Later that night, Sherlock lay awake, mulling over what Mary had said. Could Mycroft really be behind Moriarty's "return"? Was he allowing Sherlock to run all over the United Kingdom searching for a scrap of news about his nefarious enemy while he holed up having a laugh? Surely Mycroft didn't need an excuse to exonerate Sherlock, not when he was the whole bloody British government?

At first, he couldn't tell why he'd woken up. Then, he registered the shrill voice of Mrs. Hudson. "Sherlock! Sherlock, dear, there's someone… someone here… in trouble, I think by the looks of it, goodness me-"

Sherlock groaned. Clients knew better than to call on him at this hour. Whatever it was, it had better be at least a 9 if he was expected to take a case at 4:00 in the morning. Sherlock pulled on his dressing gown and trudged through his apartment to the front door. "Mrs. Hudson. How many times must I tell you that-" Sherlock stopped. It was Kylie. Her eyes were wide, her hair disheveled, her eye blackened. He hesitated, then ushered her into the apartment. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," he said listlessly, shutting the door in his disgruntled landlady's face.

"Kylie, what on earth-"

The girl had broken into hysterical sobs. Sherlock had no idea how to handle this. If she hadn't been John's niece, he probably would have shouted at her. Not out of malice, but pure discomfort with emotional displays.

"Allen-he… h-he found me," she croaked. "I saw him out the window, standing outside Uncle John's house. I thought that if I went out and t-talked to him that he would l-l-leave..."

"And what previous evidence did you have to support this ridiculous notion? Perhaps the bruises on your neck and wrist told you that he was a reasonable man, not prone to aggression?" Sherlock couldn't keep a note of derision out of his voice. Love. Love had driven this girl out into the street to reason with a complete maniac. She obviously cared for him, given that she had yet to turn him in to the police. Human error. Kylie's sobs grew louder. Sherlock sighed in resignation. He bustled about in the kitchen, making tea. He indicated to Kylie to sit in an armchair, and placed a ratty old quilt around her shoulders (She was shaking, indicated shock).

When Kylie had more or less calmed down, Sherlock asked, "Why did you not wake John? Why come here?" Then Sherlock understood. She was still protecting him.

"Uncle John would have phoned the police. I-I didn't want-" she trailed off. Sherlock stared. This was beyond even normal human error. He sighed.

"You can stay here tonight, but I'm afraid that's it. In the morning, I'm calling John."

Kylie nodded mutely. She wandered over to his sofa, looking at his map of London, littered with pins where he had tried looking for Moriarty. Places where he had his homeless network stationed. She paused, then asked "You're still looking for him, aren't you?" Sherlock shouldn't have been surprised. His showdown with Moriarty had been all over the news 3 years ago, and his sudden reappearance even more so.

"Yes," he conceded.

"Don't you think that broadcast said something about who's doing it?"

"What are you talking about?" Sherlock hadn't given much thought to the broadcast itself. Moriarty's image, the lurid Did you miss me? Anything else he had promptly deleted.

"Well, it wasn't actually footage of him, was it? His mouth wasn't even moving… it was on hinges. Like a puppet. I don't think one of his cronies would have presented him that way. He seemed the type to inspire worship amongst his followers."

Sherlock blinked. How Moriarty's mouth moved had seemed to him irrelevant, just one more grotesque feature of the broadcast that had been tormenting him. Was it possible that this proved the broadcast disingenuous in some way? He said nothing, only handed Kylie a blanket and pillow and returned to his own bedroom.