Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Sebastian Moran, Jim Moriarty

Pairings: Mormor

Rating: PG (might go up in later installments)

Summary: Investigating a suspicious death in a London suburb, John and Sherlock finds themselves face to face with a certain Mr. Moran. Post-Reichenbach.

Disclaimer: Not mine.

"Maybe they're not home," John suggested. "Most people would be at work at this time of day." It was early afternoon, and the street in front of the newly build, simple-but-oh-so-very-obviously-expensive-as-hell two storey house was deserted.

"Of course they're home," Sherlock replied, without turning his head and without breaking off banging on the door.

"Ah. Obvious, is it?"

"Very. The – " But before he could launch into an explanation, the door was yanked open to reveal a tall blonde man in his thirties. "Ah, so someone is in then. Terribly sorry to bother you, but I'll need to inspect your kitchen."

At first, the man made no reply. If he was surprised to find two strange men on his doorstep demanding access to the kitchen, he did not show it. In fact, his face remained completely blank; carefully so, John thought.

"You're Sherlock Holmes and John Watson," he eventually said. "Why would you need to see my kitchen? We've had no crimes here."

"Ah, but the poor lady across the street was found dead in her car the other morning. No signs of violence, but the car was locked – and the keys were gone."

The man's pale eyes narrowed, ever so slightly. "I hadn't heard of that."

"Didn't make the news. Now, all I need is to take a quick peek through your kitchen window, and then we'll be gone."

The man hesitated, appraising them. "Just a quick peek? That's all?"

"That's plenty," Sherlock assured him with a smile John knew he meant to be friendly, but which merely looked condescending.

For a moment, John thought the man would still refuse to let them in, but then he nodded curtly. "All right. Come on in." He turned and walked ahead of them into the house. Though tall and remarkably muscular, he moved gracefully, in perfect control of his body. There was a stillness to him, a guarded quiet that brought to mind the image of a wild animal, ready to pounce.

In baggy cargo pants, a white tank top and no socks he was not someone John would have expected to find in this slightly up-market and unjustifiably snobby suburb mainly populated by well to do couples working in London. On the battlefield, however…

They entered the kitchen, which was very spacious, very modern and very well-equipped. Apparently someone in this household liked to cook. Sherlock immediately crossed the room to take his long-desired look through the window, while John remained just inside the door with the house's owner. The man had crossed his arms and was leaning back against the wall in a show of what John felt absolutely convinced was feigned nonchalance.

"Lovely house," John offered somewhat lamely. "It's very kind of you to let us in." He felt immediately absurd for saying it; kind was not at all the first word he'd choose to describe the man next to him.

"Don't mention it." The other kept his eyes trained on Sherlock, who was moving back and forth in front of the window, looking for whatever clue it was he was seeking.

John hoped he would find it soon. Something was off about this house, this man, and John would be glad when the front door closed behind them.

"Oh, yes!" Sherlock's exclamation was pure smug satisfaction.

"You got it?" John asked.

"Of course I've got it. Suicide."

The blonde man straightened from the wall. "Suicide? You're sure? Nothing fishy, then?" Was there a faint hint of relief in his voice? John couldn't be sure.

"Nothing at all." Sherlock paused, glancing out through the window again. "But I wonder… Perhaps… " He abruptly turned to look at their host. "I shall need to take a look from the room just above this, if it's not too much trouble."

Later, John would swear that he had actually, physically felt the change in the atmosphere just then. The blonde man tensed, and though he kept his voice level as he spoke, the threat behind the words was as clear as if he had painted it in blood on the wall. "You said you'd only need to see the kitchen, and then you'd leave. You've seen the kitchen now. "

Sherlock eyed the man calmly, not oblivious to his hostility but completely unconcerned with it. "What is it that you're hiding, Mr. Moran? Yes, I know your name," he added as the man's – Moran's – eyes flashed. "It was on the heating bill on the side-table in the corridor. Considering that this place is neat to the point of obsession, I'd say you'd just opened it and put it down there when you went to get the door."

In his years of military service John had learned to recognize the signs when someone was about to become violent – and he could tell that Moran was getting very, very close to that. Neither he nor Sherlock were armed, and he did not fancy their chances of taking down Moran in hand-to-hand combat. "Sherlock, perhaps we should just leave. The woman was a suicide, you said, the case is solved."

"That case is solved. Now we have another. Let's see… You knew who we were, and while you were surprised to see us, you were not that surprised – and not that good at disguising it, I might add. Once you learned what we wanted you were both relieved and suspicious; there is something in your life that might warrant the investigation of Sherlock Holmes, but this was not it. Yet you couldn't be sure that our showing up here was just a coincidence, so you agreed to let us in, both to avoid the suspicion a refusal would create and to make sure our visit was unconnected to whatever it is that you're hiding. Now, you were at least fairly comfortable about letting us into the kitchen, but the upstairs is clearly off-limits. So, what have you got up there, hm? Stolen jewels, a nuclear missile… a stash of truly awful porn? But no – you were concerned about the time, and only let us in once you had ensured that we would stay only for a short while, so you're worried about being interrupted. A person then – taking a shower upstairs, perhaps, thus not hearing the knocks on the door? Now, how long does your average shower last? About seven minutes, and it's already been longer than that since you opened the door. So, what do you say, Mr. Moran, shall we just wait here and see who is it that you're so desperate for us not to meet?

Moran advanced on Sherlock, his large hands clenched into fists. "Get out now," he growled.

It seemed like a perfectly good idea to John, but before he could tell Sherlock so, they were interrupted by the sound of soft footsteps on the stairs. "Sebastian?" a voice called. "We're out of shaving cream. You need to get me some. Sebastian?"

There was something familiar about that voice, something that made John's skin crawl, something that tasted bitterly of dark fears and old wounds –

Sherlock must have recognized it, for he started violently, turning to stare at the kitchen door. Moran hissed an expletive, and then, with dark hair damp and ruffled, wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist, Jim Moriarty walked into the room.

TBC