As it's turned out, Kitty quite likes Rich. Likes having him around. She blushed when she first brought him home; he took one look around, at the collection of hotel-room style landscapes on one wall, on the old trunk that serves as her coffee table, upstairs into the floral gloom of her bedroom and said, "So you live alone then." He said it with no great judgement or distaste, but she blushed anyway. But now it's been a few days, and she's found it… pleasant. Not special, nothing to shout about, but just nice. Nice to have him in the car with her.

The editor, you see, had wanted to meet him. After a little coaxing, he came round. It took a lot less coaxing to get Leon Coxcroft away from his desk and out the back, onto the service stairs, to watch her sneak him in. Not that Kitty's a cruel person. Not that she takes a lot of pleasure in other people's pain. But it's been done to her so much and so often she just couldn't wait to rub Leon's nose in it. Here he was, the man who was meant to be his prize after the Tower Hill caper, and the only one he trusts in all the world is her.

It's left her a happiness that cuts through all her exhaustion. He sees it too, and smiles over from the passenger seat. "Long day."

"Little bit," she smiles back.

"Drop me off at the shop, I'll bring coffee in."

"You don't have to," she says, but only politely. He brings her round fairly quickly. Bites down on the urge to snap at her about gift-horses, about this silly British tradition of refusal. He's been biting down on a lot of things the last four days and eight hours approximately. An old habit of grinding his teeth has resurfaced. A very old habit; he was on trial and never felt the urge to grind his bloody teeth. So old he'd forgotten he ever used to do it. But this week… Anyway, 'no' isn't an answer. Just a couple of minutes ago he got a text through from Moran saying Holmes was at Kitty's. Needs to go and have a chat about his personal security before he can go round there.

He is, however, quite looking forward to going round there.

Kitty, of course, knows none of this. All she knows is that her last houseguest, an old friend from uni, went through the flat in much the same manner a plague of locusts might, left nothing, and certainly didn't feel the need to replace anything in the aftermath. She is, as previously mentioned, quite enjoying Rich's quiet, affable company. And so she drops him off, and drives on round the corner. Home. On the curb, breathing out the long day, thinking of tomorrow's papers, she thinks simply, Home.

Naturally, if tomorrow's papers go well, she'll be upgrading it to a much better home, but for tonight, it'll do.

But in the hall, fishing for her keys, she realizes she won't need them. The door is open. The lock, though not broken, not kicked in, has been jammed open and won't close properly anymore. On a heartbeat, everything changes. Adrenaline kicks in and pushes everything to a higher, faster gear. Her instant thought is 'burglars'. There was a spate around here a couple of months ago and she dodged the bullet by a house or two but…

But that's ridiculous. There's really only one option, isn't there? Fear and trepidation turn weak. Excitement, that's what makes sense to her now.

Still, what she sees when she flips the light on… She's not sure she ever could have been expecting this.

Holmes obviously expects to be the big surprise. But she's still staring at the handcuffs between him and John Watson, frankly, and hardly hears whatever quip he offers by way of introduction. "Wh… What are you doing here?" she manages, eventually. He stands for a moment from the sofa, swooping so suddenly close and freezes and can do nothing. With the same carelessness and ownership with which he lifted her hand at the court, he pulls one of the grips from her hair.

"Borrowing this."

"Right," she mumbles.

He sits back down, sets about bending the end of the pin, freeing himself. For now, it seems, he's content to ignore her. And Kitty's content, crossing the room, sitting down, to take this little break. Her mind is racing; Rich is coming back. She needs to get rid of Holmes or she needs to warn him. But she can feel her heart beat against her ribs, hear it rushing in her ears, and it's very distracting. She's thinking, but only in circles, never getting anywhere. More than searching for solutions, she finds herself staring at Holmes, the focused, diligent way he goes about picking the lock. Like… like a little boy…

To hell with him. She has thought those words before she really understands them, but quickly comes to terms. To hell with him. After everything he said to her, how he made her feel, what he's done to Rich and to so many people with his childish little scam. To hell with him. What can he do, really? Kitty stops thinking, stops even trying to. Disdain wants to rule, and she hands over all control to the exasperation in her rapidly settling heart.

The cuffs pop open. A little flash of satisfaction on his face. A little flare in her smouldering hate. "Congratulations," he says, now that he's finally ready to speak to her. "The truth about Sherlock Holmes. The scoop that everybody wanted and you've got it; bravo."

She shrugs, "I gave you your opportunity. I wanted to be on your side, remember?" It's maybe not exactly, one-hundred-per-cent faithful a report. It's just that she's very aware of John Watson. The way he stands, holding himself straight and determined, protective. It strikes in a calm and perfect way, he doesn't know. He doesn't know anything. It's for his benefit that she even deigns to answer Holmes at all. "You turned me down," however, is as close as she can come to describing what happened at the Old Bailey. Shrugging again, "So…"

"And lo and behold, someone turns up and spills all the beans. How utterly convenient. Who is Brooke?" All his sentences run together. Is he trying to intimidate her? If he is, he's got another thing coming. Maybe he's just panicking. That'd be the sensible thing to do.

Kitty's never felt quite so untouchable as she does right now. The article, after all, is already printed.

Her lips start to form the words, 'I don't know'. But that's just instinct. That's base and old. She doesn't need it anymore. Why should she lie? More to the point, why should she speak to his monster at all? But it's too late, he's read what she tried to say. "Oh, come on, Kitty. No one trusts the voice at the end of a telephone." He goes on, but Kitty's a little distracted; Watson has just dropped out of his half of the handcuffs. Flexing his fingers. Naturally; they're sore, stiff, he'd too tightly from the wrist. Naturally. It just looks like he's clenching his fist at her, that's all.

Again, she finds herself thinking of that photographer she used to know, teaching her the Prayer For A Black Eye. Handy hints and tips on making sure a glancing punch leaves a bruise nonetheless.

She only looks back when she hears the word 'Dictaphone' leave Holmes' lips. Does he know what he's doing, when he says that to her? Does he even understand, when her eyes drop, when she remembers, what he left her with? Not just the recorded message, his ever-so-generous quote, but all that did to her. Does he know? He must.

She cracks, just a little, just enough to leave a nerve or two exposed and quivering. Very suddenly she knows she's sitting on the edge of the armchair, like a stranger in her own living room, bag at her feet like she's ready to run. It's enough, and Holmes continues in the same sharp vein, not with her full attention. "How do you know that you can trust him, eh? A man turns up with the holy grail in his pockets." She watches him with little more than sadness. "What were his credentials?"

Outside, pressed against the door, Jim lingers a second longer in the rapture of hearing that voice. Those questions. He's about to answer all of them. He lets them all struggle, pictures Kitty speechless and floundering…. He could leave them for another bout or two, but that would be cruel, wouldn't it… Oh yes, so very cruel.

He hangs his head, keeps his eyes deliberately down. Like nothing's ever happened or ever could have, breezes in, "Darling, they didn't have any ground coffee so I just got normal-"

'Got normal'. He comes so close to laughing, ruining everything; hasn't 'got normal' been his mission, these last long weeks? He comes so very, very close. And then looks up. He sees Holmes, and recognition. The eyes widen, the back straightening. Animals do that. It's the moment where the brain decides between fight and flight. But Holmes does neither. Freezes. 'Fright', maybe, is the option.

Jim, Rich, responds in kind. To do otherwise would be rude. Besides, he can see Watson in the corner of his eye, and that gent is leaning distinctly towards 'fight'. He has to do something. He does it with a little back-step, with an actor's approximation of terror, with one trembling hand raised in defence. The way a man betrayed can see only his Judas, he looks only at Kitty. "You said they wouldn't find me here. You said that I'd be safe here."

"You are safe, Richard." She's standing between them, between Holmes and Watson, tossing her head, utterly fearless or covering up really very well… He's impressed with her, for maybe the first time. "I'm a witness. He wouldn't harm you in front of witnesses."

Ah, bless her; she really does think that's how it works. That any party in this room could be stopped by the idea of witnesses. Witness? Jim lives for them. The more the better. If he knew where it was going to happen, he'd be arranging a parade to go by the place where Holmes is going to… Oh, he doesn't dare even think it. Bloody hard to stay Rich when he thinks about that.

"So that's your source?" This from Watson. Jim's first glance at him is brief, wary, unwilling to take his eyes off Sherlock. But the good doctor's getting so riled! He steps forward, pointing. Even his lanky mate's keeping a sideways eye on him. There's fun to be had, and it's a good time to sow seeds… Yeah, okay, let Watson talk… "Moriarty is Richard Brooke?"

Oh god, the fade, the crack on his voice. Though he's never tried it, Jim's pretty sure he could live on those noises. It's a thought he's had a few times; that he could go out into the wilderness and eat nothing, drink nothing, except that he would remember those sounds.

Maybe he hangs too long in that beautiful moment. Or maybe he's just doing a really good job of scared-shitless. Kitty feels the need to cut in on the dance. She balks, like she's not standing for it, like the very idea makes her sick, "Of course he's Richard Brooke. There is no Moriarty, there never has been."

And again, it must be stressed, Kitty's not a cruel person. Maybe if Holmes wasn't here to watch it, she wouldn't enjoy it so much. John Watson deserves to know, and she could explain it to him with heart and compassion, except that Holmes is here, and he can watch as everything he's done starts to crumble.

Watson bites, "What are you talking about?" Harsh, yes, but there's a softness in it too, and it breaks Kitty's heart.

"Look him up. Rich Brooke – " And if she'd stop for just one second throwing her bitchy little glances at Holmes and look at the man she's supposed to be defending, she might see a little look break through and pass between them.

Rich Brooke, sexy. Geddit?

"– An actor Sherlock Holmes hired to be Moriarty."

That's his name. His name, his real proper name, and he hasn't been hearing a lot of it lately. That's his name and he loves it, loves everything it means and stands for, loves it. Loves everything about this moment, the sound of that name of his as the soundtrack to the look on His Highness's face, seeing for the first time the true scope and beauty of it all, oh, dear, sweet Jesus… Forever. Kill him in this moment and he will live forever.

Yeah, he thinks. Okay. Let's play. Can he even dream of resisting?

"Doctor Watson," he begins. Even the sound of his voice is a trigger. Watson squares himself to be addressed. Kitty is all but overwhelmed by the urge to get between them, to stop this. She looks past Watson to Rich. Her source, but more than that. She said, after all, that she would protect him. As a matter of fact she's pretty sure she said at one point that he had 'nothing to be afraid of, anymore'. And look at him now; talking from behind both his hands, holding the world at bay. A terse smile on his face, like somebody trying to placate an attack dog, looking like a broken grin. "I know you're a good man," he's saying. Maybe it's even true. "Don't… Don't… Don't hurt me."

Watson snaps, "No, you're Moriarty!" Kitty flinches. Tries to ignore the flicker of pleasure she imagines crossing Holmes' face. She's perfectly wrong, of course. He can see nothing but Brooke. "He's Moriarty! We've met, remember? You were going to blow me up!" Poor Rich; for a moment he sinks completely in his own guilt, covering his face to hold off the memory.

To remember it more perfectly, more like. To crush down a giggle. Daft bint; once you make them believe one thing, they'll rework the world to make it all fit. But as the laughter actually escapes him he knows he has to focus, stick with the script. He's still standing in reality; it's so close to matching his fantasy he loses track sometimes. But there's work still to be done. "I'm sorry," he breathes, like begging, "I'm sorry. He paid me. I needed the work. I'm an actor, I was out of work-"

"Sherlock," John says, half-turning, cutting off these gabbling defences. He's turning to the only face in the room he trusts. The only thing is, every other face is telling him not to trust it. "You'd better explain, 'cause I am not getting this."

A prompt and effective answer is required. John could be placated with a few simple words. The correct words, and in that most correct of voices, the seed of doubt could be torn out of the ground and the soil sown with salt that nothing might ever grow again. But Sherlock says nothing. He's lost in his own mind, piecing together the facts he has, speculating on what fills the gaps, composing Moriarty's plan from scraps. And it really is beautiful. It's so close to perfect the flaws are a negligible factor. But the word 'neat' really does stop applying when you find yourself the object of the plot…

Still, John waits. And waits. These seconds are precious, and they fall the wrong way.

"I'll be doing the explaining," Kitty interrupts, dumping papers from her handbag into John's hands. He stares at them blankly, catching only words like a half-heard conversation. Fake and fraud and invented. "In print. It's all here. Conclusive proof." She turns to Holmes, presenting him with the fascinated Watson. "You invented James Moriarty, your nemesis-"

Yes, yes, he knows all that. The bulk of it clicked when she said the word 'actor', for God's sake. They keep talking, her and Watson. Meanwhile, Rich Brooke and his terror are proving the perfect excuse for Moriarty to stare right back at him. He's filling out details, so Sherlock looks him over, trying to read any clue, any hint. There is, however, nothing. Of course not. Because this, this whole event, it's all that Moriarty is. There's nothing in the glittering eyes but the glee of validation. The rest is nothing more than greasepaint.

Somewhere on the edge of his awareness, Kitty Reilly says, "And to cap it all, you made up a master villain."

John half-laughs, "Oh, don't be ridiculous."

"Ask him," is her challenge, "He's right here!"

Very briefly, beyond their notice, Moriarty raises his eyebrows, the very touch of a nod; yeah. I'm right here. And everybody who thinks it's ridiculous can ask me, because I'm right here.

Not quite voluntarily, Sherlock lifts a hand to his mouth. He knows what instinct put it there. He tells himself the kind lie that he did it so the words, 'Maybe not for long', would escape him aloud.

John is bawling something about the trial. There's a faint urge to quiet him, somehow, maybe even with comfort, but there's no room for it, no time. And though it's him that addressed her, it's Sherlock Kitty answers. "Yes," she's saying, "And you paid him. Paid him to take the rap."

God, she must have been so easy, so pliable, so very useful.

"Promised you'd rig the jury."

So very gullible. Naturally it's a man like Moriarty, and with his motives, that can find someone so very perfect as Kitty bloody Reilly…

"Not exactly a West End role, but I'm sure the money was good." Both Holmes and Moriarty share a silent groan; she's quoting her own unpublished article. You can hear it on her voice, read it on her voice. That's her very best line, the one she's most proud of. "But not so good he didn't want to sell his story."

…Beg pardon?, thinks Rich Brook. No-no-no-no-no, he's not selling his story. He's clearing his conscience. Subtle difference, Kitty. A subtle difference that makes the not-so-subtle difference between whether the public trust him or decide he's another kiss-and-tell twat and pay no attention to him. 'Selling his story' had better not be in the article and could she please get her hands off him, please? God, he can't even shake her off; she's supposed to be his defender, and if she wants to stand there in solidarity and defence with her hand on his shoulder he has to take it. If 'selling his story' is in the article when it prints, she's got two sorts of dead coming to her…

Again, Watson proves his limited worth, by being a useful distraction. Jim, Rich, damn it, he has to start getting that right again… Rich lifts up his two hands, joined as if in prayer. Like a stuck record, like he's got nothing else in the world to say, "I am sorry. I am, I am sorry."

Is there still a seed there? Maybe. Maybe if Jim, Rich, Christ's sake!, maybe if he squints and turns his head sideways and is really hopeful, if he claps his hands and believes…

"So, this is the story that you're going to publish?" Yeah, is there a seed there? Is that defensive derision, maybe? If he crosses all his fingers and toes? "The big conclusion of it all, Moriarty is an actor?" John shakes his head, chewing the idea like a wasp. Saying it out loud has brought it home to him just how stupid it all sounds.

Rich, desperate to keep doubt alive in the only human heart in the room, to water and nurture and feed it, points past Holmes, "He knows I am! I have proof!" His voice is shaking. He has to stop it, but trying to just makes it worse. All he can do is pray that repressed laughter really does pass for hysterical tears, in a pinch… "I have proof; show him." Finally, an excuse to push Kitty away. "Can you show them something?"

Watson, more than a little confrontational, "Yeah, show me something."

Kitty goes for her handbag. Watson watches her. While neither of them is looking, Rich slips away and Jim grins, can't help it. And he is proud and overwhelmed and overjoyed to see Holmes smile back. He gets the joke. The answer to the riddle. He gets the joke, after all this time and all this work and now he gets the joke. The red folder goes into Watson's hands. Oh, God, it's too, too funny. Full of jokes. The stupid sunglasses, the stupid CV, the stupid hospital program he'd said yes to before he remembered Molly Hooper watches the bloody thing and had to pull out. Too many jokes to waste on Watson, with his big, serious, collapsing face. He always looks like he's melting, but now he's melting all over Jim's jokes and he can't stand it. "I'm on TV," he says. "I'm on kids' TV. I'm the Storyteller. I'm the Storyteller; it's on DVD." Just one glance, just to confirm that Sherlock remembers their little story not so long ago.

Then, braver, and utterly unable to resist, "Just tell him. It's all coming out now, it's all over."

Kitty looks away from Watson. Rich, God help him, he too terrified to really know what he's saying. Talk like that is almost certain to provoke Holmes. Kitty watches carefully. Sees one arm fold defensively across his body, the other hand a fist and raised near his face, the gritted teeth. She watches, wanting more than ever to tell Rich to just shut up. Now's not really the time for that, though. "Just tell them," he goes on. "Tell them, tell him. It's all over."

It all happens within a moment, but in sequence; Holmes snaps and makes for Rich. Watson follows suit. Kitty can barely squeak, takes her own step forward a second too late. "No!" and Rich scatters, trying for the stairs at his back and only falling. "No, don't you touch me!" Fallen and vulnerable, pointing up as he tries to get back to his feet.

And Holmes is only bellowing, "Stop it! Stop it now!"

Is that all he's got? Because he knows, doesn't he, he just knows… "No, no, don't hurt me." It's a pity to leave them. Jim doesn't want to. But Rich has his feet beneath him again and Rich wants to flee. He flies, on love, pure love, on all the glories and beauties of this night, up and across Kitty's bedroom, into the bathroom, locking both doors behind him. The ginger bitch is screaming in his defence, but he'll never have to see her again. Holmes is crying out a platitude and an impossibility; "Don't let him get away." But the window has been opened for him, the way left clear and the gates undone on the fire escape. There's no obstacle, no slowing, not until he's on the ground.

A hand grabs him, pulls him in beneath the metal stairs, as Holmes and Watson both stick their heads out above.

There's breathing near him in the dark. Danielle. She laid the path for him and now she's throwing a heavy yellow anorak at him, saying, "Come on. Seb's got the cab waiting." He puts the anorak on, pulls up the hood. But he's not going the same way she is. He's going the other way, to the end of the street. Danielle dodges streetlights and rushes up to guide him in the other direction. "What are you doing?"

"I want to see them when they leave."

"How about no? You need to get away from here, and now."

"I want to see them," he tells her, more definitely, "when they leave."

She puts her hand where Kitty's has so recently been. He takes it by the wrist, above her cuff, hard. Throws her arm and all the rest of her away from him. Walks off the way he always intended to.

Kitty, for her part, couldn't be happier that he's gone. He'll come back, of course he will. She knows that. But she's so glad he got out of here, away from this psychopath and his blind, hopeless disciple. She blocks them from coming back down the stairs. Watson, same as he did on his way up, walks straight through her. But Holmes, when she looks up, when she meets his eyes, stops. Bloody right he does. He knows, now, that Kitty's not to be messed with. When it all comes down, he's going to know she's the one who did it to him.

Kitty's not a cruel person. But she takes an incredible pleasure in that, and no guilt.

And now that she's got his attention, "Do you know what, Sherlock Holmes? I look at you now and I can read you." She has dreamt this. She'll dream it again tonight when he's gone, and tomorrow, when he's gone forever under the weight of his crimes. "And you- repel – me."

He walks away from her then. She'd looked for a moment as if she had something interesting to say, but this is just a waste of time. As he leaves, his brain is running at the same speed hers tried to when she found them in the flat. Coping a lot better with it. Making the right connections.

He breaks into the street, with John at his heels. His first steps are heavy and aimless, storming, as the final act crystallizes for him, turns solid and perfectly clear.

With a heavy coat, and the shadow behind a streetlight, to hide him, Jim watches the revelation, when Holmes stops, when he turns his pale face up to look into the distant sky, his inevitable future.

Their inevitable future.

[A/N - Apologies for length - that scene is six minutes long. Please don't be annoyed at me for ripping off six minutes of dialogue. This scene had been requested by a number of people I like and respect very much. I only hope I've brought enough to it that it's been worth reading.

Hearts,

Sal.]