AN: I normally don't do Sherlock fic but then I read an amazing fic with Moran in it and I decided I would write my own... Hopefully this turned out well ^ ^ Thanks to AverageScript for the beta!

If Sebastian Moran considered himself 'ordinary' enough to have a hobby, he would consider his to be cleaning. It was funny, because not many people picture one of the most dangerous and prestigious assassins in the world to be sweeping his flat between jobs, but it was true. He liked being neat.

Especially with knives.

He didn't much like killing with knives. Stabbings were too messy and easy to fuck up. Stabbings involved close contact, and screams. But he liked cleaning them- knives, that is. He didn't so much like cleaning the scene of crime up- he would have to wipe everything, from the floor to the light bulbs just in case there were prints. That was much harder. Knives were difficult objects, designed to cut but hard to use properly.

What he liked about knives was wiping away the blood, making sure there weren't any dark splotches that could give him away. He craved seeing the contrast between the stained, red metal and the shiny, almost mirror-like blade- the end product. He enjoyed making sure the blade wouldn't get dull from contact with the rough sponge; the way the blood would flush down the drain to be dissolved by other, unidentifiable cleansing liquids down in the sewers so there was no way he would get caught. It was almost beautiful.

That was probably why he opened a knife-sharpening and kitchenware shop in the heart of London. It was almost laughable how easily he got the spot. It was also ridiculous how many murderers and outlaws visited to buy their pots and pans and also went into the back of the shop to talk to him about the disposal of some incriminating piece of evidence.

Two months later, he bought out the entire space flat out- it looked bad when you had to turn down a job because your rent was due that day, he soon found out. And no matter how often it happened, it never failed to be funny whenever an infamous sharpshooter had to wait in line behind a little old lady or a soccer mom to buy a cutting board.

Ironically, the business conducted in the main shop was entirely legal. He paid his rent for the first two months, he hired employees, though they were mostly ex-cons trying to get their life back together, (Sebastian had offered them jobs on the premise that as long as they wouldn't get involved in business conducted at the back of his shop, they could get employee discounts as well as a recommendation to put on their resumes) and would call the police on shoplifters.

Everything was going perfectly. Or, as perfectly as it could go for an assassin playing marketplace.

Until Moriarty fucked it all up.

It was a perfectly nice Thursday. (Why did everything have to go wrong on Thursdays?) He was just about to close up shop when a man walked in.

The man was attractive, wearing a very nice expensive suit. He didn't have the look of an ordinary man out searching for the perfect tart pan. Sebastian looked up from his position behind a counter.

"Hello," he said.

The man nodded in return.

"We're about to close up soon. If you'd like to make a purchase, is it possible you can wait until tomorrow?" Obviously, he wasn't here for a dish, but keeping up pretenses was important.

"I have an offer," the man said. (Irish, Moran noted.)

"Oh?" he asked.

"Do you have security cameras here?"

"Wouldn't do me much good would it?" That much was true. He could catch anyone he needed if they took anything from him. Although, if the police investigated the shop it would all go downhill if they stumbled upon any criminal activity, which happened frequently.

"Good man. Shall we talk in the back?"

"You've heard about me, then," he noted out loud.

"The number of patrons that I've sent to your store here might surprise you."

"The right answer would be yes, then."

The man looked surprised by this response- maybe he wasn't used to people talking back to him?- but quickly composed himself.

"The name's Moriarty," he said. Moran grinned. Now they were getting somewhere.

"I'm Moran. Let's talk business, shall we?"

One week, 2 days and 5 hours later, Moriarty positioned himself outside a bar.

"So, old friend!" he chuckled, slapping a complete stranger on the back. He was drunk, their target was, and Jim was faking a proper Londoner accent for this job.

"Do…I know you?" he slurred out. This was getting easier and easier.

"Course! Sam, old man, how're you doing these days?" Sam was actually a millionaire with a huge company whose main business seemed to be with oil diggers. Sam's company would chop down the trees and dig up the dirt for the diggers to get a clean drill and one of Moriarty's clients wanted him dead.

"I-I, uh, I don't know. Did I ever tell you- who are you again?"

"I'm Tom! Don't tell me that you don't remember me!"

"Ah, Tom! Good to see you again. Did I ever tell you that- (here he dropped his voice into a comically loud whisper)- I think there are people out to get me."

Jim choked back a laugh. "Really? You mean, like, assassins?"

"Yeah, yeah." The man nodded vigorously. "So, so glad I can trust you, Tom."

A lesser man would have given up the game. Jim Moriarty was not a lesser man.

"Course, course, Sam. Let's get you home, then." Home, where Moran is in the building across the street with a rifle.

They called a cab.

Fifteen minutes later the man was lying on the floor, blood dripping out of his skull and onto the carpet. Moran was next to Jim, admiring his handiwork.

"That was a very good shot," Jim said, dropping the accent.

"Mm," Moran agreed. "Could be a bit cleaner, but it was hard to get a good angle. Had to account for the window and all."

"I thought it was brilliant."

"You really think?"

"Yeah, yeah. No way I could've done that."

"No offense, but I can't really picture you shooting anything."

"I operate from the background."

"Clearly not this time. Can I ask you something?"

"Depends." Jim was now mixing himself a drink from the dead man's cabinet.

"You said that a big percentage of my clientele came from you."

"Something like that, yeah. Have a drink?"

"Just a glass. So why'd you show up in person this time?"

"I got interested."

"You did, did you?"

They were now about three inches apart. God, no, he couldn't do this. He was supposed to be detached. Apart. Separate from everyone. No. Relationships. With. Anyone.

"Yeah. Heard all sorts of things, thought I'd see you for myself."

Five centimeters, now, at most. How had he never noticed how fucking pretty Sebastian's eyes were? He'd never truly appreciated brown eyes until now. When did he start thinking about him on a first name basis? Oh, god, this is why he never got into relationships. Fucked up the whole business. Once you start caring, you have a weak spot.

"So, what do you think of me now that you've seen me?"

Jim's senses were dulled, and at that moment he couldn't think about anything except for dear god, what's gotten into me- but, his lips, no- his eyes, stop it, stop stop stop. Get a grip on yourself. Even his hair is perfect- why didn't I visit him in person earlier, he's fucking gorgeous- stop it- you're just putting him in danger- but he's a sniper, he's always in danger, I won't change that- you'll put him in more danger, this is why you do business through proxies, but his lips- and his eyes- his hair, stop it-

His thoughts were quickly blotted out when his lips met Sebastian's.

He never knew a pair of lips could feel so soft, so good against his own or that hair could feel so good when it was tangled up in his fingertips, and, oh, Jesus, what was Sebastian doing with his tongue? He heard a moan and realized that it had come from him. Since when was he this…what was the word…vulnerable? Obsessed?

They pulled apart for air. For a second, Jim became very, very scared. He had just let down a huge barrier. He was now weaker. More susceptible. If Moran were to strike, he would have no defense. This was why he didn't carry out operations firsthand or why he didn't let himself be in relationships.

"Look at us," Moran murmured, smile playing on his lips. "Making out in a dead man's apartment. May I point out, the dead man that we killed."

Jim's relief was almost instantaneous. "You make it sound so dirty," he breathed.

Miles away, Sherlock Holmes solved a bank robbery in five minutes, confounding the police with his (scarily accurate) deduction skills.

In Afghanistan, John Watson was in his bed, the sound of bullets still ringing in his ears.

Moriarty and Moran were in a dead man's flat, on top of the world.