221B Baker St.

You heard the woman

I sighed. The last few days had been rather dull, and Sherlock hadn't gotten another case. Over the rest of the working week, I had learned that when Sherlock was without something to puzzle through, to keep him occupied, he got rather irritable and short with everyone. Even for someone tough, he can be extremely unbearable.

The flat door slammed shut, pulling me from my contemplative state. Sherlock shut the door behind him, then began vigorously shedding his outer layers of clothing. 

I braced myself. "Been in the casting molds again, Lock?"

He sent me a curt nod before pulling off his plaster covered pants and strutting off to the bathroom in only his boxer shorts and favorite purple shirt.

I giggled softly. He was acting adorably childlike. I set down the papers I was studying and crossed the room to clean up the powdery white pile of clothes. This is the second day in a row that Sherlock has come home covered in Plaster of Paris. I surmised that he found Lestrade's stash and had acted accordingly. 

The washing machine was in a small room behind the stairs, down on Mrs. Hudson's level. As I was shoving the clothes into the washer, I heard the front door open.

Mrs. Hudson's at the hair dresser, and she said she wouldn't be home until later. Sherlock's in the shower, so that means whoever just came into the building should not be here.

I froze, making sure not to make any noise. Slowly, purposefully, the intruder made their way up the stairs. Step by step, right over my head.

When the foot steps reached the door to our flat, they paused. The noise of the door clicking open made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

When I was sure that they weren't in the hall anymore, I stole quickly out of the laundry room and started tip toeing up the stairs, skipping the loudest steps and keeping close to the wall.

Stopping at the closed door, I listened. The shower wasn't going, and I could faintly make out the sounds of Sherlock shuffling around in his room. The most alarming part was the steady, calm breathing coming from the living room just on the other side of the door.

The seconds ticked by tediously, but I couldn't bring myself to enter just yet. My hand stayed still on the brass colored door handle.

My body tensed as I heard Sherlock's door open and his light gait thumping against the floor boards. After I head the particular squeak of Sherlock entering the kitchen I waited the appropriate seconds before opening the door. Simultaneously we stepped into the living room, our eyes meeting before we turned our attention to our unexpected guest.

It was a male, mid twenties, dark hair and eyes, pale skin and a creepy smile. I subconsciously stepped towards Sherlock. 

"Oh, finally. How kind of you to join us, sweet heart, I thought you were going to stand behind that door forever!" His Irish accent irritated me, and I had to force myself not to squirm.

Sherlock pulled his dressing gown tighter around himself. "What an unexpected surprise, Moriarty. Why are you here?" Sherlock's voice hardened.

Moriarty's sickening giggle spread through the room. "Oh, Sherlock. I was in the neighborhood. And everyone's so boring... you know how it is. Simpletons. It's just you and me. I see you have this new pet, hmm? Must be nice to have someone to show off for. That's the frailty of genius. It needs an audience."

"Right... who bloody cares? Get your arse out of my flat before I make you. Sherlock doesn't want you here, and I don't either," I snapped.

His eyes widened. "Well, don't you have a fiery attitude. My apologies, Sherlock, but you heard the woman."

Sherlock's jaw tightened, but he said nothing. I stepped over and jerked the door open, glowering pointedly at the Irishman. 

He chuckled lightly, smoothing his suit jacket before standing . He strode over to me. Leaning in close, he whispered in my ear. "That will cost you, sweet heart. See you soon."

Suddenly, he was pulled away from me. I watched as Sherlock dragged him by the collar, down the stairs and out of view.

I stood there, too shocked to do more than replay the prior situation, searching for any hidden meanings, or looks or something to make sense of it. Sherlock had some prior association with Moriarty, that much was apparent. I stared absently at the chair the mystery creep had been lounging in. 

When Sherlock came back up the stairs, he was breathing hard and sporting a bleeding lip. He walked over to me. "I'm sorry he came around while you were here. I had no idea he was coming. I would have warned you or-"

"Or cleverly found a way to kick me out of the flat?"

Sherlock stayed quiet.

My jaw dropped. "I can not believe you! After all the rubbish I go around doing for you, you repay me by having this creepy person come to the flat! I don't mind you having people over, but don't bloody do it behind my back!"

He rolled his eyes and paced over to the window. "Ivy, it's not like that. Moriarty is a dangerous man, a rival to me even. He has numerous people and resources at his disposal, he could over turn monarchies in as little as an hour. I couldn't let him know about you. If he got his hands on you there's no telling what he would do..." he said the last part quietly.

Now it was my turn to be silent.

We didn't speak for some time, instead we just stared at each other. I could feel the room growing colder.

Finally, I broke down and shivered. I rubbed my arms as I walked into the kitchen. "What to you want for dinner, Sherlock?"

He gave me a funny look. "It's only three pm. Dinner isn't for another three hours..."

I exhaled, massaging my temples. "Right..."

Sherlock followed me into the kitchen and leaned against the sink next to me. "Ivy."

I shook my head and paced quickly over to the coat rack. "I'm going out."

He sighed. "Well, I'm coming with you."