Unexpected

Chapter III

The next time Moriarty woke up, he was already surprisingly kind of stable. After staring at the mess of a man for more than a day now, Sherlock nearly pitied him, nearly.

"Good morning."

Moriarty's eyes found Sherlock in his chair, situated in the far most corner of the room, pretending to browse through his computer, although he had spent the last minute carefully observing the waking criminal in his bed, that he longed to regain.

"Hello sweetie," he greeted. Although he did his best to sound playful Sherlock sensed the weakness and anxiety radiating through the whole room. This was scary. Like visiting a soon-to-be-dead family member at the hospital.

"Sleeping well?"

Actually, Moriarty thought, he really enjoyed sleeping in Sherlock's bed, not that he hadn't done this before.

"You can call me sleeping beauty."

"I don't think so."

"Ouch!"

Moriarty wanted to cover his opened mouth in played surprise, just that as soon as he moved his arm the Irishman winced in pain.

"Better be careful," Sherlock said with a frown. To not sound too caring he added, "I don't want the trouble of changing your bandages just yet."

"How sweet of you. I guess I also have to thank Watson for this?" Moriarty asked in clear disgust.

"You better."

He let out an annoyed moan, the first thing that nearly brought a smirk onto Sherlock's face.

"Sherly, I'm afraid as a victim to my momentary circumstances I must ask a favour of you."

Sherlock frowned.

"Would you help me up?"

Moriarty tried saying it in a flirty tone of voice to cover up the fact that he in fact was too weak to move on his own. How embarrassing. Once again he really wished he was dead, although some of the recent events (being in Sherlock's bedroom) were quite enjoyable.

"Why?"

Moriarty shortly considered ripping off his bandages.

"I would like to use your bathroom," he squeezed out.

Sherlock's mouth formed a surprised 'O' and thank god he got up without further mocking, to awkwardly stand next to the bed. Just now Moriarty checked out what he was wearing. A striped cotton pyjama. From Dr Watson by no doubt. Dear Lord or Satan or whatever, please kill me.

"How did I end up in Watson's pyjamas by the way?" he asked while concealing the enormous pains in his arms when pushing back the covers on top of him, smelling like Sherlock...

"We drew straws," was all Sherlock replied. In fact it was him who carried Moriarty into his room and undressed and washed him... while John cleaned the bathroom.

That memory was buried deep dark in his mind palace not to be ever seen at daylight again, maybe at night... what no. Sherlock realised he had been drifting off when Moriarty stared up to him with a knowing grin. To avoid the situation he pulled him up rather quickly, only to be sorry for that a second later when Moriarty's feet had not been prepared yet to carry some weight and he fell into Sherlock's arms like a doll. Awkward. Very awkward.

As soon as Moriarty looked like he would not fall down any second Sherlock pushed him back a step, still holding his shoulders though. There was a thin layer of sweat covering the smaller man's forehead and although he tried, his smile looked rather agonized.

It was a torturous long journey with lots of embarrassing body contact and resulting physical and, on Sherlock's side, mental pain. Finally they stood next to the toilet, both avoiding each other's gaze.

"I suppose I can handle the rest on my own," Moriarty said.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him and replied, "you expect me to leave you, here?"

Moriarty rolled his eyes amusedly.

"So that's your kink, Sherly?"

The red-cheeked Sherlock ended up leaving the bathroom until Moriarty called him in again, so that they could make the unbelievably long way back to Sherlock's bedroom.

In the meantime Sherlock had heated up some canned soup he found and made tea for both of them. So when Moriarty was back in Sherlock's bed (sigh), looking worryingly pale and sweaty, they had a small snack.

"Thanks," Moriarty whispered when Sherlock handed him a straw to his soup because he had noticed how painful every movement was for the criminal... and he would not let himself down to feeding his enemy.

"Will you tell me eventually what brought you here? I mean into this situation," Sherlock tried starting that conversation again, trying to avoid staring at the explicit hand print bruise on Moriarty's neck. For once Moriarty had no clever answer and Sherlock was met with silence.

"Why did you keep me... here," Moriarty eventually asked back silently, implying two meanings at once.

"You should get some more rest," Sherlock avoided him and collected the dishes. For now Moriarty had successfully sidestepped that question again.