{Yes, here we go, part two already...}
Sherlock woke up, instantly alert. Where was he? The room was dimly lit and he was warm, very warm. He judged he had about two minutes until whoever lay beside him awoke. Blinking the sleep out of his eyes, he scanned the room, making observations about the owner who was presumably beside him. The arm loosely slung around his waist indicated that no harm would come to him.
However... The room was plain, with a creamy ceiling the colour of banana milk. There was nothing of note, except that it was clearly never lived in. The bedside table had an inch of dust on it and there were no signs of where the door opening had scratched the wall. It was oddly comforting, lying drowsy and content with another warm body beside him, he reflected. Too bad he only had another seventeen seconds to enjoy it...
Suddenly, the person beside him rolled over, pulling him closer with a small hum of content. He froze. Definitely male; the cologne, sweat levels and hard torso proved that, but what was that?! Realisation dawned on him like a gaggle of stampeding geese (I detest geese... Geese are evil). Damn. Moriarty. Sherlock could feel clothing against his skin. He was safe. He exhaled slowly. How had this happened? The last thing he remembered was walking upstairs with him... He had planned to leave once the pregnant criminal had fallen asleep, but... "You drugged me, didn't you?" Moriarty gave an exasperated sigh. "Shut up, Sherlock, I'm asleep." He snuggled closer. Sherlock knew he was awake, but he desperately hoped that this was a dream and he was safe at home with his amoebae...
"God, Sherlock! Would you stop thinking so DAMN LOUD?" No. He would never dream this up. At least he hoped not. "Well, did you?" Moriarty groaned in irritation. "If it makes you feel any better, Sherleylocks," he growled out the pet name, "I drugged us both. Now shut up. And relax. You're like a corpse!" Well, you would know... Sherlock thought. Aloud he responded, "Fine." He let his muscles loosen slightly, recalling the number of different fonts in John's newspapers and arranging them alphabetically. Inwardly, he found it ironic. The psychopath and the sociopath. The consulting criminal and the consulting detective. He remembered some of the first words Moriarty had directed to him. 'We were made for each other, Sherlock...'
How true it was, now that he really thought about it. Sighing, he gave in and wrapped his arms around the man beside him. "What are you doing?" Moriarty's voice broke him out of his reverie. "Sleeping, you idiot. What else?" Moriarty just giggled softly. Sherlock let his eyes fall closed again. He listed the many varieties of printer ink used and the printing style methodically, slowly slipping into sleep...