Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Thanks for their reviews go to LadyK1138, kraftykathy, likingthistoomuch, emedealer, Icecat62, AJP910 and Katya Jade. The plan is to have this entire story up by Halloween so wish me luck!


CHAPTER TWO: THE RED DOOR


Soho,

Old Compton Street,

10 Minutes Later

Mycroft is getting more ridiculous by the day, Sherlock thought as he finally rounded the corner of Old Compton Street and saw the building he was looking for.

Sending him to look into this place was simply the latest piece of evidence.

The elder Holmes had been on edge for weeks now, antsy- or at least as antsy as he ever got- and snapping at everyone. Even Anthea was in the doghouse, and normally she could do no wrong. In fact, Sherlock wouldn't have been surprised if his elder brother were planning on starting a war: the last time he'd been this nervous was just before the Berlin Wall came down, but he hadn't even been with the government very long then, so Sherlock had no proof he'd had anything to do with that.

(The timing of his absences had been suspicious though).

Be that as it may however, Mycroft was jumping at every shadow, watching him even more closely than usual. His security detail had been doubled, and even John could feel himself being watched. Inwardly the detective grimaced: It wasn't like he couldn't give Mycroft's boys the slip, but he was curious as to what Brother Dearest was up to, and why it all seemed to be connected to the house before him…

26 Old Compton Street.

A house like any other.

Except for the fact that it had been in the Holmes' family for longer than the current royal family had been on the throne.

It was triple storey, red brick. Faded in its glory. Steps led up to the front door and down to the servant's entrance below, the brickwork filthy. Forgotten and peeling and dank. What had once been a polished brass plaque beside the door proclaimed it the home of The Luciferia, A Club for the Discerning Gentleman, which was a long-winded way of saying the place had once been a brothel. Not that that was all that unusual in this part of town: Soho had been synonymous with sin for centuries. This building stood out though, out of place amidst the restaurants, bars and occasional sex shops which peppered the area, a remnant of another time and place entirely. A ghost on a winter's evening.

As Sherlock stared at the building's dull, peeling, oddly vibrant red door he couldn't help but notice the shiver that thrummed down his spine. He could have sworn-

For a moment he could have sworn that someone was looking at him through one of the windows, a flash of white that might have been a face.

But as the windows were boarded up on the first floor and curtained heavily on the others, that was impossible. He shook his head to himself.

All the Halloween talk of ghouls and ghosts was clearly making him fanciful.

Besides, he had something else to think of. After all, this little jaunt had given him an opportunity to spend more time with Molly. And while John's rolled eyes and shudder might suggest that he could have come up with a better way to do so, Sherlock felt fairly certain that inviting her along had been one of his more brilliant ideas. Molly loved dark and haunted things, she adored ghost stories. The books she carried in her bag were by Le Fanu, James, Lovecraft. She seemed uninterested in modern writers of the genre, and for that he could not blame her. She was a woman of taste.

And being a woman of taste, a trip to a house like this would thrill her.

Which was, of course, the point of the exercise. Ever since his triumph after the Moriarty Hoax, he'd been aware that his feelings for Molly were more… friendly than they had been before he left. The way she had helped him and kept his secrets had surprised him, and her newer, more assertive way of dealing with him was infinitely preferable to her previous, stammering, simpering self.

He had also been unable to ignore quite how distasteful he found her relationship with Tom.

In the last six months since he'd gotten back, Sherlock had become aware that Molly was quite an interesting woman in her own right, and one he'd like to know better. He found her help on his cases invaluable, especially now John often had prior commitments to Mary (and especially now that the afore-mentioned idiot, Tom, was no longer a factor). And so he had decided to examine his feelings, perhaps pursue them to see if they led anywhere…

He had haltingly explained this to John, and John had haltingly agreed to help him get her attention. If he could. And if Sherlock behaved himself.

"Don't be a ponce to her," Watson had told him, "and you might- I stress might- still be in with a chance, mate."

As far as Sherlock was concerned, running into her was this chance.

He'd make sure she enjoyed herself if he had to spend the entire night at her side.

Again he felt that twinge of unease. He couldn't help but suspect that he might have other, less pleasant reasons for not letting her out of his sight. He sighed to himself at the thought though: the city's current, seasonal obsession with the supernatural was getting to him.

As if Molly Hooper would have anything to fear, he told himself bracingly, with him about.

He looked over at her and smiled, once again admiring the lovely sight of her in her costume, and despite himself his heart gave the most pernicious little twist.

Rather than examine that though, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the key for the padlock on the front door, as well as the older, larger, brass key which opened the house's original lock. Both in hand he bounded up the front steps, opening the locks and the putting his shoulder to the door, pushing until the door gave. It opened with a slow, heavy gravitas, and it was the most peculiar thing, but Sherlock couldn't work out why it would require so much effort. He pulled a small LED torch out of his other pocket and examined the door's hinges, but though they were rusty, they should have had more give in them than that.

Curios, he thought. Though not all that pressing right now.

"Sherlock," John called, bringing his mind back to the present. "You dragged us all the way down here: The least you could do it let us in, Molly's freezing."

And she was. As Molly joined Sherlock inside the dank, dusty house she was shivering.

Without stopping to ask for permission, Sherlock opened his coat and draped it around her bare shoulders, shooting John a smug smile.

His friend rolled his eyes and seemingly prayed for patience.

"Thanks, Sherlock," Molly murmured, and she was smiling into the coat's collar as she said it, doing up the buttons.

"You are entirely welcome," he said, making sure to lower his voice because he had been reliably informed by Mary that women liked that sort of thing. And his voice was lower than most.

He couldn't be certain, but he was fairly sure he heard John roll his eyes this time, muttering something about "having a word with the Mrs-" As if that would make any difference.

After all, Molly clearly liked him best.

"So what are we doing here?" Molly asked.

"Yes," John chimed in in irritation. "What are we doing here, since I thought you and me were going down The Nag's Head for some more recon on McKeever? And since we had discussed not getting Molly to do any more unofficial work for you?"

All of which was entirely true, Sherlock was supposed to have invited Molly to something asinine like the theatre when he finally asked her out.

This, however, was clearly so much better.

"We are here," Sherlock announced grandly, "to solve a forty year old murder." He cleared his throat. "And possibly a centuries old one too."

John crossed his arms tartly. "Explain," he said. "And no words longer than three syllables, please."

Sherlock reached down, searching with his LED light until he found a switch and flicked it, causing a generator to start to hum. That done he flicked another switch, flooding the lower floor of the house with dim, electrical builders' lights. He saw mirrors, peeling wallpaper, damp. At least there were no rats.

"This house has been in my family since the early eighteenth century," he began. "It has seldom been lived in, though it was built as a family home. For most of its existence, it has served as one of the Holmes' family's better kept secrets, and preserved the family fortunes through thick and thin."

He paused, ever the dramatist. He couldn't help but notice the gratifyingly wide-eyed way Molly was staring at him.

"And for the length of that time," he continued, leaning in until he was nearly nose to nose with Molly, "the entire Holmes' clan has been convinced it's either haunted, or cursed."

He made a show of waggling his eyebrows.

"Possibly both."

Molly gave an impressively cynical snort at this. "Surely you don't believe in that claptrap, do you?" she scoffed.

Sherlock smirked at her, happy to see they agreed on something.

"No, I don't," he said. "But Mycroft has had men in to oversee a renovation of the place, and they've found human bones in the basement, near where the original kitchen would have stood. A governess disappeared here in the 1760s, which may be why the house originally got the reputation it has, and I suspect the remains belong to her- Though they may belong to a young woman who disappeared here in the 1960s too, when it was also a music venue." He shrugged. "I will have to check. Either way, Mycroft bet me I couldn't solve what had happened here, and said that he already had. Couldn't have that now, could we?"

John narrowed his eyes at his best friend. "Perish the bloody thought," he muttered.

Sherlock grinned brightly at him. Bounced back on his heels. "Exactly! So here I am, looking to learn everything I can about the building before it's either leveled or renovated, and I have my two finest helpers with me-"

Molly blushed. John glowered.

Sherlock smirked some more.

"Now come along down into the basement," he said cheerfully.

Again John snorted. "You didn't watch a lot of horror movies when you were a kid, did you?" he said sarcastically.

"No, John," Holmes retorted primly. "I was literate from the age of three."

"I'll bet that's not the only thing you were from the age of three," Watson groused.

Molly sighed like a mother with two especially difficult children and instantly both men made an effort to shut up.

Sherlock was sure it was more difficult for him, but he didn't say that out loud. Showing off to Molly wasn't a good idea, apparently, so he held his peace. They reached the basement and Sherlock again switched on the builders' lamps, careful to point out the cables to Molly so she wouldn't trip over them. She beamed. John growled.

Sherlock was delighted.

This is all going to much better than I anticipated, he thought.

And then there was a sudden bang, a flash, and the generator cut out, leaving only the light from Sherlock's torch to see by, joined in a moment my John's and Molly's mobile phones. The three looked towards the stairs, about the trace their way back the way they'd come, and that was when Sherlock saw it.

In the light from his torch a hand-print (small, feminine) could clearly be made out on the wall beside the stairs, its shape dripping blue-black streaks against the ancient pale green wallpaper. The fingers of the hand were running downward as if the hand's owner were being dragged away, the impressions of those fingers narrowing as if the person who made it had literally dug their nails into the wall in an effort to hold on.

As Sherlock watched he felt the strangest sensation, a prickle of goose-flesh under his skin which raised the hair on the nape of his neck. He frowned: that hand-print had not been there a minute ago, of that he was certain. Just as he was certain that whoever had made it had used paint of some sort. Sherlock stared at the hand-print, stared at his friends and then stared at the hand-print again-

And then he did the only thing he could do: He dabbed his finger in the liquid and licked it off his thumb. Tasted it.

Ink? he thought- Writing ink. Shellac or possibly lampblack in the mix, can't be modern- Not thick enough to be used in printing, so- Ah!

He recognised the composition.

India ink. But who on Earth would spatter India ink hand-prints on a wall?

He did not however get any further with that thought, because at that precise moment there was another loud bang and an explosion of plaster dust as the surface of the wall came away with a whining, creaking thud.

That was also the moment in which Molly started screaming, but given that a corpse had just landed on her, Sherlock supposed he shouldn't be surprised.