+4: There's A Good Reason These Tables Are Numbered Honey, You Just Haven't Thought Of It Yet -Panic!AtTheDisco [REQUEST]

LOVE THIS SONG NOW! THANK YOU @CarmenRavenscar

(no proof read just yet, sorry!)

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He really shouldn't be here. He really really shouldn't be here. But that fact just makes the nimble detective grin even wider as he weaves through the crowd. He heads towards the table full of tiny, but ridiculously expensive, foods and drinks.

No one sees the way he tips a small bottle of sleeping agent into each punch bowl.

It really was an excellent plan. Risky, stupid and completely relying on what if's but still excellent.

Moriarty was holding some kind of get together for half the criminals in Britain. So many people that had slipped through Sherlock's grip, and even Mycroft's, all in one place. There was no way Sherlock could not take this opportunity.

Take down all the big criminals in Britain or staying home and getting nagged at by Ms Hudson to move all the body parts out of his fridge?

It was needless to say which one Sherlock choose.

Once it was done, Sherlock makes his way back through the crowd, dodging all the drunk idiots. He leans against the gold wallpapered wall, crossing his arms over his chest and watching the crowd, waiting.

He was rather surprised not a single soul had noticed him, considering how popular he was in the vigilante world nowadays, and therefore in the criminal world too.

Moriarty would recognise him for sure, should they cross paths. Sherlock hadn't seen the Irishman yet. Surprising, considering he was the host.

Men and women, all criminals and all dressed to the nines, dance around the room to the music that played from the tiny speakers dotted around the room. The music was always upbeat and happy, even the few slow songs that came on.

Sherlock found himself tapping his foot to the beat more than once.

He giggles a little when he spots a man wearing a top hat. It looked ridiculous on him and made him stick out like a sore thumb. Everyone was dressed in formal, posh clothing of course but the hat was one step too far.

Sherlock himself was in one of his best suits. Dark grey and tailored to perfection. Under his blazer he wore a brand new shirt, deep purple and tight in all the right places, making the visible buttons taunt against his chest. Each breath made the buttons closer to popping off, but Sherlock would exhale before they got the chance.

Briefly, Sherlock finds himself wondering what Moriarty, the host of this lovely party, was wearing. One of Viv's suits, perhaps? He did like Westwood, it seemed.

Ten minutes later and the guests begin dropping like flies, worrying Sherlock. They were meant to get sleepy and fall asleep, not drop to the floor so suddenly as if... as if dead.

Panicking a tad, Sherlock leans down to a nearby man (drug lord, obvious by the haircut) and checks his pulse. It's there, barely, he's dying. Overdosing.

That wasn't right in the least. Sherlock had given them a sleeping agent, enough to get them to sleep for five or so hours. They'd have to drinks two punch bowls full for the dose to be anywhere near fatal.

Something was very wrong here.

By the time the last woman dropped to the floor, Sherlock's heart was racing. He was stood in a room full of near dead people. There was a small cluster that weren't affected, all frozen and staring around. They weren't shocked, it seemed, just scared they may be next.

Without even realising he was doing so, Sherlock's eyes scan the bodies for his consultant criminal. He didn't see any Westwood suits or slicked back hair like Moriarty's.

That's when it clicks. Sherlock wasn't the only one to spike the punch. His gut twist, knowing he may well be the one to cause these people their deaths. Whatever was in the punch may not have been enough to kill them, but adding Sherlock's sleeping agent on top...

Oh, God.

Sherlock stands from where he'd been taking the drug lord's pulse and looks around,  trying to remember the fastest exit. He'd memorised the layout of the building. All the blueprints.

He was just heading towards a door when a slow clapping started up, causing him to freeze because somehow he knew who was clapping, he just knew. A laugh follows and Sherlock pivots, slowly, to face the host of the party.

It didn't take a genius to spot the bottle of water tucked under Moriarty's arm.

"Well done, Sherlock, really." Jim looks around, pretending to wince at the sight of all the people. "What to do now, hm? Run away? Hardly your style, dear" He gives the detective a disappointed look.

Sherlock grits his teeth, more annoyed by how much that disappointed look hit home than the fact he'd been caught and was the cause of all this.

"What were you trying to achieve by drugging them all?" Sherlock asks, instead of addressing the questions he'd been asked.

Jim ignores the glares he received from the few unaffected and shrugs, eyes on Sherlock. "Just having some fun"

Fun. Of course. Sherlock should have excepted such an answer. It annoyed him though. Jim was back in London and here he was playing the game with these idiots while Sherlock sat at home bored, not even given a moment of Jim's time after nearly three years.

A smirk stretches over Sherlock's lips. Finally, it was his turn to have some fun with Jim. Play the game.

For the first time is a long time, Sherlock felt the game was truly on. He had to fight a shiver of excitement at the thought.

"So, darling" Jim says, throwing in a wink as he pushes a hand into his suit trouser pocket. "What are you going to do about the mess you made?"

"Oh, as I'm sure many can tell you, Jim dear, I rarely clean up after myself" Sherlock snickers.

"I'm sure your little pet will be oh so disappointed" Jim tilts his head to the side, watching closely for Sherlock's reaction.

His fingers twitch before he gives a dismissive shrug. "Oh well..."

Jim looks down at the body in front of him then, a woman dressed in a deep red dress is mumbling quietly to herself. Using his foot, Jim pushes her shoulder until her face is revealed. Her eyes are closed, but her mouth is moving. She's breathing, Sherlock notes with a relived smile.

"Jeez, Sher, what did you give them?"

Sherlock bristles at the nickname but doesn't comment on it.

"Just a sleeping agent. Why?" Sherlock narrows his eyes. "What did you give them?"

Jim smirks, his eyes returning to Sherlock's face. "This and that." He quickly glances down again. "They'll live, so don't worry your pretty head over it"

Sherlock scoffs at that before he tilts his own head to the side, looking at Jim curiously. What now? What was the next move for them both?

Does he run? Does he stay?

"Stay for a drink" Jim chuckles. He then clicks his fingers and various people enter the room and begin to step over the bodies, picking certain people up and then leaving the room.

He doesn't give Sherlock time to reply before Jim has linked his arm through Sherlock's and is leading him towards a small door towards the back of the room. He's pushed into the room ahead of Jim and then sat on a black leather sofa, in front of a mahogany coffee table. Sherlock stays silent, watching Jim.

"Cigarette?" Jim asks, gesturing to the pack that lay on the table just in front of Sherlock.

The detective shakes his head, not willing to accept anything this man planned to offer.

"You don't like it, do you? Oh, you can't stand it!" Jim throws his arms up in an enthusiastic manner and chuckles, knowing Sherlock would be confused.

"Can stand what?"

"That I have others that I have fun with" Jim smirks.

Sherlock swallows, a tad frightened by how on target Jim was about his feelings. The sparkle in Jim's eye as he read Sherlock, deduced him, reminded Sherlock of himself in so many ways and he hated it.

"Why would I care?" Sherlock asks, raising an eyebrow and remaining nonchalant.

Jim laughs again, his shoulders shaking and his giggles filling the room. "You, my dear detective, need to learn to share. I'm... Well, I'm like Cancer. So many forms, affecting so many people. Just popping up and spreading.."

It was a shockingly accurate statement.

"If you're Cancer, does that make me Chemotherapy?" Sherlock teases, acting unimpressed by Jim's comparison.

"No, no, no" Jim shakes his head. "You're more like... Smoking. Just one of the ways to get me.. The more people that talk to you, the more likely they are to get involved with me"

Sherlock snorts. "You make it sound more like I'm under your protection"

"Nope" Jim snakes his head again, popping the p. "No protection. We're just a team of destruction, death and mayhem"

Sherlock didn't like where this was heading. They weren't supposed to be on the same team. They were enemies. They didn't work together. They worked against one another.

Why did Sherlock feel like he was trying to convince himself rather than stating facts?

Probably because he was.

"It there actually a point to this conversation?" Sherlock asks.

"Isn't there always a point to our conversations?"

Jim, naturally, is his difficult self and answers with a question. Sherlock rolls his eyes at that.

"Yes" Sherlock answers after a brief pause.

"Then figure out the point, Sherlock" The madman laughs again.

Sherlock honestly had no idea if there was a point, and if there was then what the hell was it? He didn't like not knowing things and Jim clearly wasn't going to tell him much.

"I like your shirt" Jim pipes up after the silence had dragged on too long for his liking.

Sherlock was more than taken aback by the sudden compliment.

"Um.. Thank you?" It sounded like a question. He pauses again, frowning.

Jim was just confusing him now...

"You're welcome" Jim winks at him.

Annoyingly, Sherlock feels his cheek heat up just a tad at that. He ignores it though, obviously. Sherlock Holmes doesn't blush, and when he does he pretends that he doesn't.

"What now?" Sherlock says, gesturing to the door. He nearly cringes at how casual he sounded about the situation.

Jim hums before coming to sit beside Sherlock, bringing a bottle of alcohol with him. Wine, it seemed. Sealed. Wait.. Was he serious about staying for a drink?!

...Probably, knowing Jim.

Sherlock doesn't touch his glass once it's poured for him, just looks at the glass blankly. It looked like Jim had filled it with blood. That put Sherlock off the alcohol even more. Plus, in no universe did he trust James Moriarty.

"Really?!" Jim scoffs. "Think I'd do something so simple as poisoning your wine? Please, darling, give me some credit. I have plans for you and that's not killing you in a stupid side room with no audience"

Okay, that was a pretty convincing point.

Sherlock still hesitates as he picks up the wine and takes the first sip.

*

With a small groan, Sherlock blinks open his eyes. Reluctant to wake up yet.

Sitting up, he does his best to rid himself of the sleepiness and ruffles his hair. His head is pounding, like someone was playing drums inside his skull. Badly playing drums too.

It's like a switch being flipped the way Sherlock suddenly becomes aware of a body next to him. He turns his head and sees who is asleep next to him, mouth falling open in shock like you see movies characters do.

His eyes widen even more than they had already as he takes in all the facts.

Fact: They are both very naked in the same bed.

Fact: He can still taste the fruity wine from last night in his mouth.

Fact: The pain is his backside strongly suggests something more than drinking wine happened last night.

Conclusion: Sherlock had drunken sex with Moriarty when he was supposed to be helping his brother jail a few dozen criminals.

All Sherlock can do is stare as the warm body beside him starts to move and wake up. Black hair sticks up in little tuffs, so different from it's usual slicked back style.

Brown eyes meet his after only moment and Sherlock still doesn't have a thing to say as Jim smirks and winks. He was acting like it was completely normal for him to wake up in bed next to a man he wanted dead (and who knows? Maybe, for him, it was.)

With that thought Sherlock jumps out of the bed, staring at Jim still.

"Bit underdressed there, Sherlock" Jim winks again before allowing his eyes to roam down Sherlock's body.

The criminal stands and makes his way around the bed to stand in front of Sherlock. With a grin, Jim taps Sherlock's cheek twice. Then he spins around and heads out of the room, seeming to not care about his state of undress.

Not going what to do, Sherlock flees the building (after putting his clothes on).

Well, he failed at ruining Moriarty's banquet.