judgement and act irrationally - and therefore resent me," Sherlock explained.
"They didn't believe that..." Mycroft sounded as if he was more praying for it than stating it.
"It's the truth." Sherlock tried.
"Oh shut up," Mycroft muttered. "So what really happened? I'm curious to what changed."
"I-..." Sherlock started. Upon seeing a jacket he didn't recognise as his own or John's, he stopped. Turning, his saw a guest on his bed.
Moriarty was lying with his eyes closed and earphones in.
"Did you miss me?" He asked, not moving from his position.
Sherlock hung up on Mycroft.
"You weren't gone long enough," He replied to Moriarty's question. Noticing the bags that had been placed next to the bed, Sherlock went to see what else Moriarty had settled in with.
"I missed you." He stated. Sherlock glanced round: concerned that he sounded serious. However, he was quite relieved by a teasing grin.
"Why are you here?" Sherlock asked. He knew it sounded blunt, but he honestly didn't care. If Moriarty thought he could just pop over whenever he felt like, purely because they'd fucked - he was very mistaken.
"Kitty kicked me out," He answered with a wobbling pout and a whiny tone, sitting up and propping himself on his elbows.
Sherlock instantly picked up on what Moriarty was implying.
"You can't stay here." He walked over to the side of he bed, looking down at Moriarty. He looked back at him an extremely smug smirk.
"Will you tell Dr Watson?" He asked. Sherlock glowered, understanding that he had a strong point. "Or Big Brother Holmes? Tell him I'm being bad..." His eyes were innocently wide, but he was wearing a devilish smirk. He drawled out the word 'bad', and licked his lips after.
Sherlock exhaled deeply before talking.
"You can stay, so long as no one knows. Not John, not Mycroft, not even Mrs Hudson: no one." He watched Moriarty casually shrug in response.
"Land lady knows I'm here. She's crazy, it's fantastic," Moriarty replied, he was back on his phone. Sherlock didn't even know what he did on the damn thing. Probably working at his criminal web: making connections, scheming, pulling strings from across the world. Still, he had a straight face, and was showing no indication of being a criminal mastermind.
"Did she pull a gun on you?" Sherlock asked.
"Does she do it often?" Moriarty questioned in response, looking a cross between impressed and confused. Sherlock thought about his answer for a moment.
"Not overly, but neither is it rare." There'd been a few occasions that Mrs Hudson had pulled guns on people. Most of the time, it was Sherlock. The rest, for Sherlock.
"Impressive," Moriarty muttered, returning his eyes to the mobile screen.
Sherlock sat on the bed, next to Moriarty's outstretched legs.
"Why are you here?" He repeated.
"Kitty kicked me out." Moriarty relayed the same answer, but without the dramatics. It was obvious he was aware that that wasn't what Sherlock had meant.
"Surely there're better places for you to stay. Staying with a rival seems a bit-"
"Rival?" Moriarty interrupted. "Don't undersell yourself like that, it breaks my heart," He stated, sounding very un-heartbroken.
"And how would you describe it?" Sherlock questioned. He was genuinely curious for Moriarty's insight on the arrangement they'd put themselves into.
Putting his phone away, finally, Moriarty leant forward. He traced a gentle line under Sherlock's left cheekbone, watching his hand intently as he did so.
His eyes flickered momentarily to Sherlock's lips, before settling on his eyes.
"I'm not overly wordy, I'm better with numbers," He replied.
"Explain it with numbers, if it's easier for you," Sherlock ordered, lifting his head to guide Moriarty's touch downward to his jaw.
"It's like dividing zero." Moriarty smiled, slowly climbing onto Sherlock's lap.
"Impossible?" Sherlock asked, raising his brow.
"It can't be defined." By Moriarty's tone and the smirk he wore, Sherlock could tell he was quite proud of his joke. Unfortunately, Sherlock wasn't impressed.
"That was awful," He stated bluntly. Moriarty furrowed his brow.
"Of course it was, it was a maths joke," He replied, as if it were blatantly obvious.
Fair enough, Sherlock thought, pulling Moriarty closer to to him with his hands on his thighs.
He had fantastic thighs... He had fantastic everything, really. He was the fantastic Moriarty. He was so perfect to Sherlock. To him, Jim Moriarty was the perfect collection of flaws and oddities. An amazing human bundle of strangeness and bewilderments, but still a human. He lived, he breathed, he felt, yet it'd taken Sherlock until that day to realise it.
Moriarty had been a challenge, a task to overcome - but he was a human being...
At that moment, he looked very human. Usually Moriarty wore a mask that concealed all signs of inner thought and emotion, and only put on what he wanted people to see in him. Be that as it may, there he was, straddling Sherlock with every thought showing clearly in every movement he made, every facial expression he wore, and every inch of his body.
Not that there appeared to be many things on Moriarty's mind. It seemed the main thing he was thinking about was sex, and judging by the tensing of his muscles and wild look in his eyes, rough sex at that. Which actually seemed more animalistic, once Sherlock had put some thought into it.
"Stop trying to deduce me, Sherlock," Moriarty whispered, lips close to Sherlock's ear. "Seduce me instead."
"You seem already rather seduced on your own," Sherlock replied, letting his hands wander to Moriarty's behind.
He let out a low laugh, his breath tickling the top of Sherlock's ear. He ran both his hands through Sherlock's dark curls, leaning his weight against Sherlock's shoulder.
"I get like this sometimes..." He drawled quietly. "I come here-"
"I know you do," Sherlock interrupted. He laughed again, the sound breathy and devilish. "I've seen what you leave behind," Sherlock stated. "Your note about the eyes was clever."
"I am clever," Moriarty responded, leaning back to look at Sherlock face-on.
"I know you are." Sherlock closed the distance between them, initiating a desperate, yet breath-taking kiss.
He certainly had the line between enemy and inamorato completely and utterly blurred. They were perfect to challenge each other, but that just made them more perfect to captivate one another.
However, what to do next? It was case even Sherlock Holmes couldn't solve.
He'd thought about it, but Sherlock could only ever see it ending badly. It was too strong of a fire, and it was bound to burn out quickly and perilously.
Despite it, he wanted it; he yearned for it; he desperately needed it.
It definitely seemed that Sherlock Holmes was utterly enamoured with Jim Moriarty: and perhaps he was.