Sherlock awoke, clutching a letter he'd written for Moriarty the unsettling day he'd left him. He wanted to send it to him so badly, but there was no way that was possible. He hid the letter away days after he wrote it, so he wasn't exactly sure why he had it held to his chest now. He must've drank a little bit too much last night, and dug it out to read it again. He did that more than he'd like to admit. He stood up from his bed, looking at the aftermath of his apparent drunken night. He grabbed a pack of cigarettes and slipped one between his lips, letting it rest there without lighting it. John hated that he smoked, so he'd been trying to quit. He just liked the comfort of having it there. Then,suddently, there was a gentle knock at the door. He threw the unlit cigarette to the ground. Still absentmindedly holding the letter in his hand, he made his way to the door to answer it. It was John Watson, his adorable little friend that he considered a pet. John was loyal enough to be a dog to Sherlock. He loved him, just not in the way John loved him. There were only two people in the world that Sherlock cared for: John and Moriarty.
Sleepily rubbing his eyes, Sherlock incoherently mumbled something along the lines of "What are you doing here? It's far too early for you. And me."
John smiled sheepishly and happily said, "I think we've got a case on our hands. Someone is coming to meet us soon. I thought I'd get here a little early to talk. I'm assuming you're not in the mood for that though, are you?"
"Not really. But you're already here now, aren't you. Come in." Sherlock swiftly turned away, realizing what he still held in his hand. If John saw the letter, he'd probably be heartbroken. He quickly returned to his bed and stuffed it under his mattress, assuming that'd be fine for now. John followed behind him, and plopped down on Sherlock's bed, probably enjoying the fact he could still smell the scent of Sherlock on the pillows next to him. Sherlock stood in front of him, expectantly waiting for John to explain what was going on.
"So..." John began, "How was your night? I couldn't sleep a wink."
"I suppose it was fine. Is that really all you wanted?" Sherlock replied, getting visibly annoyed with the fact he'd been forced to be social this early in the morning for no good reason.
"Yes, that's all I wanted. I guess I just missed you." John's voice faded as he ended his sentence. He knew Sherlock hated showing any kind of affection, so he didn't expect any kind of sweet reply.
They sat in silence for a few moments, when once again there was a knock on the door. John popped up, deciding he'd answer it since it was probably the client they were expecting. Sherlock could hear the door opening in the next room, and heard an extremely dramatic gasp. It almost sounded fake to him. A few seconds later he heard a voice he'd been dying to hear for months, sounding extremely pissed.
"Hello, Mr. Watson. I wasn't expecting you to be here. I was under the impression you would still think Sherlock was dead. I'm here to see him, not you."
It was indeed Jim Moriarty's powerful, beautiful voice belting from the next room.
