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Finally done and posted! I'm writing this all off the top of my head, so it may get a bit weird at times. Please forgive me for when that happens.

Chapter 3

"Moriarty...."

He smirked, lost in memories as he drew another pair of black gloves from his bureau. Oh, the look upon her face as she gaped so openly. Her violet eyes had widened in surprise and shock for once, instead of narrowing in that so familiar hatred. And the way his name had slipped from her fine lips! Oh, how she did hate him, but the look on her face was worth it! Her shock was so great that she hadn’t even attempted to attack him! Moriarty smirked, quite happy so far with his plan. Now that he had the Yardie, Holmes would come sniffing after her like a loyal puppy.

But enough of that. Breakfast first.

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When Lestrade awoke, she was quite relaxed. Her muscles were lax and warm and the smell of French toast and fresh pancakes was wafting about her. Her mind moved sluggishly, still waking itself from slumber. Sighing, she rolled over onto her stomach in the direction where she sensed the scents were coming from. She mumbled something unintelligible and pulled the pillow to her stomach. The sunlight was warm upon her back and not at all intrusive. She nuzzled into her pillow, taking in its rather unique scent. It smelled mostly of women’s shampoo and soap, but she could detect a hint of bubble gum and blackberry jam. She buried her face further into the delightfully soft pillow and breathed in deeply. There was another scent, but it was evading her.

Lestrade relaxed, laying her face cheek down on the pillow. She would have to get out of bed soon if she wanted to eat her food before it got cold and nasty.

Maybe she could just stay in bed all day and ask the cook to bring her food to her...Nah. She never did like being dependent on other people for her needs.

Lestrade’s eyes opened a fraction, then a bit wider to allow them to adjust to the gentle sunlight streaming through the window next to the bed. She glanced around, not really taking in what she saw, but liking it anyway.

Then her eyes popped out of her head and she tumbled to the floor, hands groping about for the missing orbs.

‘I need to get a hold on my overactive imagination.’ Lestrade thought, suddenly tense. ‘Ugh! Why didn’t I notice it sooner?! Did that clonehead drug me!? If he did...ooooh, all the painful things I’ll do to that miserable bastard.’

Lestrade sat up, taking in her surroundings with a sharp eye. She also eyed the food carefully, as though it might be poisoned. She also looked over the pair of flannel pajamas that someone had dressed her in while she was sleeping.

The room was rather small, with the door to the left of the bed, which was pressed up into the corner underneath a large window. There was another door that led to what she presumed to be a bathroom, and a dresser. There was also a bedside table that had a tray of food on it. She eyed the food warily. It looked safe enough, but nowadays, one never knew. Poisons were so advanced now that one could eat a piece of bread and be dead before they’d even started chewing. She gingerly picked up a piece of French toast and nibbled at it, praying to anyone who’d listen for it not to be poisoned.

"You know it is not poisoned. If I had wanted you dead, you would be dead already."

Lestrade’s head whipped up to glare at the intruder. Her knuckles were itching to wipe the smug smirk off that bastard’s face.

"Moriarty," she growled.

He bowed mockingly. "At your service, my dear Lestrade."

"Why am I here? What do you want with me?" In her anger, she didn’t realize that she was crushing the previously nibbled piece of French toast. Moriarty sighed as he watched the crumbs tumble to the once pristine floor. He strode in, pulling the door shut behind him. Lestrade bristled as he came nearer. He sighed once again and pulled a chair close to the bed.

"Well, my dear,-"

"I’m NOT your 'dear' ANYTHING."

Moriarty ignored her. "You are here because I kidnapped you. What do I want with you? Nothing, really." He helped himself to a now cold piece of French toast from her tray. "You should eat. I don’t particularly wish you to starve. Besides, this is probably the best French toast that you will have had in a long time."

Lestrade looked down at what was once her piece of French toast and then at the pile of crumbs on the floor. Her cheeks flushed slightly and she attempted to regain her dignity while brushing the remaining crumbs from her hands onto the plate. Moriarty smirked and handed her another piece. Watching him carefully, she gingerly took the slice of bread from him, glancing at his velvet-clad hands.

"Why did you kidnap me?" she asked, still watching him warily while nibbling on her piece of toast. He finished off his slice before answering.

"I kidnapped you to lure Holmes to me." He paused to watch her nibble and glare at him. The combination was actually rather amusing and he had to restrain his smirk. "Oh, do stop that! You look like a petulant child nibbling at her food. I am not going to poison you so that I can have my evil way with you. I am not going to hurt you in any way. So stop nibbling and do just eat the food!" Moriarty took a deep breath to calm himself, then reached for another slice of French toast. He took a liberal bite of toast and chewed slowly, watching her.

Lestrade was absolutely lost. What had just happened? Unconsciously, she took a bigger bite of the toast. She looked him over to give her mind something to focus on.

He looked different from when she had last seen him. Starting from the feet, she took careful note of his fuzzy slippers, worn denim jeans, crisp white dress shirt, and the damp black hair that hung on his chest. She also took note of those black velvet gloves that he always seemed to be wearing. His clothes and general demeanor were more relaxed, but there was something else that was bothering her. Looking him over once again, her eyes eventually snapped to the drying black locks that dampened the front of his shirt. ‘Oh. My. God. I would KILL for hair like that.’ She frowned mentally. That hadn’t come out right. ‘Hey! Since when did his hair get so long!? I thought it was short!’ Much better.

"Do you see something that pleases you?" he said, smirking. Her inspection had not gone unnoticed. Especially since she was being so open about it.

Lestrade looked up into his sharp blue eyes. "No." she replied flatly. His reaction surprised her. His brows twitched together just slightly and a look of mild offense and hurt passed through his eyes. The mild hurt remained, but his eyes took on an amused glint.

"You need to look around you more often. There are many men more handsome than Sherlock Holmes."

Once again, he had surprised her. He had not said his nemesis’ name with hate and anger, but had spoken it as though it were just another name.

She sat back, watching him. "Why are you being so friendly? Aren’t you supposed to hate me, or something?"

His brows rose a bit. "Is there something wrong with me being friendly? And why should I hate you?"

"Well, me and Holmes did kick your a-" Cough. "...derriere all those times. And I did dis you that one time, when you tried to kiss my hand."

The hurt in his eyes deepened slightly. "Well, yes, I suppose I should hate you. I suppose that it is unfortunate that I do not hate you or Holmes. Holmes is merely someone to test my wits against."

She paused. "And me?"

He, too, paused. "Ah. Well. . . I do suppose that you are useful." Here he paused to clear his throat and gather his thoughts. "For kidnapping, I suppose."

"’I suppose’? What’s that supposed to mean? And why are we having a decent conversation? This doesn’t make any sense. What are you trying to do with me?"

He sighed wearily. "Would you rather I leave?"

"Yes! And where are my clothes? I want my clothes back!"

"They are in the wash. If you wish to freshen yourself, the bathroom is over there. If you need something, just call me." He waved in the direction of the bathroom door. He left the room quietly, a barely perceptible slump in his shoulders.

Lestrade remained seated on the bed, contemplating their conversation. ‘I don’t want to get trapped in some trick of his, but something tells me I just royally screwed up.’