A/N: I probably should have done this the first chapter, but hi!

This is my first time writing fanfiction, and out of my love for Sherlock and regret that there aren't more Sheriarty fics, I'm posting this. I hope you like it!

Disclaimer: None of these characters happen to belong to me (sadly). As a fan, I am simply using them to tell a tale of my own.

He was sitting in the armchair—the same one he'd used last he'd come to the flat, to be precise—examining a violin with a careful eye and a careless hand.

"The Con Fuoco, from Cardiff?" He dangled it before him with a limp wrist, casually twirling the bow in his left hand.

"Correct." Sherlock shut the door behind him—God forbid Mrs. Hudson enter uninvited. "Impeccable timing, as usual."

"Oh, but you know how much I abhor being late." He pointed the bow in Sherlock's direction. "Play a bit?"

"Can't you?" The detective began to walk towards the chair opposite the man.

"Of course, imagine the pain of going to the primary school that I did, playing ballads by the age of ten, everyone being so pretentious—" Very unceremoniously he dropped both bow and violin to the carpet, crossing his legs and propping his head on one hand. "Tell me, why shouldn't I crush them all? Not just for being so ordinary, but for believing that that somehow makes them better?"

"One could ask the same of you. Why shouldn't you be crushed for thinking you're better?"

"I am better," he grumbled, like a stubborn child, Sherlock thought. "And BORED. I'm sure you know the feeling, that insatiable thirst for anything, everything to happen. It's all consuming, makes you go mad." He fixed dark eyes on Sherlock's face. "Or perhaps you could fix that for me?"

Sherlock stared back, lowering himself into the chair while contemplating his next words.

"Let's…talk."

"Couldn't agree more."

"How did you do it?"

"Mm, that already? Very forward of you. So how long have you known, Sherly oh friend of mine?"

Sherlock frowned. Sherly?

"I knew nothing past my suspicions."

"You've kept those suspicions to yourself remarkably well, then."

"There was no point in producing them without proof."

"How wise you sound, Grandma, REALLY!" Leaning forward, Moriarty whispered, "Care to divulge, now that you have your 'proof'?"

"Quick thinking." The words spilled out of Sherlock's mouth; he had been anticipating this. "You angled the gun, not to kill, but to damage. The bullet missed everything vital."

"Good, good."

"You would have bled to death, or at least unconsciousness, in mere minutes if not for one of your henchmen, taking you away as I stood on the edge of the hospital. When you were in the clear, you—"

"Called off the snipers, yes! And here I am, good as new, exactly the way everyone was hoping. Far less complicated than what you put together, I'd say." He smirked. "Forget me a moment, how have you been doing? I mean, I already know, but no reason we can't recap."

Sherlock raised one eyebrow. Moriarty's expression changed in an instant, going from snarky and eager to irritated and sullen. "It's going to be like that, then? Gosh, you have to make everything tedious. Fineee." He sighed reluctantly. "Parliament almost went boom. John's wedding, the photographer. That was an adorable speech, by the way, forgot to commend you on that." There was a taunting smile in his voice. "Oh…and yes. Can't leave out your most recent little problem."

"Magnussen."

"Ooo, you disappointed me there."

"He was blackmailing Mary—"

"Mary, John, Mrs. Hudson, GOD it's been YEARS, Sherlock, why can't you get rid of them?" Moriarty moaned, slumping down in the chair. "You realize that every new person you care for is a hole in the armor, you know that. You're only making this easier," he whined, casting Sherlock a resentful glance. "Always making the same mistakes, over and over, thinking nobody else could ever be as brilliant as Angel Sherlock—"

"He wasn't."

"Not hardly, but who cares? You wasted your time with that one, honey, you did."

Sherlock knitted his fingers together, intent on getting to the point of their discussion. The questions were commentary—he never made a query without knowing the answer.

"Two years, and you return."

"For you, obviously, since you're useless without me." The psychopath quirked his mouth.

"This time, you won't be staying behind the scenes as often."

"No!" The man let loose a jubilant laugh, spreading his arms wide. "Like hiding in plain sight, except no more hiding, no more Richard Brook. It's all me, Sherlock Holmes." An elated grin adorned his face. "For once, you have total access to me."

What on earth was there to say to that? Moments passed, in which Sherlock frantically wracked his brains for words, and he was certain it showed; Moriarty's smug look neared triumphant.

"And why…" The detective cleared his throat, taken aback at his own sudden hesitation. "Why would I want that?"

Now Moriarty threw back his head so violently it was a wonder his neck didn't snap. His laugh bordered on hysterical. "Don't PLAY, Sherlock!"

In one fluid motion, he was on his feet, looming over Sherlock, fury warping his visage. "Don't. Play." It was a guttural growl, laced with vitriol. "Has it even hit you yet?" He gripped Sherlock's navy scarf, yanking him closer. "Everything you do, I'm the one behind it. It's always me." His grip softened; he allowed his fingers to drift just above the scarf, barely brushing the throat of the one who wore it. Sherlock stiffened on instinct, but refused to waver.

"You'd have nothing to do, if not for me. Nothing, no one, not even you could save yourself from suicide, you'd be so bored. Wherever you are…I'm there." The fingers ghosted over his left cheek. "And you love it."

They were close enough for him to feel Moriarty's breath warming his lips. Something foreign welled up in his chest, unfamiliar and therefore unsettling. The longer the two stayed in this position, the stronger it became, despite his efforts to return it to whatever dark, forbidding pit of his soul it had crawled from.

"Well." Moriarty stood upright. "It's been nice, but I simply must be off." He straightened his suit, nodding once at Sherlock, and made his way to the door. "I'm sure I'll be seeing you again, Sherly."

"You said 'Don't play'."

"Hm?" Moriarty paused.

Sherlock rose, turning his head to look at the puzzled man before him. "'Don't play.' I find it funny, Jim Moriarty." For the first in the entirety of their conversation, Sherlock dared to smile. "Considering that the game has already begun."

Moriarty stared, lips parted, though speaking nothing, hand outstretched to the doorknob.

Then he laughed. A soft, gentle laugh. "I knew you missed me."

Before he had a chance to reply, Sherlock watched as Jim Moriarty, consulting criminal and arch nemesis, vacated the room.

Any feedback would be highly appreciated! I'll be sure to respond your comments, if you'd like. :)