"Obviously Sherlock missed the conversation because he finds the input of other people almost completely useless." John mumbled. The two other men had told him to sit and tell them everything. Sherlock made a face at the comment but John made no move to change his sentence. "She seemed surprised I noticed it, and moved her hair to cover it afterwards. She said it was some kind of tattoo her and her best friends got one night to show how much they meant to one another."

"Enough to die." Moriarty murmured, shifting one of the pictures so he could better see one of the girls' tattoos. Each one was set in a different area but Sherlock had made sure to tell Lestrade to capture each one.

"So when I suggested it was their fake attributes..." John ventured and Sherlock scoffed, Moriarty smiled.

"It was a nice thought, but most women would be dead by now, John. It's almost never the most obvious answer and it was rather barely coincidence that they all shared a falseness about them. It's more common than not."

John frowned but nodded, understanding. "Okay so there's an obvious connection, but what does the symbol mean?"

Moriarty leaned back, taking this one. "It's part of a cult. Rarely used nowadays but obviously still around. It's only women, obviously. They latch onto something and turn it godlike. I had a row with them quiet a few years back."

"Let me guess, they latched onto you and started up with this crap when you came back. Trying to win your good graces." John said dryly and Sherlock eyed him, expressionless. Moriarty looked at him, head cocked every so slightly to the side, a hard look in his eyes.

"I would never allow such sloppy work in my murderers." John sat back, his spine straight as a rod.

"You hold competitions to see which ones are better?" John said calmly, acid dripping from each word. Moriarty's face split into a smile.

"You don't remember the first cases Sherlock and you worked on together? What did you think I was doing? Honestly, I quickly found out that Sherlock would most likely catch anyone so it wasn't fair. But it was very fun."

John didn't think it was very fun, obviously. Sherlock knew just as much. It was a thing about the doctor to feel pity for the dead. Sherlock admitted, to himself, that it had been a smart plan. Not one he would do, seeing as how he didn't run a bunch of serial killers, but he may do (or have done) a similar way to know who best to work with. If John hadn't made the cut, he'd have moved on to other people.

Sherlock looked to John from the corner of his eye and felt a happiness blossom in his chest. Last night had been an amazing night. The first he'd ever been able to lie still for six straight hours, not bored. He'd slept maybe two somewhere in the middle of those six, but otherwise he'd lain in the dark, John curled next to him.

He'd only gotten up to look at the pictures, trying to see if the tattoo's were different in any way from each other, maybe there were ranks. That was until Moriarty interrupted him and they go to talking about the murders and he brought up how they were part of a cult-type group and the tattoo's didn't have anything to do with rank, rather they knew who was above them. Moriarty had, though, only given this information shortly before John had come home.

Sherlock explained all of this to John while Moriarty waited not-so-patiently.

"The woman you saw was most likely the woman killing the others. One of them, at least."

"I would watch out where you go." Moriarty almost whispered and both men turned their heads to him, curious. "If she is the one killing them and she knows you're on the case, wouldn't she make you a threat? It's obvious they're not shy about killing people and leaving the bodies scattered. No reason they would hesitate to take you out as a, say, competition to reach a higher rank. You'd be surprised how many unsolved deaths were caused by these women over the years. More oftentimes men. They're like feminists only quieter."

John hadn't thought his life would be in danger in this case. Now, he was hyper-sensitively aware of it.

"Okay, so don't get cornered by a bunch of women, preferably if they have scarves." John mumbled and Sherlock smirked. Moriarty's eyebrows rose a slight bit but no one said anything for a few long, awkward minutes.

"Question," John said suddenly, making both Sherlock and Moriarty look at him sharply. "If they practically worship you, why are they pinning the murders on you?"

Sherlock and Moriarty shared a look in which John apparently completely missed a silence argument, one which Sherlock seemed to win. With a smug look, Sherlock looked to John.

"It's only logical that the women don't believe Moriarty is back. They must have gathered his fingerprints within the last few months and are now using them to try and sick the police onto him."

"Last time I trust a woman," Moriarty said with a soft chuckle. John only found it somewhat funny. But to be honest, he figured it was probably true, all of this. Unfortunate, but true.

"Okay, so what do we do about it? They're basically a bunch of women killing each other and framing an actual murderer. I mean, do we even stop them?" Sherlock smirked while Moriarty had the audacity to look shocked. John didn't see much wrong with letting killers destroy one another.

"They must be stopped, it's not an option." Sherlock said, gaining a curious look from John. "Regardless of the fact that everyone involved is a murderer, there is the possibility that they could harm... John." In other words Sherlock would kill them all if they laid a hand on John. At least, that's what John got from the dark, dangerous look Sherlock suddenly had about him.

After concluding that they should figure out what course of action to take, but that they needed a break from talking to one another, the three split up. Moriarty went upstairs, telling John his room was plain and promised not to make it, in his words, more amusing. Sherlock went to the kitchen, most likely to check up on an experiment of his. John stayed in the living room. It was better here anyway.

When Sherlock was done doing whatever Sherlock did in the kitchen, he came to the living room. John avoided the kitchen when he was in there almost like the plague was set loose. Sometimes, it seemed that way.

"Moriarty isn't an innocent." Sherlock said calmly, looking at John who was staring at all the information about the killings. "He never was but in this case, in these murders, he didn't kill them. These women need to be stopped and Moriarty can help. Once it's done, he'll most likely disappear again."

"Why didn't he do that? Last string of murders he wanted solved he threatened you and gave you time limits. Why risk almost everything coming here?"

"I think his network is damaged. The other network that I didn't take down. He stares at his phone like he would love to make it scream in pain. I believe he's tried his disappearing act, but to no avail. And he knows how I love mysteries." John eyed Sherlock, realizing, quiet possibly for the first time, how amazing this man was. Sure, he'd said it a million and a half times, but to really grasp it was something else close to wonder. The intellect inside the mans brain was so amazing he didn't think, as smart and crazy as Moriarty or The Woman were, that they even came close.

Sherlock rose and smiled, taking John's hand and leading him to the bedroom they had shared last night. John was intrigued by the prospect of what was to come, licking his lips as he watched the man walk down the hallway, his long legs flexing. How had he not noticed the effortless grace with which Sherlock carried himself?

Closing the door, Sherlock pressed a gentle, promising kiss on John's lips only to smile as John pressed harder.

The two men stumbled, falling across one another as they fell to Sherlock's bed. Suddenly, an urgency neither of them expected, the clothes ripped away and their passions spiraled, jumping off of each other only to rise higher and higher.

Moments ago, John hadn't been the slightest interested in more than a kiss, but now he wanted to be consumed by Sherlock, to inhale his smell so deep into his senses it was the only thing he'd ever smell. They wrapped around each other, only boxer briefs separating their skin. It was the closest either had been to the other, and they were too high to be shy.

As fingers started roaming, exploring, mapping out one another's bodies, they lost touch with the time that passed, with the amount of kisses they shared. Like little kids, they'd hushed when Moriarty had come down for a shower and they'd played a silly game, trying to make the other moan or groan so loud Moriarty might here.

John was convinced Sherlock had taken mushrooms in the kitchen, for he'd never seen the man like this before. It was quiet uncivilized of Sherlock to giggle for any reason, let alone try and bite his bare ribs for a moan that may expose their full relationship to their, as Sherlock put it, archenemy. Did people even have those? Since Mycroft was also considered an archenemy by Sherlock, John figured they did.

Just as Sherlock started to explore John's hips, making the doctor quite red in the face, and John finding the exact contours of Sherlock's spine, Sherlock's phone buzzed.

All four hands paused, a bated breath hung in the air and when the buzz came again, Sherlock rolled away and snatched the phone, rising to a sitting position.

"Lestrade," he mumbled before answering. John tuned him out, not wanting to listen in. Sherlock would tell him he parts that were important, if need be.

When the conversation was over, Sherlock ran his hands through John's hair, pulling the man into a deep, pleasurable kiss. Pulling back, gaining an unhappy groan from John, Sherlock smiled and pecked the tip of his nose.

"I apologize for killing the mood but Lestrade says there's a hostage situation and the woman is demanding Moriarty."

"Send him, then." John was sour, the mood having been slaughtered.

"They don't know he's at our place. We could still be tried for harboring a known murderer. As well, Lestrade would never listen to me agian. They'd all assume I helped with all the murders. I'm not ready to give up the life I have right now for him."

"Then how do we deal with the woman if we aren't Mor..." Sherlock touched a finger to his lips, rising from the bed.

"We send him to meet up with us at the scene. Say he heard the woman wanted to speak with him. The man's escaped worse places before."