Seven years previously:
It's a London rain: the sort of drizzle that emanates from dark, low hanging clouds. Pavement sky and pavement underfoot. Allie runs home from school: there are holes in her shoes, and she's left her umbrella at home again. But it doesn't truly matter: rain never hurt a thirteen year old.
The flat looks nice from the outside, like another Camden townhouse, but they live in a remodeled basement that never feels clean for the damp.
"Mum?" she kicks open the door and shucks her shoes and socks, dumping her bag on top of them. She wanders vaguely into the kitchen where a note sits on the fridge.
'Had to cover Marcella at work. There's ham and eggs in the fridge for tea. Sorry love.'
The flat echos in the silence of the fridge buzzing and the house creaking in the damp. She sits at the kitchen table, doing maths. There's the thump-thump-thump as she kicks the chair across from her, and the hush of her sigh.
Someone knocks at the door.
Her pencil freezes in midair. The curtains are drawn but she stares, terrified. Again, a loud, hard knocking.
"Allison! We know you're in there. We saw you come home." The scratching of someone picking a lock precedes the door opening, and two agents come inside.
"Allison, you need to come with us."
"No." Conviction and fear make her voice shake. She isn't what she'll grow to be. She isn't strong or scared or scarred. She's just a girl with charity-shop trainers whose mother works too many hours. "You said we were done."
"It's changed. Your country needs you."
"Don't sound so American."
"Fine, your queen requires your service. Is that better?" Irritated, the agent hauls her up by her arm. "Now come on."
"NO!" She kicks at him, at the table, at everything, frantically trying to get away, but he's too strong. "My mum!"
"We'll let her know where you've gone."
"No! No! NO!"
A needle pricks her arm as her scream turns into a screech, and - almost instantly - she slumps. When she wakes up, someone is there to teach her to shoot a gun.
Baker Street is her place of healing. She gains weight and laughs and smiles until, over the months, her infectious joy seeps inbetween the floorboards and makes even the leaky faucet seem less irksome. She turns twenty, and there's a party with Lestrade and Molly; Mrs Hudson makes a cake, like she does for John's birthday, and Sherlock's as well. Wombat learns how to knit clumsily, and for Christmas gives John a jumper, and Sherlock a scarf; they wear them proudly, despite the dropped stitches, and she glows. John likes nothing more than to see her happy. Even Sherlock, at some point during the winter, leans slightly into her as she hugs him as he's sitting at the table.
She even goes to a concert one night on a whim, and meets another girl in the crowd. They become friends over bass that knocks the words from their bodies and get too drunk to find their way home. They wake, makeup smeared, as the first morning train pulls into the tube station, rumbling like a tank. Wombat returns home tired, hungover, and blissfully happy, and her existence continues on. She feels normal.
Then she receives a call from Mycroft's secretary.
It's March, and the snow has turned to slush. Cold water seeps through her boots, and by the time she gets to the office, her feet are soaked.
"Operative."
"Secretary." Wombat sits on the carpet and pulls off the boots and peels down the socks.
"Step in a puddle?"
Her toes are white with cold, and she rests them on the floor vent. "Outside is a puddle. There are holes in my shoes apparently."
The secretary nods. "We'll get you a new pair. You can go in. He's ready for you."
"Glad to know I'm his first priority."
The office makes her nervous. There are two sides to the city: one resides on the pavement, in council housing and on the back alleys; the other is palaces, glass skyscrapers, and wood-paneled offices, much like the one she sits in. It smells of espionage and thousand-pound bottles of scotch. It's not the side that she feels comfortable in.
"Ah, Allison."
"Mr Holmes." She slouches into the chair opposite his desk.
He stares at her for a long moment. "What I'm about to ask you isn't official. No, in fact it's quite off the record -"
"Isn't everything I do?"
"You might call it, personal." he says the word as if it disgusts him.
"So it's to do with Sherlock? Oh please, don't looked so shocked. Even someone as dull as me knows that he's the only person you care about. But whatever it is, I'm not going to retrieve it for you. I give him and John the same privacy that I do you." But she is sitting forward now, intrigued. No matter what she may say, she's not dull. Years of survival have made her smart, taken the typical women's ability to read a male gaze and amplified it.
"I need you to find out all you can about Moriarty."
"Moriarty? Person? Organization? Place?"
"I'm not exactly sure."
"Person, I think."
"What's he have to do with Sherlock?"
"I'm not quite sure. But I'm worried. Find out. Get back to me." From his inside pocket he produces and envelope, but she waves him away, standing.
"I'm not taking your money. It's a little too bloody for my taste."
She takes a cab home, and arrives with her feet only half-frozen.
His hair is dark and soft and clean. She rests her chin on his head and wraps her arms around him. John smirks from across the table as if to say nice try. It's not going to work. She just winks.
"Sherlock?"
"What?" the word is terse, harsh. She just smiles and leans down to kiss his cheek. "I need your help."
"Can't. Busy."
"Obviously, if you're too distracted to form sentences." She kisses his cheek again. He's shaved, so he only just got distracted. "Come on. It'll be fun. Promise."
"Can't. Busy."
She slumps in irritation, and John lets out a bark of a laugh from across the table.
"Sherlock, Mycroft asked me to do something, but I need your help."
He turns his head to look at her, unconscious of the inch between their noses. "Oh, yes. Tempting."
Instead of acknowledging the sarcasm, she reaches up and bops his nose with a finger. "You're dying to know, I can tell."
He's addicted to information, and his eyes show his reliance. "Tell me."
"Moriarty."
"Oh." He lurches up, knocking her back. "Oh!" Hands pressed together, he begins to pace. "Well. This is exciting, isn't it? Now tell me, what does my dear brother want with Moriarty?"
"Wait," John ceases his observation. "What's Moriarty?"
"I dunno. But I know Sherlock knows something, don't you?"
"Why don't you just take it from me?"
"You know I wouldn't do that. Besides, not nearly as much fun." They're the same, the thrill of the chase, of the find. It's a game, and for once, Wombat isn't scared.
In retrospect, she shouldn't have so quickly attempted to shove her constant apprehension under the bed. A little worry is good for the instincts.