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Meeting Jack Moriarty had a profound effect on not only the case, but on how I felt about myself. For the first time in nearly a year, I had proof, real proof, that my belief in Sherlock wasn't just hope and happenstance. I felt as though I was walking on clouds when I called Mycroft, Greg, and Molly to let them know what had happened and what I needed them to do.

To turn public opinion, I knew that I would need more than Jack's word that he was the brother of James Moriarty. I would need scientific proof as well. I asked Molly to take samples and test them against samples from Jim's body. He had been shot on top of St. Barts, so she had been the medical examiner and still had blood samples from his autopsy.

I asked Greg to use his police connections with his counterparts in Ireland to prove that Jack was who he said he was. A file was quickly sent back, which he forwarded to me, saying that there was indeed a man by the name of Jack Moriarty from Dublin, who was 28, the same as the man in my shower, missing for eleven years and presumed dead. The attacked photo looked like a younger and less troubled version of Jack. Also included were a set of prints, which I asked Molly to compare against Jacks.

I felt a little uncomfortable with what I needed from Mycroft, but it was probably the most important call I made that night. With former members of Moriarty's organization frequently going missing or turning up dead, I needed for jack to be placed in a safe house. I wouldn't be able to protect him at Baker Street, not with having regular hours at the clinic. Mrs. Hudson was a wonderful, ingenious woman, but I knew that she would prove to be little more than an annoyance to anyone who wanted to get to Jack. Mycroft agreed to have someone pick him up from my flat early the next afternoon, so that Molly would have a chance to take DNA samples and prints in the morning.

Last of all, I called Sara to tell her I wouldn't be able to work the following day. I lied, saying that Mrs. Hudson was ill and needed someone to look after her for a day or two. Luckily, she didn't question me and even offered to take me off the schedule for Friday, as well. I told her that it wasn't necessary, but thanked her anyway.

While I was on the phone with Sara, Jack finally came out of the bathroom. It was remarkable the difference a shower and a comb could make. His long hair and beard no longer seemed scraggly and unkempt, but deliberate and stylish. His face was bright, and he looked five years younger. I couldn't help but wonder what he would look like if he had a fresh haircut and a shave. Probably remarkably unchanged from the boy who had run away from his abusive brother and indifferent parents all those years ago.

While we ate a takeaway dinner from the Chinese down the road, Jack told me about his life these past eleven years. You would think the story of what it was like to be homeless would be one difficult to hear, but Jack painted a different tale. He talked about having real friends who cared for one another, even when they didn't have enough food to fill their own bellies. He spoke of people who gave him change every day, and had for years. It was obvious that he considered being homeless far superior to the life he had lived before. It was equally obvious that he was right.

One question plagued my mind through the meal. I finally built up the courage and asked him when the hour grew late.

"Why didn't you ever get off the streets?"

"What do you mean?" Jack asked sarcastically, as though the answer to my question were obvious.

"It's just, eleven years is a long time to be homeless, especially since you're clearly not crazy. There are people who like to help the homeless population, after all."

"I had to be so careful. I didn't want for Jim to ever catch wind of me. I never toed the line of the law, didn't want to have my name on paper. Everyone had heard of Jim. I knew that if I ever got a job or a flat, he would hear about it and start torturing me again."

It made since, in a sick sort of way. Choosing to live the hardest life a person could lead, all to avoid the torment of a sadistic older brother.

"His death was widely publicized last year," I said. "Why did you stay on the streets after that?"

"You think I'd believe anything in the papers about Jim? The man was a born liar. I figured that there was no way he was really dead. Honestly, I thought it was equal odds that Tiff was bringing me to him this afternoon, as to you. I'm glad I took the chance, though."

"So am I, Jack. So am I."

The next several weeks seemed to pass in a haze. I saw Jack off to the safe house with a light heart. Molly was able to confirm that he was, in fact, Jack Moriarty and DNA tests proved he was the brother of one James Moriarty, a.k.a. Richard Brooks. Molly was also able to prove that Sherlock's science was sound. I spoke to as many of our former clients as I could, who had previously said they didn't believe. I gave them what proof I had, and quite a few of them changed their minds, deciding to come forward when the time came.

I wrote a press release with all of the facts I had gathered. I did my best to make it about the facts and evidence, rather than about how I felt. I included Molly's testimony about Sherlock's scientific prowess, witness statements, lists of confessed criminals who were behind bars because of Sherlock. Most importantly, I included a list of nearly forty names, people who were willing to talk about how Sherlock had saved their lives, their fortunes, their livelihoods, their marriages, and their state of mind. I was very glad to be able to include Henry Knight's name on that list.

Lestrade wrote several pages that I included. He wrote about the influence that Sherlock had had on the Scotland Yard. He said that Sherlock had changed the way that the crime scene techs behaved on the scene, made them more observant. They had learned many of his evidence finding methods, and they had been used in numerous cases to bring murderers to justice.

The last several pages were what I considered to be the most important, though. Those pages I saved for Jack. I wrote about what it had been like for him, having James Moriarty for a brother. How he had run away and lived in hiding. The final page was Molly's report on Jack, the final nail in the coffin, if you will.

On March 31st, I posted my press release on my blog and sent it to every credible news source in the U.K.; Mycroft assured me that all of them would report on it.

On April 1st, all hell broke loose.