Falling...

Chapter Three - A Pleasant Smell

Sherlock sat up, awoken by the pleasant smell of nicotine. He didn't know how long he'd been asleep, but he felt awful. If he could find the source of the nicotine, maybe he'd feel better.
Looking around, he sniffed the air. His eyes landed on Jim Moriarty, whom was sat in a chair facing the bed.  His head was back, his eyes closed, and a cigarette between his lips.

Memories began immediately providing themselves. Memories of him being sat on Sherlock's lap, holding tightly to his shoulders, moaning his name like a heavenly prayer, and leaning his head back similar to how he was then.

"Morning sunshine," Moriarty said, not moving his head, but allowing a small smile to grace his features.

Sherlock furrowed his brow. There was no way that it could be morning...

"Sorry, evening." Moriarty muttered. He opened one eye, glancing at Sherlock. "You were only asleep two hours, don't worry," He put on a voice that resembled aspects of enthusiasm, comfort and a little bit of patronising  kindness.

Sherlock furrowed his brow. Something was off, but he was too damn tired to tell what it was. He held his head in his hands. The room kept lurching around him.

"Aw, baby, what's wrong?" Moriarty frowned. He uncrossed his legs, standing up, and approached Sherlock. He walked with a saunter and stood over Sherlock.
As looked up at him, he took the cigarette from his mouth and bent down; he put it between Sherlock's lips with a smug smirk on his own.

"Who's in the living room?" Sherlock asked, after taking a drag. That was what was off: the voices in the living room. Three of them. John, Molly and...

"Now what do we do about him?" He heard Lestrade ask.

"All your friends. I don't think they like me very much..." Moriarty replied to Sherlock. He pretended to look upset by the fact Sherlock's 'friends' disliked him.
Sherlock hooked his arm around his neck, pulling him closer, and pressing their lips together.

"There're no more snipers," Moriarty reminded, only moving enough to speak, his voice quiet.

"I know," Sherlock answered, returning Moriarty's cigarette. He then pushed Moriarty, both hands on his chest, with such force that he fell backward - onto the floor next to the bed.

"What the fuck were you thinking?!" John exclaimed, entering the room in a fury. Sherlock looked at him with an element of concern.

"W-what?" He asked, rubbing his head - not that it helped.

"Sleeping with Moriarty, that's what!" John shouted. He'd actually gone red in the face.

"I... What? Who slept with Moriarty?" Sherlock questioned, turning to him.

"Nice try. I saw him. We all saw him. In his underwear, actually," John replied, folding his arms tightly. Molly and Lestrade had gone quiet - clearly listening in. Sherlock would usually have a problem with eavesdropping, but in that circumstance, it was actually quite convenient that they were listening.

"W-when? When did you...?" Sherlock asked.

"Just now. He was in the kitchen," John answered. He motioned to the other room with one hand, before returning it to its place of being folded across his chest.

"He's in the kitchen?" Sherlock lowered his voice, leaning and eyeing the door warily.

"Not now! He came back in here!" John had returned to shouting. He was using the voice he used when he thought Sherlock was trying to wind him up.

"Back in here? Moriarty was never-..."

"Never here? His clothes were in the living room - and so were yours. They still are, in fact." John motioned once again to the other room.

"My clothes? John, I'm wearing my-... Oh." Sherlock looked down at his bare torso and the sheets that were covering the rest of him. "I actually don't remember coming here..." He mumbled, looking around.

"Oh? What - Moriarty planted this whole thing? Tried to trick us that you slept with him?!" John questioned angrily.

"To increase the suspicion on my mentality. Of course, it makes perfect sense. You didn't believe I'd hired him as an actor - but you would believe that I had attachment to him as an intellectual equal, or near equal. Therefore, you'd believe that I'd act irrationally on that attachment." Sherlock stood up, wrapping the sheet around himself. He headed to the other room. With John in tow, he glanced back at the bedroom.

Moriarty was stood with his arms folded, tapping his foot silently.
'Near equal,' He mouthed, before rolling his eyes. Sherlock concealed his smirk as he entered the living room.

"Let's see, he probably broke in... Unless..." He put his hands to his lips in thought.

"Where is he now, then?" Lestrade asked.

"No idea. Probably climbed out the window. Most likely long gone. No point in looking for him," Sherlock replied, he raised his voice a little, looking around. He found his clothes scattered on the floor.

"Change in the bathroom. I'm going to search your room," John turned and went down the hall.

~~~

Jim turned and moved out of the way of the door, rubbing his shoulder, scowling. A simple 'Watson's coming' would've been fine, but apparently Sherlock would rather roughly shove him onto the wood floor like a damn sack of potatoes.
He listened to the idle chatter in the other room for a moment, taking a seat on the bed. It was surprisingly comfortable...

"No idea. Probably climbed out the window. Most likely long gone. No point in looking for him," Sherlock shouted from the living room. Rolling his eyes, Jim took the hint. He went to the window and lifted up the pane. It made a creaking noise as it went up, the wood threatening to splinter.

"Oh Sherlock, you bastard," Jim muttered, looking at the drop. There was no way in living hell he was going to willingly jump out a second story window so that Sherlock wouldn't have to admit he screwed him to his friends. The landing would be softened by some rubbish bins, but he was wearing one of his favourite suits...

"Change in the bathroom. I'm going to search your room," Watson announced, his footsteps approaching.

Typical.
Just typical.

Jim hastily got one leg up on the ledge, swinging the other up after. As the door handle turned, he pushed himself forward.
As soon as he landed, he was surrounded by the pleasant smell of rotting food from the café.

"Thank you, Sherlock," He grumbled, getting out of the giant mass of black bin bags. As he walked away, he muttered all sorts of profanities about the detective.