A/N: This strayed so far from the original plot I had in mind that I could still write that initial plotline and have it look barely anything like this. I got carried away, lol. So, brief Sheriarty with extremely vague mentions of Johnlock and MorMor. For Rachel…because she's reading this, I know it. She probably cares nothing for this couple, but, oddly enough, neither do I; I just felt the urge to write some good old-fashioned hero/villain interaction, hehe.
He heard the clink, clink of glassware first, and that was when he realized he wasn't alone. There was a lag in his brain, it seemed, for he couldn't make himself open his eyes. After a while he began to question the likelihood of blindness, though this suspicion faded away after exactly twenty seconds when he was finally able to lift his eyelids again.
Sherlock attempted to blink through the blur that was obviously the result of sleep, barely able to see the darkly-dressed man across from him, who appeared to be pouring tea into cups distinctive of 221B. The detective was home, then. But who was this? Mycroft, perhaps? No, the man was too short and thin to be his brother… Ah. It clicked.
"Moriarty," he slurred, only just realizing that he'd been drugged; he was beginning to feel the side effects of awaking with the remnants of them in his system.
The crooning sing-song that arose in response proved to Sherlock that he was correct. "Oh, good, you're awake. I was afraid I'd killed you! Can't have that, can we?"
The room fell silent except for the systematic clinking of a spoon against a teacup. "Do you take sugar in your tea?" There was an infinitesimal pause, after which Moriarty gave two loud peals of laughter, as if this question were especially absurd. "Of course not; you're not as fond of sweets as I."
"Moriarty." He didn't know why he repeated himself, but at least this time it sounded more like a name and less like a groan.
"Save the calling of my name for later, dear." Again, the man laughed, and Sherlock's subconscious caused him to furrow his eyebrows and scoff.
"What are you doing here?"
The answer was little more than a lilting, drawn-out "uh" and another clink of the spoon, this time slightly muffled as it was set on the table.
Now that Sherlock's vision was clear, he could easily see the delicate, almost effeminate movements of Moriarty's dominant hand as he passed one teacup-bearing saucer to the other side of the wooden table. "I came for a casual visit, Sherlock. Isn't that obvious?"
Slowly but surely, the detective was gaining his speech back, and by the time he managed a biting, sarcastic response in return to Moriarty's statement, he'd come to the realization that it was, indeed, the truth. He could tell from the other man's body language that he wasn't here on "business," and he clearly had no intention of killing Sherlock—the manner in which he held his saucer gave that away. What could he possibly want, then? There had to be something other than a simple visitation. Why did he bother with showing up like this?
"All right…" The sing-song had escalated again, a sure sign that the criminal was about to show Sherlock exactly how well he could read his thoughts. "I'll do you a grand favor and explain myself. That's not something I normally do, so do pay attention, darling."
With a faint clink and scrape, Moriarty lifted his teacup to his lips, took a sip, and set it back down once more. Dark eyes never left Sherlock's. Both pairs were cold, hard, and unmoving; Moriarty's seemed never to blink, much to the detective's dismay as he lost eye contact for a split second to the involuntary falling of his eyelids.
"Go on, then," he prompted, narrowly avoiding a hiss.
Moriarty smiled wickedly. "I don't suppose you'd understand," there was another verbal hiatus here, which may have been the man's way of taunting, except for the fact the sarcasm in it was too heavy to be a teasing challenge, "but I like to know everything about my enemies." There it was. It was obvious enough to anyone around Sherlock that he disliked not knowing things. As long as he was interested in the subject, details mattered just as much as glaring clues. "I don't know everything about you, Sherlock."
"But you are me. I am you. Remember?" Sherlock was jesting now, too, which delighted rather than angered the other. "You must know everything."
"All things but one."
Yet another pause, long and electrified, took place. Sherlock's stare had narrowed to a measure suitable for expressing his annoyance, yet Moriarty's remained steady and calculating. His voice sounded the exact way his eyes appeared. "Ah. That emotional display proves you've been spending too much of your time with that John fellow. He's a nice chap, but nothing too fancy in terms of looks or dress."
For some odd reason, Sherlock took offense to that statement. "You mean to say that he's not attractive?"
"Your tone of voice suggests that you think he is." The final pause between them made the detective's eyebrow twitch; Moriarty's simply rose in a brief display of awareness regarding his truthful assumption. The teacup came off the saucer again. "Oh, have I pegged you so correctly, my dear." His voice clicked on the "ect" in the emphasized word, and the taller of the two suddenly found himself on his feet, towering above the other with his fists clenched at his sides.
"You came to me, now state your business; otherwise I should thank you to kindly leave our flat."
"Our flat?" that irritating voice chimed amusedly. "Just delightful. How am I ever to request what I want from you if you keep on referencing him like that?"
"What do you want?"
"I want you to address me by name, for one thing. You're a remarkably rude host, Mister Holmes."
"Moriarty." The eye-roll seemed almost audible, though Moriarty's grin was louder.
"We're on a first-name-basis, aren't we?"
"You referred to me as 'Mister' just moments ago… It has now come to my attention that you are requesting something of a rather lewd and unofficial nature."
"You know your stuff." Moriarty's muscles seemed to relax in a domino effect, beginning with his shoulders and ending with his ankles, which had been primly crossed and were now settled half a foot apart. He was leaning back on the couch, tea long since forgotten on the table that was now just an inch away from his knees.
When Sherlock didn't answer, the criminal continued, but not without sparing an over-dramatic sigh. "Don't make me beg."
The curly-haired male did his best to remain impassive, but his voice betrayed him, catching the slightest bit when he choked on the first word: "That would be interesting."
"Ohhh, Sherlock, you naughty thing. Your John must be very happy."
The words forming Sherlock's reply were merely mouthed—he saw no reason to voice them aloud, since they were more of a note to himself than anything. He did, however, spare his "guest" two carefully-formed syllables in the form of a less-than-merry "Get out." Though, somewhere in the heart he was barely aware existed, he knew that Moriarty wouldn't leave. Not without being given what he wanted. So, reluctant and yet strangely curious, he inquired.
As he'd predicted, the other met the question with a declaration of his intent, followed by a rather vivid description of what he thought he deserved of Sherlock, and then a conclusion that momentarily threw said man off guard.
"Pardon? A person like yourself would never trek all this way for…"
"A kiss? That's where you're wrong. It's truly all I ask." Thin lips curled into another devilish grin. "For now."
Rather stunned, Sherlock looked over his shoulder to glance out the window behind him, then returned his focus to the formally-dressed brunette who was currently reclining on the sofa and asking him for a kiss, of all the bloody ridiculous things. "You're a madman."
"You are me. I am you. Remember?" Oh, how terribly bitter those words sounded when the boomerang was coming back the other way.
With a silent sigh, Sherlock acquiesced. Moriarty all but darted to his feet, and his presence before the other, marked by the tips of their shoes touching, reminded the taller of them to bend down a bit.
His apparent arch-rival had surprisingly soft lips, for someone who spent all his time biting them. (Wrong, Sherlock thought quickly. The marks faced the wrong way; someone else has been biting them.) They moved slowly against his own in a vaguely-familiar fashion, though they definitely weren't as skilled or as pleasant as John's.
Then, in an instant, Moriarty's fingers had twisted into Sherlock's hair, and he was yanked down another half an inch, prompting him to lose his focus and balance all at one time. The duo went toppling to the floor, the shorter of them pinned beneath six feet of lanky detective. The former spoke in biting insults, of which the other managed to catch none past the blood rushing in his ears.
They quickly clambered up, then the incident was promptly abandoned by thought, where fake smiles and pleasantries took its place.
"That wasn't so bad," Moriarty mused.
"Oh, not at all," Sherlock returned in his "of course I'm not mad, John, I'm merely sulking for absolutely no reason!" voice. "In fact, all my kisses end up on the floor."
"I'm sure many of your romantic endeavors do." The other was quick with his quip, but Sherlock couldn't seem to focus on anything but the fact that those bite-marked lips had actually been on his just moments prior.
"Well, if you'll excuse me, I have a handsome blond of my own waiting for me. Ta-ta, Sherlock. It was fun, and, well—now I know everything."
The detective fought the urge to scoff. "Like what, exactly?"
"That John is one lucky, lucky man."
With one last curling grin, Moriarty left 221B Baker Street, and, by extension, the rare sight of one completely bemused Sherlock Holmes.