Days have passed, and Kitty still sometimes stops and wonders if that meeting really happened. She's never met a source like that; incredible, the sort of thing every journalist dreams of. A beautiful vulnerable woman, very photogenic if she can ever be convinced to go on record, burdened with years of impossible guilt and only looking to throw it away, to make amends in the world by telling the truth, and with all the hard evidence a responsible journalist could ever want. More than enough for a hack. Time and experience and the embittered talk around the office had taught her that such perfectly distraught fonts didn't exist.

But they do, and Kitty's got one. She'll catch it on the rasp of her cigarette lighter, that sensation of uncertainty, like she might have just imagined it. And on the first draw she'll know that's not true, and she breathes it deep and smiles.

The rest of the hacks don't understand it. They think she's lost her mind, or at best that she's found a better position at a worse newspaper. Assistant deputy sub-editor for features at the Sport, something like that. Which is fine. Let them think. As of this evening she'll be able to bring it to the boss, and tell him everything with certainty and support. About Leon Coxcroft and Sherlock Holmes, about the woman who works for the lawyers and has all those lovely documents Kitty's photocopied, about poor, used Richard Brooke. Today, all her problems end. She will no longer be depending on squashed pigeons to pay the rent.

There could be a TV job after this, y'know... Not as the talent, maybe just writing copy. Channel Four news. She could do that. The bit before The Simpsons, like a teaser trailer, John Snow sitting on his desk and telling the headlines very quickly? Kitty could write that, no problem.

But there is one more thing she must do first. That's why she had to borrow the deerstalker. Michelle in Graphics has a little sister who just recently switched her obsession from the fictional detectives of Las Vegas to a real one closer to home, so it wasn't too hard to get hold of the fanclub gear. And yes, she feels ridiculous, but she has to know. A lie that size, some part of it has to be true, doesn't it? Kitty prays; the story will read so much more earth-shattering if there's some solid fact for people to hold on to. She can't just pull the rug out from under the avid followers of the Sunday Scoop, now, can she?

So she climbs the steps of court (changing her prayers briefly to ones designed to keep Leon far, far away from her) with her chin held high and remembering she's here purely as a journalist and if that requires, just this once, a truly silly disguise, then that's quite alright.

But as Kitty enters the building, on the stairs inside, her source turns very quickly in the other direction. Of course, Danielle's part of the story now, so it hardly matters if she's seen. She just feels the Judas she's playing would react badly to meeting Pilate in public. But the little noise of shock and distaste that escapes her is totally real. After all, she's only supposed to be here to keep an eye on Watson, to watch the rest of the public gallery for unfriendlies, to see Jim, as a potential back-up in case anything goes wrong, so Holmes will see her from the stand... Alright, for a lot of reasons, but she's got enough on her plate without worrying about the ginger bint then, hasn't she?

Quickly, irritably, phones up Moran, "Why is Kitty at court in tweeds and one of those hats?"

"No idea."

"You're supposed to be keeping an eye."

"No, love, you misunderstand; I'm watching her, I've seen it all happen, I just have no idea."

"I told Jim we should have had her phone bugged," Danielle mutters. Then, sullenly imitating, "Nah, love, never work. She's a journo, they know all about it. Have it spotted in seconds, would she bugger... Woman's an idiot."

"Just out of interest, Dani, are you anywhere where somebody might hear you talking like that? I'm only saying, it's Little Brother's big day so the place is probably crawling with Mycroft's lot."

Sighing, Danielle sees them starting to close the doors on the trial and rushes up to the gap, the last one in. She risks a glance over her shoulder, even as it's tapped for her to turn off her mobile. What she sees in the hallway below, she whispers to Moran, "You're absolutely right, Seb. Consider me calmed." Because, with not a small glow of pride warming her heart, she's just watched Miss Reilly follow Sherlock into the gents. It settles her. The doors shut and she looks across the courtroom, first at the jury, then the defendant. Never once does he look back. She winks anyway, and lives out the boredom of the opening rituals dreaming of what might be going on downstairs.

Getting it all wrong, of course.

Kitty's never considered herself much of an actress. She was supposed to be Juliet once, playing the balcony scene in a sort of school's Shakespeare medley, but Romeo was struck down with measles and she had to go into the Sleeping Draught soliloquy with one day to learn and rehearse it. Left the drama club, hasn't set foot on a stage since.

But so far, she feels like she's doing pretty well. Dropping her handbag was a nice touch. Until then she had no idea how to play it but then, when she saw his eyes run her over in the mirror, when she had both hands suddenly and wondrously free... Holmes, she notes, is terse, and so far seems to speak only one or two words at a time. But he takes a step forward and so does she. Kitty's never felt so fearless, not in all her career. Chasing that politician down the street with a tape recorder her heart was pounding, and nothing to do with running in heels. But something of Holmes' calm is infectious; he doesn't know she's onto him, and all his stinking little secrets. All Kitty's strength and power comes from that, and it lifts up the marker between them saying, "Sign my shirt, would you?"

He doesn't look comfortable. Maybe that's why he starts talking? (Actually, as introspection goes, that's quite good, and she makes a mental note of it for later.) "There are two types of fans."

"Oh?"

"Catch-me-before-I-kill-again, Type A."

"Uh-huh. What's Type B?"

"Your bedroom's just a taxi ride away."

Or maybe she read him wrong. Maybe uncomfortable is the last thing he is. He just wants to take the initiative with her. Well, fine. Let him. Kitty only came here to see if he could look through her, the way he claims to, the way that leaves everybody so impressed all the time. If there was any real intelligence here at all. But if there's not she might as well get her information whatever way it wants to come...

"Guess which one I am."

"Neither."

Oh. "Really?"

"No, you're not a fan at all." Oh God, he knows. She might have everything on him, but he knows that, and the woman from the lawyers' never mentioned if that would place her in any danger. Her resolve, her unflinching bravery, falters, but only for a moment. No, she tells herself, these are Crown courts, full of police and bailiffs and security and she's perfectly safe. If he goes for her it's only a sign of his guilt.

There was a photographer at her old paper who took on the big story with her. He told her once that every good pap goes to his bed at night, kneels at the side of it, crosses himself and asks God if please, please, please tomorrow a public figure will punch him. Smash up his camera. Open a car door on him. Shove him in a gutter. They would, each and every, gladly be hospitalized, because that's a lifetime of scandal and settlements.

So she listens as Holmes tries to dissect her, tries to shock her with everything he knows and can spot, talking about pressure marks and typing and deadlines. Telling her he knows exactly what she is. "Is that it?" she says. To unnerve him, of course. Nothing to do with her own curiosity getting the better or her or anything like that. Just to be unimpressed, to push him.

"There's a smudge of ink on your wrist and a bulge in your left jacket pocket."

"Bit of a giveaway?"

"The smudge is deliberate. It's to see if I'm as good as they say I am." Kitty can't decide if his decision to sniff it is to unnerve her right back or purely investigative – "Oil-based, used in newspaper print. But drawn on with an index finger, your finger, journalist. Unlikely you get your hands dirty at the press. You put that there to test me."

Oh, dear God, she has to think quickly, but all her energy's gone in keeping the panic off her face keeping the desperate, whirling noise of the cogs sufficiently muffled. Think, dammit, think, woman; what's safe? What's always safe?

Deny everything. She knows nothing.

"Wow, I'm liking you."

"You mean I'd make a great feature. Sherlock Holmes, the man beneath the hat."

And now that he mentions it, albeit in quite the darkest sort of sarcasm she might ever have heard (and remember she inhabits a newsroom)... Newly thoughtful, "Kitty. Reilly." Then remembers she's still wearing that ridiculous hat and pulls it off before adding, "Pleased to meet you."

"No." There's not even enough of a pause there for her confusion to reach her face; he already knew it was coming, "I'm just saving you the trouble asking. No, I won't give you an interview, no, I don't want the money." And it's at this that he tries to walk away from her, trying to be the stronger of the two. There's hate bearing down on him though, and something in Kitty recognizes that she put it there, and that she has gained some control by that.

She's not letting him leave. No. Not, at least, without seeing her strength, without giving him a chance to respect something of her. Chasing, she searches her notes and knowledge for the right button to press, the hurtful one, the one she hopes will change things. "You and John Watson. Just platonic?" Grabs the handle of the door harder than he does and shoves it closed, "Can I put you down for a no there, as well?" Her gambit has brought them close again, toe-to-toe. Use it, she tells herself, and tries to believe it's only the difference in their heights that makes him look at her down the length of his nose. "There's all sorts of gossip in the press about you. Sooner or later you're going to need someone on your side."

God, she's glad she started carrying her cards again. She had fifty made when she first got into the business and, after a while, just gave up. After having to write down her home number for the source the other day she picked a few up, and eases one of her pocket as she speaks, brings it up to him.

Doing very well again. Things were shaky, for a bit, but she feels like she's actually alright here. After all, one day's not very long at all to have to learn and dramatize a completely solo piece of work. You can only expect so much of yourself and this, Kitty feels, is just about it.

He doesn't take the card. But what sort of reporter, not a hack, would give up now? She stops even looking for eye contact, like it's all just secondary, and watches the pocket she pushes it into. "Someone to set the record straight."

Is there, even possibly, a hint of interest? "You think you're the girl for that job, do you?"

"I'm smart." Well, she got this far, didn't she? "And you can trust me." And everybody tells a little white one, from time to time... "Totally."

"Smart, okay. Investigative journalist. Good. Well, look at me and tell me what you see." Something about the step he takes away from her is more intimate, more likely to scar, than all the closeness that went before. "If you're that skilful you don't need an interview. You can just read what you need." Something about him, something not on the surface but not much beneath it, has changed. Turned cold. What had been distaste, Kitty watches turning into cruelty. Maybe that's not the word she'd give it, precisely, but in their hearts, they both know what it is. "No?" he says, when she's got no answer to give him, "Okay. My turn."

She doesn't want to. She wants to leave. It's not as if she needs him. And has it ever happened to him, that someone saw him appraise them like meat and didn't stay to listen, perfectly content with their quiet, harmless, everyday illusions, neither knowing or caring what truth was written? No, probably not; Kitty neither needs or wants it, and she can't move either.

"I look at you and I see someone who's still waiting for their first big scoop so their editor will notice them-" That's just the beginning of it. After that she can only stand there and listen as he picks over those things she never thought could show, grabbing the oldest and most ragged of a thousand hangnails from all down her life and tearing them off. The speed, the efficiency, somehow it's more hurtful. If he could have laughed and spit at her and tried to lend some wit to it... But he doesn't. No, he just tells her that her hunger, the only drive she's ever had, a force she's never failed to find pride in, disgusts him. 'Not smart', he says, the words blurry in the wake of that sting, 'Definitely not trustworthy.'

No, well, she always knew that was a lie...

"But I'll give you a quote, if you like." She hardly feels his hand slide the Dictaphone from her pocket, staring past him into dead space. "Three little words." One more time, Kitty tries. She tries to show some resolve, some self-possession, tries to be immune to him. But she just finds her eyes travelling over the sharpness of his face. Thinking stupidly, bovine, He's all corners, as he tells her on record, "You – repel – me."

And leaves her there then, struggling. Leaves her, more than anything, trying to feel something honest and comforting. But it's as if he's left her with nothing inside herself, no reserve or reality to fall back on, just torn open and spread out flat so there's nothing to...

No, there's something. Something concrete, very, very real. Something for Kitty to hold on to. She goes and gets her bag from the floor, excavates her phone from under notes and flat pumps and her bloody packed lunch (no doubt he would have had the time of his life with that) and calls the source. The woman has her phone off, and it goes straight to answer. Kitty can't hang up, though, has to leave a message, has to hear the sound of her own voice here and now and know she still exists. She addresses her own reflection in the mirror, tugging her hair out of the stupid pigtails.

"I'm going to need to see everything you can possibly get for me. He is the most dangerous kind of fraud – it's irresponsible to hold this off any longer than we have to. I'm ready to explode it; all I need is your co-operation and I know I have that. Please call back, urgently."

[A/N - Many thanks to CSRoche and HayleyC - if they hadn't asked for more on this I probably wouldn't have even thought of it. This is my favourite parallel-to-the-show scene I've ever done and it wouldn't have happened without them. Much love you guys, maybe a little more to come (can't really resist the scene where Rich walks in while the boys are at Kitty's...)]