He just came home to his one-of-many houses, from a recent meeting with a client. Walking down the corridor in his dark red dressing gown, he wiped his hand clean with a small handkerchief. The client was just unpleasant enough to cause his blood to land on Moriarty's hands. Killing people had always been fun, but doing it with his own hands is tedious work. Some alcohol down his throat would wash the cringe away, so he went to the selection of bottles to choose the one that fits the mood when he thought he heard a faint knock on the door. Snapping his head towards the door, he thought about how no one knew the occupant of this house was James Moriarty, so he shouldn't really worry. He waited for another knock, just to clarify that he didn't misheard the faint sound, but was replied with only silence. Sighing, he was about to pour a glass for himself when he heard another knock, louder and more pleading this time.
Slowly, he put the glass back down on the counter, and tucked a compact Glock 19 behind him and moved to the door ever so silently. There was no other sound whatsoever coming from the other side of the door, just the sound of ragged breaths. Moriarty turned the doorknob and froze in place when he opened the door and saw who had been knocking earlier.
"Sherlock...?" Moriarty asked in such a shocked but slow tone, as if asking himself if who he saw was indeed Sherlock. The detective had never gone there, at all, and he thought no one would know of his where about. Sherlock looked up from where he was clenching on his shirt, with a slightly dazed look in his eyes-so confused and yet so empty-an indication of drug use. But considering of the current situation, maybe it was not self-administered. Sherlock Holmes was assaulted. The idea sent a shiver of unease in him, even though he was technically supposed to feel glad that happened, as the villain. Both of them are not the most normal human beings alive, with little to none friends around willingly (well, Sherlock had John but it's quite a limited circle anyway). They are the closest to friends to each other that they're going to get.
Sherlock was swaying slightly when he tried to move to properly prop himself against the wall, obviously so close to passing out.
"...didn't know where else to go..." he slurred before he stumbled forward, collapsing into Moriarty's arms and almost bringing Moriarty down to the floor along. He was speechless. Evidently. He took a moment to see if Sherlock was really unconscious but seeing that the limp body wasn't moving except for the rise and fall of his chest from soft breathing, he pulled Sherlock inside with whatever energy he had to support the heavier figure.
It was a blessing that the sofa wasn't too far from the main door, because carrying the limp Sherlock took more energy than actually doing his own crime with his own hands. He hoisted him to the sofa and just stared in a bit of disbelief. Sherlock Holmes had come to me for help? It was the wildest suggestion of idea to have ever occurred in his mind. Sherlock was fully under the drug by now, because he seemed so calm, but his hand was still clenching on one part of his shirt. Curiously, Moriarty pried it away to see if there was blood of some sort, but nothing. If there were physical injuries on him, it would be internal. Stepping away from the unconscious man, he noticed an item in his grip-the hand that hadn't deter from clenching his navy shirt. Weird. Even in his sleep, he's keeping the item safe. He didn't bother being gentle because Sherlock was basically knocked out. A simple hard tug wont wake that man.
"What are you hiding, Sherlock?" he asked in a soft sing-song, as he uncurl Sherlock's slender fingers, to find a tiepin. What is this man on about protecting a simple tiepin until he got dru- oh. The tiepin was so, so familiar. A gold magpie tiepin with a red crystal eye, exactly identical to the one he put on Sherlock's suit when they both were locked in the cell during the court session. Either it's identical, or it's simply the same exact tiepin. But... why?
He inspected the tiepin in his hand longer, as if the longer time he spent on staring at it would extract even memories from it. Turning to Sherlock, he was just... confused. For once, he just couldn't put the pieces together from scraps of useless information. Maybe, he should just hold onto it until Sherlock wakes up. In the meantime, he decided to treat some of the little cuts and bruises on Sherlock, for an unexpected reason. Sherlock guarded the pin, for god knows why, so Moriarty felt compelled to try and fix him. By the time he was done, Sherlock had bandage around his torso and his wrists, and the cuts and bruises had been treated with antiseptic and cooling liquid. He questioned himself on why he insisted himself that he needed to treat Sherlock, personally even, but he was given no answer by the many sides of him. Perhaps, only Sherlock could answer him.
His head was throbbing by the time he felt his own consciousness seeping in. For God's sake what happened? Where am I? He couldn't recognize the interior of the home at all. But the style was strangely familiar. Confusion clouded his mind for a while longer before the memories from before he passed out came to his mind. Almost too bit quickly, he sat up from the sofa and grimaced at the ache on his abdomen. He automatically raised his hand to press on the ache but was surprised to feel a fabric against his skin. Looking down, he could see his torso and wrists were neatly covered with bandages, and some cuts were covered with medical gauze.
Unaware of the fact that the drug was still in his system, he rolled over to stand up but fell on the floor with a thud instead. Moriarty was just out of his bedroom with a set of comfortable clothes in his hands when he heard the thud. He rolled his eyes knowing what happened without even seeing the scene itself.
"You came to my house, might as well behave as a guest, Sherlock" he called out while walking back to the living room to help Sherlock back up on the sofa. At first Sherlock was repulsive of the gesture, but seeing that he couldn't do it himself, he let Moriarty dragged him back up. Sherlock just looked at Moriarty while he worked him back on the cushion, just in awe of how human he could be. Moriarty as a consulting criminal always looked like a mischievous, cold, heartless but childish manipulator. But now he just looked like a resigned caretaker, strict but welcoming. The contrast was unsettling, but then again he wasn't any different. The facade he present to the world and intimately was as different as the night and day. Sherlock was startled out of his thoughts by a simple question that sounded as unsure as it was.
"Why here?" Moriarty asked without bothering to make eye contact.
Of course, being drugged just made one person loosen up without much filter as you would when you're fully aware of what you let slip from your mouth. And for Sherlock, that was almost equivalent to committing a sin. Emotions are not to be shown to people outside of intimacy, especially not to your own enemy. But, Moriarty was more than just an enemy. He was like a playmate who cheat on the game too much-they don't necessarily hate each other outside the game.
"John is off somewhere and I didn't have that many places to go" a pause. "Or that many people to rely on".
"Relying on me isn't the wisest thing to be done, Sherlock," he said, sounding quite annoyed or just plain exhausted right now. Sherlock push himself by the elbow to be eye to eye with Moriarty-least he still have some energy left in him.
"I seem to be able to rely on you to treat my injuries, though," he murmured, loud enough for Moriarty to hear, earning him a glare from Moriarty.
"I wouldn't have to if you didn't appear so weak on my doorstep," he pulled something from inside his dressing gown's pocket and opened his fist in front of Sherlock, to show the tiepin, "and if you didn't have this with you". If you didn't have something so intriguing, I would drop you back on the sidewalk. Sherlock looked at the tiepin with wide eyes filled with something between embarrassment and regret, fear even. They were silent for a long while before Moriarty closed his hands again after realizing that the man on the couch wouldn't utter any word for now.
"I don't like one-way conversations, Sherlock. Bloody speak up!" he raised his voice and it was enough to make Sherlock snap back to reality.
"I-I don't... You were uhm... you're the person I feel closest to, apart from John, even in such a twisted way. I guess... I.. like... you?" he stuttered through the sentence, sounding doubtful if he should utter the truth from the start. Cautiously, he glanced at Moriarty to see him frowning and obviously thinking through what he had just said, probably processing on what to think of this. Just like how Sherlock would have reacted if he was told the same thing. 'I am you' had never sounded so accurate.
"I take it back. Don't speak up and just shut up," he sighed and looked down at the couch. Sherlock appeared more cautious and resentful by now, not knowing whether or not to initiate eye contact with the other man.
"I said shut up"
"No. If that little slip of the tongue is so unsettling to you, forgetting it is as easy as a snap of the fingers for the both of us,"
"The problem right now is that I don't think... I feel like I don't want to forget it?" he replied while also questioning himself. What the heck is this? Moriarty contemplated on what exactly was he feeling right now, and he felt that Sherlock was just as confused as he was. Pushing himself up, he took the clothes he abandoned on the coffee table and hand it over to Sherlock before patting him on his arm.
"Go back to rest". Sherlock couldn't manage a word out of his mouth before Moriarty walked towards the back of the house, probably towards his bedroom. He trailed the footsteps with his eyes until the shorter man was out of view. Maybe the only way he'd know what Moriarty honestly felt was if he kicked Sherlock out of the premise.
The clothes Moriarty had brought for him fit well with his broader figure, and that made him wonder on where he had gotten the larger sized clothes, or rather, why. It doesn't look like a newly bought set of clothes, too, so obviously he had them for a while. God knows when that man will come back out to the living room, so Sherlock spent his time roaming around the living room and memorize every detail he deemed somewhat important or at least just necessary for him to know. One thing he realized was that there's not even one picture of a family member. There's one of Moriarty with a taller man, but they don't have any similar features at all, so he had to assume it wasn't a relative. He picked the framed picture up to inspect it further when he heard the sound of someone clearing his throat nearby.
"Behave, Sherlock. You're in my house," he gestured for Sherlock to put the frame down. With a sigh, he gently placed it back on the mantle and stepped in front of Moriarty then held out his hand to the smaller man.
"Give me the tiepin back," he adjured the criminal, but all Moriarty did was shrugged.
"Why should I?"
"Because you will anyway. If you don't, I can just steal it back,"
"Why is it so important to you?"
"Because it's from you. Even if when you gave it to me was full of mockery and pride, it's still from you," he kept his blank facade intact. Moriarty took his time to counter that statement, and that had Sherlock holding his breath subconsciously when waiting for a response.
"You could have more than that if you just asked, politely," and then they let their wall break even just a little, still maintaining eye contact.
"I want you," he swallowed his pride and firmly gripped both of Moriarty's shoulders.
"I don't think so," he glanced at the hands on his shoulders and felt weirded out at how he was relaxing against the touch. The touch was welcomed, but the request was unexpectedly expected. Who would want a man who kill for fun, who commit crimes when he's bored, and who sees torture as an entertainment? But favour the warmth, he tensed again when Sherlock leaned in slightly and try to read his face before his lips descended upon the criminal's.
If he's being honest, he could feel that the kiss was a shock for both of them. Sherlock was bewildered when he himself initiated the kiss and Moriarty stood frozen for a second before letting himself melt into it. It was a chaste kiss, as if just to seal his words onto Moriarty, but he felt content for it. Sherlock let his hand slide from Moriarty's shoulder down to his biceps and gripping softer. He could feel Moriarty pull away from the kiss first but didn't step away from the hold.
"I told you you should ask politely," he persisted in an almost whisper after a few moments of silence. The taller man could only beamed with satisfaction that Moriarty didn't feel repulsed whatsoever, although he was evidently trying to get used to the gesture of affection. It's a start. And he was fine with the pace. He tilted his head to see Moriarty frowning and almost pouting at how confused he was in his train of thoughts about the kiss, and the flutter he felt inside him.