"Okay, Miss Adler, see ya!" Jim put down the phone, breathing out. And flopping down on the couch. He flicked his shoes up onto the couch and crossed his legs, leaning back over the arm.
"Everything okay, Jim?" asked a voice from somewhere behind him. James smiled to himself.
"Yes, thank you, Sebby," Jim replied, closing his eyes and smiling, "Everything is just perfect..." He heard a light snigger.
"I take it you'll be seeing Sherlock tonight, then?" Seb asked, stepping closer. Jim chuckled.
"Oh yeah!" he said, hoisting himself up and turning to smile at him. Seb laughed.
"Have a nice time," he said, clapping him softly on the shoulder, "Text me if you need me, you know where I am, James," he squeezed his shoulder lightly and turned to walk away, again. Jim levered himself up and smiled, adjusting his suit and making his way out of the room.

Sherlock curled up on the couch, watching his phone intently on the coffee table. He lay very still, listening to every sound. He could do this for nights, waiting for Moriarty...
He let his mind travelled on to other things. He thought briefly about Lestrade – he'd not been called in to a case for a while... He hadn't seen Anderson for a while, then. He preferred that. The look of annoyance that he got of Anderson every time he turned up at a case was annoying enough. And Sally Donovan. He quickly changed his train of thought, driving it in a different direction. He focused, instead on John. He wondered what he was doing. Well, of course, he would be standing awkwardly in the restaurant, pretending he was feeling comfortable, ordering a starter. Sherlock rolled over and clutched at his head. This was driving him insane. Every creak, every movement, made him start, make him think... Even hope... But he knew. Oh, Sherlock knew if it was him. Of course he would know. James Moriarty was not a man, as Sherlock had pointed out before, he was a spider. So he would not just do what any other man would do, he would know what he was doing, know what Sherlock's obvious strengths and weaknesses were, know how to manipulate him.
"If Lestrade would bother looking, I might have a case," Sherlock muttered angrily, making his way over to John's laptop, aiming to read some of his emails to entertain himself. And that's when he heard it. A small creak. Almost inaudible. But Sherlock's bat-like hearing picked it up. He paused, breathing shallowly. He listened.

Halfway up the stairs of 221b, James Moriarty grinned as he stepped on the creaky stair. He paused, a gleeful grin lighting up his mischievous look. He enjoyed the feeling of anticipation coming from somewhere above him, where he knew that Sherlock would be feeling nervous. He decided to pause for around ten minutes, leaving Sherlock in suspense. Yes, he thought, deciding, that is how he'd play it.

Above him, Sherlock unfroze and began pacing. He knew that if that was Moriarty, he would have stopped, would have wound Sherlock up even more. So was it Moriarty? The minutes went by and Sherlock had to accept that it may just have been a... mouse? Probably. Or it could have been his over-active brain. He clutched his head once again and looked up. And then he heard a noise outside of the door. He dismissed it after a couple of minutes, after hearing a scuttle. A mouse.

Jim Moriarty laughed silently, squatting down and tapping the floor, imitating the sound of a mouse. Oh, Sherlock, he thought silently as he heard the other man walk away towards his bedroom, you really are a complete idiot. And with that, he smirked, stood up, slowly and silently, and placed his hand on the door. Unlocked... How odd... Or perhaps, perhaps Sherlock wanted... Yes, he would want to know.

Sherlock lay in bed, his knees tucked up to his chin and his eyes staring straight at the wall ahead. He narrowed the bright blue stars and bit his lip. It was so annoying, not knowing, especially when it concerned Jim Moriarty. Moriarty. He thought bitterly, and forced himself to think of other things. He did not notice the bedroom door open, as he had his back to it and was currently playing a game of chess with himself in his brilliant mind. He jumped as he heard the sound of Jim clearing his throat slightly.
"James Moriarty," Sherlock stated, not moving, not blinking. Jim smiled at the door, a reptilian smile that highlighted his evil. He cocked his head.
"Hi, Sherlock," he said, then sounded disappointed, "Not want to give me a friendly greeting? Invite me in? Make me welcome? A cup of tea would be lovely, you've no idea how –" Sherlock snapped.
"Oh, what do you want?" he hissed, turning the top half of his body around to look at him. "Send me all them texts, keep me on the edge –" he lifted his head up more, "How long did you stay on the stairs for?" he did not wait for an answer, but carried on, Jim's smile widening and a small chuckle escaping his lips as Sherlock wound himself up, more and more... "And then you waltz in here, expect a friendly greeting, oh, Moriarty, I think we're past that, don't you? From what you've just made me do, you've made me rather frustrated because I didn't know. Exactly what you wanted to hear. I didn't know what you were doing. Oh, wait, but I did, at the same time. I didn't know exactly what but I knew your game, James, I knew what you were doing. Make me uptight and touchy. Make me vulnerable, make me weak. Yes, it worked. Why?" Sherlock pierced him with bright blue eyes and James Moriarty shrugged.
"I was bored." Sherlock narrowed his eyes.
"You were bored." He said, dully. Then he laughed, "You were bored," he repeated again. Then he stopped laughing and looked over at James, who had raised an eyebrow, amused.
"Oh, stop it!" Sherlock said, rolling back over and wrapping his arms around his legs and pressing his forehead against his knees. "Leave me alone."
Whatever Sherlock had expected, what happened next was completely unexpected. He did not expect to feel a pressure pressing down on the bed and a few seconds late feel a pair of arms snaking around either side of his waist. He did not expect the hands to clutch at his purple shirt and even less the cheek on his back. He didn't expect the legs, crouching up to meet his own. He didn't expect the warm James Moriarty to curl around his and squeeze. And then, slowly, Sherlock realised. It was a hug.