Not even five hours later Sherlock abruptly stopped playing his violin. John heard and came from his room and wandered to the living room where Sherlock was reading a text message. Moriarty poked his head up from above a book he was reading on the couch. Both men waited in silence for Sherlock to speak. Instead of obliging, he sat his phone down and continued with the violin.

"Damn it Sherlock!" John snapped, forcing Sherlock to stop playing and look to his flatmate. "What was the text?"

"The second body, found on the other side of town. Killed by strangulation." He looked to Moriarty. "Someone has your fingerprints and is having a rather violent time with them. Seems the murders are only women, two at a time at the exact time, both killed the same as the one before her, yet two different methods. Both methods leave finger prints."

John frowned and went for his coat. "Where are the bodies?" Sherlock stared at his flatmate before setting the violin down. He joined John by the front door and almost left before turned back to Moriarty who'd been silently thinking behind his book.

"Make whatever you want for dinner. Or lunch. Whatever time it is. Just don't eat everything. And leave Mrs. Hudson alone or I'll drop you out a window."

Arching an eyebrow in a number of questions Sherlock would most definitely not answer, Moriarty watched the two men leave the flat. As soon as the door closed, he was at the window gently peering through the shades. He watched the men hail a cab and drive away.

Moriarty sat back down, sighing deeply. What on Earth was going on? He was stranded at Sherlock Holmes's flat simply because none of his people would answer calls or texts or even show at the usual meets. Now to top it off, there was two, maybe more people out there armed with his fingerprints and pointing at him as the murderer. Normally, he loved taking credit for his own work but this was ridiculous. The murders weren't even that creative. But the murderer seemed to be. If only he had free will to go about as he please but, of course, his people were, as you'd say, offline.

Sherlock and John had seen both bodies. Both were predictably killed and no one had seen the murder happen. Upon the neck of the bashed in head lay Moriarty's prints. Upon the scarf of the strangled woman lay his prints as well. Whoever was doing this, was framing him in such an obvious way that it took all Sherlock's self control to not tell Lestrade that it wasn't in fact, Moriarty.

Maybe Lestrade already knew and had nothing else to go on. He didn't really blame the man for he saw nothing else, either.

"The only thing that links the two is gender." Sherlock claimed and John nodded, looking all the more stressed at the rise of deaths. Sherlock knew very well that his flatmate was touchy about death, regardless of the fact that it happened to anyone. Yet, on a level, he knew where John stood because if he ever lost John, if John ever blinked out of life and existence he would... would...

Saving him from finishing that thought, Lestrade showed him his phone. It was the picture of two dogs, both dead and lying next to one another. Not big dogs but not small ones, either. They reminded him of half grown shelties. Probably young pure-bloods by the look of their coats. Well groomed as well. The only mar was the bullets through their heads.

Footprints in the mud next to the animals stood out like a sore thumb and Sherlock would bet his own sanity, which wasn't much to be honest, that the prints were the exact same as those found on the balcony.

He said as much to Lestrade and, confused, Lestrade agreed it was possible. John told Lestrade that the size was similar to Moriarty's.

"Not similar," Sherlock pointed out, "exactly his. The shoe, the size, everything."

"So you're suggesting they're his?" Lestrade asked but Sherlock just shook his head and started walking away. John followed, concerned.

They made it back to the flat without a word between the two of them. Sherlock had done nothing but tell the cab driver where to go and to keep the change. John barely made it into the flat before Sherlock had disappeared most likely to his room. Moriarty, looking surprised for once in his life, sat still at the table with a fork full of food part of the way to his mouth. John looked to him and shrugged out of his coat.

"I take it more of my fingerprints along the areas of the deceased to which would have helped out in framing me?" Moriarty asked, his voice like nails on chalkboard to John.

"Yes, and this time, dogs were involved as were your boot brings. Exact boot prints if Sherlock can be trusted. Which is a yes." John walked to the table, seeing the reaction on the psycho's face.

"Dogs?"

"Mmm-hmm." John sat down across the table and made eye contact. Moriarty gave nothing away as to what he was feeling.

"I wouldn't shoot dogs. Whoever this is isn't aware of that. I only shoot humans. The most dangerous animal there is. And even then I don't actually shoot them."

"No, you most of the time have them kill themselves." John dripped anger from his words, which was not missed by Moriarty. The psycho actually was starting to like the spunk and anger Doctor Watson had. Maybe he was starting to understand Sherlock's obsession.

"I give them a choice."

"Either your gun or a worse pain. Not much of a choice. Is that how you sleep at night?"

"No, I usually sleep with a pillow and a blanket. Preferably the ones you have here with Sherlock." Moriarty's eyes danced with amusement as John's fist clenched upon the table. The man was so easy to poke at, so fun to anger. "Tell me, is it yours or Sherlock's pillow? Maybe I have your blanket and his pillow. Or the other way around, perhaps?" His smile grew the more he talked, seeing the flaring anger in the doctors eyes.

Suddenly, John rose and landed an anger-filled punch to Moriarty's face. Surprised, the psycho leaned back in the chair, blood immediatly spilling from his nose. John huffed, having stood up. With the quickness John had showed, Moriarty stood and landed a blow just as hard upon John, splitting his lip open and pooling blood into the hand that cuped his mouth.

The two men stared at each other, Moriarty sickeningly satisfied while John didn't feel any better than before throwing the punch. With a start, he remembered that Sherlock was in the flat and he would have a right cow if he knew the two had come to blows.

"It doesn't right matter who's you are using, just that you have them and you should be thankful."

"Oh, I am."

John stopped himself just barely throwing a second punch. He had to leave the room, or maybe the flat all together. The man was driving him absolutely bonkers. He would loose his wits soon if he wasn't careful.

Turning and leaving the room, John figured he better clean up before Sherlock see him. It was one thing to see Moriarty bleeding out the nose but another to see John bleeding from the mouth. Sherlock would throw a right fit. John knew the man had thrown someone out of the second story window multiple times for leaving a bruise on their landlady once. Currently, they needed Moriarty to not be falling from windows.

In the bathroom, he had to admit that Moriarty had a good punch to him. It stung a great amount, though not horribly, and would definitely leave a bruise. Reminded John of the time they'd thrown punches over a woman. That had been interesting. It hadn't actually been over a woman. More like trying to trick the woman, though she'd already known about the two of them.

John must have spaced off on a trip into his own mind, which he figured Sherlock did oftentimes, because he heard the sounds of angry footsteps coming his way and the bleeding in his lip had stopped without him dabbing at it much more than two or three times. Granted, there was a bit of dried blood down his chin but that was okay.

Sherlock burst through the door, a furious look on his face. He grabbed John by the shoulder and spun him so he was face-to-face. He gave the cut a once over before huffing angrily.

"Not as bad as I thought." He mumbled to himself.

"What did that arse tell you?" John asked, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks again.

"Simply that he deserved the punch. I only assumed he had punched you first."

"No, I punched him first." There was a pause where Sherlock eyed John, thought John knew Sherlock understood he was telling the truth. It didn't take a genius mind.

Quick as lighting, Sherlock's lips touched his, a tenseness in his muscles that proved he was holding back most likely due to the split lip. John was so shocked he did nothing but stand there like an idiot. Sherlock pulled away, licked his lips, and left the bathroom. He left behind a stunned John who couldn't tell if the numbing tingle in his lip was from Moriarty or Sherlock.

In a weird way, he was very much so turned on by the thought of Sherlock having kissed him.