He stared at the pink phone. Moriarty would expect him to lie low for the time being. It's stupid to stick your neck out the door when the axe murderer just introduced himself.
However, it is unlikely that said murderer would be expecting a barrage of non-sequitur questions. Or a single question from whose answer he could deduce many things. No point asking unnecessary questions.
How could he ask a question if his subject left no number or address? Any public request of such information would immediately filter back to Mycroft. For that, he may as well ask his ubiquitous brother directly. Next option, then.
Actually, his murderer would be expecting something. Being so interesting must elicit some response from his future victim, but the form it would take could be anything. A rooftop declaration of love could be attention-grabbing, if not gaudy. Obviously Moriarty would see through it, and probably have him shot on the spot for failing to create a better plan.
There remained the obvious: just ask. Post a message on his website, wait not so patiently for the reply, go from there.
As it was, he was beginning to falter. He glanced at the clock.
1:32 PM. Post-meridiem, after the midpoint of the day. He groaned at this useless information. Two hours and thirty-eight minutes until John was expected to arrive home. Thirty-seven. Of course, there was always tomorrow, or after his flatmate was asleep. No, more manageable to have data sooner. More time to deliberate.
Now then, how to phrase it? Straight and functional always worked before.
Then again, John had been telling him that juvenile expression, "More flies are caught with honey than with vinegar," quite a lot lately in an attempt to encourage using polite manners more often. Irritating and idiotic. He'd been complaining about flies buzzing around a piece of corpse on the kitchen table, so he tested that very adage. Honey doesn't catch any flies whatsoever. Not that it proved anything about how his behaviour affected other people's propensity to tell him what he wanted to know.
How did he get from murderers to flies? He shook himself. Maybe it might be time for another long weekend gathering data from the field. John's effects on his thought patterns were not helpful.
He uncurled himself from the lounge, a herculean effort for someone less flexible. He looked around and crossed the room to pick up the laptop. Scuffed at the side, several years old. John's. He won't mind. Its ancient BIOS growled slowly into life. Waiting; bored now.
"Ahh," he said quietly as the desktop and various icons appeared, finally. If he was in a better mood later, he might just ask his brother to acquire a new laptop, more efficient than John's current model, for him. Might. A few swift clicks rattled on the keyboard.
"How do you contact a phone's previous owner," he typed, "without knowing their new number or address?" It would baffle his regulars, especially the Yard. Why would Sherlock Holmes not know how to find someone's contact details? Who was he trying to contact?
It was exactly eight seconds from posting the message to receiving a blip via the not-yet-confiscated phone. He'd counted. A notice flashed on the screen to alert him of a new unread text message.
"I'm very flattered. Why the sudden enthusiasm? I have the feeling there's something exciting you want to say... Call me ;)
Xoxo M"
Better than he'd planned. He called the number from which the text had been sent. It didn't get a chance to ring.
"Hello!" A cheery, Irish voice called from the other end. "My, my, I've captured the attention of the great Sherlock Holmes!" His intonation flickered up and down, seemingly with every syllable. "I told you to wait for my move, deary. Otherwise, you're cheating..."
"Moriarty," he began. "I have a question for you. Oh, and I'm pausing the game for a moment."
"Are you now?" His voice contained a hint of malice.
"Effectively. Think of it as a toilet break."
"I'm listening," now mildly amused.
"This is hard for me to ask... Quite a personal question, I'm sure everyone has their reasons for whatever they choose." He paused and waited for anything could use. Straining his ears, he heard nothing but silence on the other end. "Moriarty. What is your favourite song? Doesn't have to be mod—"
"Poker face, sung by Lady Gaga." Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Radio 1 live lounge version. Love her to bits, really." The consulting detective sat stunned, processing this new information. He almost missed the soft chuckle emanating from what seemed like far away. "Is that it, Sherly? My favourite food is linguine with tuna and parmesan, too, if you're planning a date." With two tongue clicks, he said, "Hello? I'm not talking to myself here!"
Sherlock cleared his throat surreptitiously and answered, "No, that's it. Thanks. I'll be on the lookout for the next case."
The disembodied voice finished with, "Good. Best be on your toes! Next one's interesting. Though no clues... You'll just have to wait, you naughty boy." Somehow, the statement felt like it should be followed by an obvious wink. "Unpausing, now." The phone emitted a loud click and dial tone.
Sherlock turned the phone off. 1:46 PM. Two hours and fourteen minutes to think about his most recent excursion into the mind of a madman. Not that there was anything wrong with Lady Gaga. He'd only come across the pop star when a particularly repressed serial killer enjoyed flaunting his work next to or under lyrics from her songs, dressing his victims in some of her more audacious outfits from the music videos.
Wait a minute... A glaring observation hit him like a freight train. He was more than a little surprised.
Moriarty listened to Radio 1?