A/N: So, I'm posting this a good bit more quickly than I usually do, partly out of an eagerness to get it out there, and partly because I'm not sure if I'll have time Thursday, which is my usual "let's go post Dark Mirror and play with people's minds" day. :) And, before anyone comments, yes, this chapter involves dear old Kitty Riley, and yes, I did change her character for my own purposes. Or maybe not changed, but simply...elaborated as I saw fit. I really dislike the woman. Sleezy. Anyway, she may seem a bit OC, but since she's a) not a canon character and b) only in the original for, like, two scenes, I didn't see the harm in playing around with her a bit. Nothing drastic...just wanted to forstall the accusations. :)

Anyway, enjoy. And as always, reviews are greatly appreciated.

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There was a surprise waiting for them back at the flat.

An auburn-haired woman was sitting on the couch, a mug of tea in her hand and a file of papers beside her. John stopped in the doorway, confused, but Sherlock breezed past her as if she wasn't there, pulling off his scarf and tossing it across the room.

"Wrong flat," he said, without even glancing in her direction.

"You're Sherlock Holmes," she said, her voice breathy. Frowning, John stepped through the door and thumbed in the direction of the stairs.

"Did…Mrs. Hudson let you in?"

The woman ignored him. "I'm a big fan of yours, Mr. Holmes," she said. "I've read all of your cases—"

"Which means you're reading John's blog. So talk to him. I'm busy." Grabbing his laptop from where it sat on the table—his own laptop, for once—Sherlock stalked into the kitchen and settled himself into a chair at the table.

It was like a switch flipped in the strange woman, and she turned her cornflower-blue eyes on John with the same worshipful expression she had tried to give Sherlock. "You're him?" she asked. "You're John Watson?"

"Er…yeah. Who are you?" We really need to install a deadbolt or an alarm system or something. Unless he wanted to come home to an uninvited visitor for tea every day for the rest of his life.

"She's a journalist, John," Sherlock called from the kitchen. "Use your eyes."

John did use them—that is, he rolled them. "I said who, not what, Sherlock."

"Kitty," the woman answered, standing. She set the mug carefully on the table and reached out a limp hand to shake. "Riley. Pleased to meet you."

"You're a journalist?" She held his hand for just a second too long, and John pulled away, remembering Mycroft's warning. "Let me guess…one of our 'new neighbors'?"

"Oh, I like you," Kitty Riley purred. Yes, she purred. John wondered if Kitty was really her name, or if it was a nickname inspired by her languid, catlike attitude.

"What do you want?"

"There's been some…talk about you, Dr. Watson," she said, stepping closer. "Some rumors floating around that might make life interesting for you in the near future."

"And you, like the carrion eater you are, have come to pluck out the eyeballs of the corpse before it's even dead." Sherlock was suddenly standing again, looming in the kitchen doorway and glaring at the diminutive reporter.

John winced. "Sherlock—"

"What? That's what she is. Look at her!" the lean detective exclaimed, waving a disgusted hand at Kitty Riley. The journalist glanced down at herself self-consciously. "Nice outfit, but it's low-quality fabric—polyester—and there's a stain that looks like cheap beer on the left sleeve. Her shoes were on sale last week at seventy-five percent off. Her hair's all frizzled, like a shoddy haircut gone bad, and her nails look like they've gone through a shredder, for all there's bits of color on them. She either doesn't really care about her appearance or she can't afford to do any better. My money is on the former: she's a cheap reporter working for a cheap rag looking for a cheap story."

Kitty Riley gritted her teeth, and John noticed—how could he help noticing, after that rundown of Sherlock's?—that they were stained with years of cigarette smoking. "There's things brewing, Mr. Holmes," she spat, breathy voice disappearing, "Things that even the funny detective in the funny hat can't foresee. I may not write for the London Times, but I know a good story when I see one and I can tell you—your flatmate," she nodded at John, "is a good story about to blow. You're not my only source, you know." She stepped backwards to the couch and scooped up the file folder, waving it. "But I'm not the only one this guy's talked to. When the storm breaks, you're going to want someone on your side. Someone to…tell your side of the story. Clear the record."

John was feeling the effects of the last few days. Suddenly tired, he leaned against the doorframe. "And you think you're the girl for the job?" he asked wearily. "What do you want out of it?"

"I want a good feature," Kitty snapped, all the catlike laziness gone now. Her brow furrowed. "I don't want to work for the rag my whole life—this story could be my big break."

"Who is your source?" demanded Sherlock.

Kitty tapped the file with a ragged fingernail. "His name is Richard Brooks."

Sherlock sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth. "Rich Brooks?" he asked, drawing out the name.

John glanced at him, squinting. "Know him?"

"In a manner of speaking…" Sherlock waved a hand and stepped closer to Kitty Riley. "Give me that," he ordered in a tone that brooked no argument, holding out a hand for the folder. She slapped it into his palm and returned to her place on the couch, retrieving the tea mug and trying to look confident.

Sherlock flipped open the file. "I met John Watson in Kuwait," he read aloud. "He seemed a nice enough bloke, but some of the other lads in his unit told me stories about his temper and about how he would have these nightmares and start shouting in the middle of the night. And then he'd curse and shout at anyone who tried to help him. This sounds like the writing of a fifth grader."

"And it's rubbish," John scoffed. "I've never met this Richard Brooks—in Kuwait or anywhere else—and I never had any problems with nightmares until after I was wounded. Not any more than anyone else, anyway."

Kitty Riley pursed her lips. "That's not what Brooks says. Page three, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock turned over the sheets of paper, and his eyes narrowed. "On the third day out," he continued reading "I saw firsthand the effects that war had had on Dr. Watson. He had a sort of attack, I suppose you might call it. Something set him off—something one of the lads said, an odd shadow on the sand, one of the convoy vehicles backfiring, I don't know what. But he turned in a moment from a quiet doctor into a vicious rampaging maniac. He was shouting in rage and attacking anyone within reach. He broke one man's nose and another man's wrist before we could get him under control. A dose of sedative from his own kit, and he was himself again, apologizing profusely and so ashamed of himself…" Sherlock trailed off, shaking his head.

John muffled a curse, feeling sick. It was all a lie, of course, but there were some true bits in there—he had gotten into a scuffle once, with two boys from his unit who had managed to find some 'recreational beverages' during their off hours. He had come across them mid-fight and had, indeed, broken one's nose and the other's wrist before finally breaking up the brawl.

"And there's plenty more where that came from," Kitty Riley said, sipping her tea. Her blue eyes looked up shrewdly at the two men. "I've got all kinds of information on you, Dr. Watson. Including some facts about this string of murders—the Finger-prick Murders is what they're calling them for now. But Brook's information says they might as well be the 'Death Doctor Murders'."

"And you think this information is reliable? Come on, Kitty," Sherlock snapped, throwing the file at her. It landed at her feet. "Man shows up out of nowhere claiming to have the biggest story of the year, and you jump right on the bandwagon without checking the facts? How utterly convenient. That's why you're still working for a rag rather than a reputable news source."

"I'd like to be on your side," the journalist insisted.

"Yeah," John interjected, "Because you'd rather stir up a controversy than just report a story that may or may not be true."

She shrugged. "I can report anything, lies or not. But the 'insider account' always gets more attention than the general story."

"You are loathsome," Sherlock said. His eyes were frigid, and he looked down at Kitty Riley as if she were an insect. "You claim to be a journalist, but all you really are is a gossip-monger."

"It's not gossip if it's true."

"Well, it's not true!" exclaimed John, his patience failing at last. "It's just a bunch of stuff cooked up by—"

"John!" Sherlock gave him a quelling glance. That name won't help your case any, he seemed to say, and John subsided, seething. The nerve! Setting him up for murder was one thing—with all the 'clues' Moriarty had littered about the crime scenes, he knew a competent lawyer could prove he'd been framed. But tarnishing his military record…that was pushing it a bit far.

"Maybe you've been duped too, Mr. Holmes," Kitty continued, standing. She pointed an accusing finger at Sherlock. "Or maybe you've been covering for your little friend—or maybe your lover? That would make an interesting angle." She smiled, no more pussycat—this was predatory.

Sherlock snorted, unimpressed. "Now I know someone's been feeding you crap," he said. "Pardon my French." He glanced at John, raising an eyebrow. "That joke never seems to get old, does it, John?"

"He's probably twitting you about noticing his hair gel again," John muttered, remembering Moriarty's first personal entrance into their lives. "Turn about's fair play and all that."

Huffing a silent chuckle, Sherlock returned his attention to Kitty, who, judging by her confused look, hadn't followed that exchange.

"Get out," he ordered her. "Run back to your little friends and your little informant and tell them that this little scheme is a little short on genius. Discrediting me or trying to frame John—none of it will work, so he might as well stop trying."

Deliberately, Kitty Riley placed the tea mug on the table and stood, smoothing her skirt. "Try all you like, Mr. Holmes," she said. "Truth will out."

"Indeed it will."

The two men watched, not speaking, as Kitty Riley gathered her file and stalked out of the room.

When she was gone, Sherlock seemed to deflate a little. He plopped into his chair and sighed. "Repellant woman," he muttered. "Yellow journalism at its best."

"Worst, you mean," John replied. He slammed his fist against the wall, rattling the dishes in the cupboard on the other side. "Blast it all, Sherlock!" he exclaimed. "Is he just going to keep piling it on? Where does it stop?"

"Did you catch the name?"

"What?"

"Richard Brook. Rich Brook."

At John's blank look, Sherlock sighed. "Do you remember the Reichenbach painting case?"

"The one you recovered? Of course—they gave you cufflinks."

"Reichenbach translates to "rich brook" in English. Moriarty sponsored the theft of that painting—the name is his calling card."

"Subtle."

"Moriarty thrives on subtle." Steepling his fingers thoughtfully, Sherlock glanced sideways at John. "So," he asked. "How much of Kitty Riley's story is true?"

John's lingering irritation turned to nauseous ire. "You're worried she's telling the truth." How, after all that they had been through, could Sherlock doubt him? Doubt his loyalty, his sanity? Other people believing lies, he could stand—but the idea that even Sherlock might doubt was beyond bearing.

"What? No, I—"

"You're worried that you might actually be rooming with a psychotic killer. You're worried that your stupid deductive skills might, actually, for once, have been wrong. You're worried you're wrong." John clenched his fists, squeezed his eyes shut and took several deep breaths, knowing that if he didn't control himself, something was going to get broken.

"No, I'm not."

Sherlock's calm voice broke through John's fury. He opened his eyes just as the detective stood, stepped toward him and placed his hands on John's shoulders, shaking him slightly.

"I know you, John Hamish Watson," he said, and John read no doubt in those steel-colored eyes. "I know you quite well, and I have no fears that I have misjudged you. All I'm asking is: how much of Miss Riley's story is based in actual fact—what can really be used against you?"

John relaxed somewhat, Sherlock's steadying grip on his shoulder bringing him back to composure. His friend didn't believe him a killer. That made all the difference in the world to him. "There…there was a fight. And I did break a man's nose and all that—the guys involved may be willing to lie about it. But the circumstances were entirely—"

"That's what you do when you want to sell a big lie," Sherlock said. He gave John's shoulder a last, reassuring squeeze, then spun around to face the collection of photos and notations around the mirror. "You wrap it up in enough truth to make it palatable. Like hiding a pill in a piece of cheese and feeding it to a dog."

"I'm not sure I even want to know how you know that."

"Had a Labrador with heartworm problems when I was a kid."

John tried to picture Sherlock petting a dog. Oddly enough, it worked. "We should get a dog," he said. "A bulldog, maybe." A jaw-popping yawn sneaked past his defenses.

Sherlock cast a withering glare over his shoulder. "Shouldn't you be going to bed?"

John looked at his watch. 12:36 am. He groaned. "And I've got the early shift tomorrow too."

"Off you pop, then," Sherlock waved a hand. "I'll work on this a bit. Probably won't be in when you get up…"

"Right. Fine." John yawned again and turned to go. Then he stopped and looked back. "And…Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"Thanks."

A genuinely curious expression crossed the detective's face, and he frowned. "For what?"

John looked at the floor, then back up at his friend. "For believing me," he said quietly.

Sherlock shrugged. "I know you," he repeated, as if stating an obvious fact that every school child knew.

"Yeah, well…thanks."

"You're welcome."