The games a foot Watson!

I had just wheeled in the tea service that Mrs. Hudson had left at the top of the stairs. Holmes was lounging in his armchair in his tattered smoking jacket reading the Times right below the pockmarked walls in which he had shot a patriotic VR with his revolver.
He grunted.
“What it is Holmes?”
“The games a foot Watson.”
“However do you mean Holmes?”
“In today’s agony column of the Times. An advertisement from that master of evil.”
“You don’t mean….”
“Yes Watson I afraid it can be only one man. Moriarty has returned.”
“But that’s impossible Holmes. He is dead. Died at the Fall’s. You said so yourself.”
“It can only be him Watson. Listen to this advert. ‘Elderly Fops who live as a couple require Latin houseboy with low morals and knowledge of cocaine. Apply 221 B Baker St.’”
“Why that is monstrous Holmes! What could he mean? Living as a couple?’
“Really dear boy. Confirmed bachelors sharing quarters for so many years can only lead to speculation.”
“But I was married Holmes.”
“Elementary my dear Watson. A brief marriage to Liza Minnelli Doolittle does provide you with bona fides. Look at Peter Allen. But enough of this foolishness. His intentions are clear.”
”Why did he direct attention to us Holmes? What can it mean?”
“It is clear when you use his Binomial Theorem to analyze this post it is clear that he is implying that we molest chickens here at Baker Street. He is using his massive intellect to smear our good name.”
“And he a mathematics professor!”