Allie was nervous - and not the sweaty-hands, continuously checking mirror kind of nervous - the gut-wrenching, puking into a paper bag kind of nervous. She was seeing her brother - her not-quite brother, the best and only friend of her childhood - for the first time in five years.
"It's not going to be horrible," she said to herself. "Of course not," said Alaya. "You know, Sherlock's really busy and stressed out after having faked his own death, and I'm sure seeing his long-lost sister for the first time in five years won't affect that at all."
Allie froze in the act of putting on her earrings. She stared at her reflection in the mirror. "You think… it won't be good for him to see me?" The Alaya inside sat down. "I think that Sherlock is your brother."
Allie crossed her arms. "What's that supposed to mean?" she asked in an offended tone. "What it means," Alaya responded, "is that he's going to react in the same way you would react." Allie considered this for a moment. "It won't be good for him to see me," she said with much finality.
Despite all of her misgivings, Allie finally managed to make herself presentable and leave the comfort of her own flat. Of course, leaving her own flat didn't mean leaving behind Alaya, and every time she closed her eyes Allie caught a glimpse of her alternate self.
"This is a mistake," Alaya would sing, and Allie would wrench open her eyes and stare out the window. She was delighted when the cab finally pulled up outside of 221B Baker Street. "Thanks," she said to the driver as she handed him her money.
Allie took a moment to examine herself in her pocket mirror once more. She had her long, nut-brown hair in a braid down her back, and she had slipped on a deerstalker, of all hats. She wore a white button-up shirt and a knee-length brown skirt. Her heels made her at least two inches taller than her 5' 7", and she held a notepad in her hand. If she didn't know better, Allie would say she looked like a reporter.
Allie looked at the 'bell broken, please knock' sign on the front door and sighed. "Don't be dull," Alaya said right next to her. Allie jumped. "Hey!" she exclaimed. "I never told you that you could come out of my Mind Palace." "You never told me I couldn't, either," replied Alaya.
"Go away, I'm busy," said Allie. Alaya smirked. "Yes, you're busy trying to break into your dead brother's flat, and I'm watching." Allie rolled her eyes, rolled back her sleeves, looked up towards the second story window and began to climb.
A few minutes later found Allie panting in the kitchen of Sherlock's flat. His old flat, that is. Allie quickly straightened herself up and took a seat at the table. She could hear uneven footsteps coming up the stairs.
"The soldier," Alaya said. Allie nodded. "His limp is back," she added. "A bit obvious, of course," Alaya said. They both fell quiet as the door creaked open.
"Who the hell are you?" John demanded as soon as he saw Allie. Alaya was, of course, safe in the knowledge that only little Allie could see her. "That's of no matter right now, John," said Allie, adjusting the big sunglasses on her face. She was frightened that John might recognise her similarities with Sherlock.
"No matter? I think it's of every matter," John said, taking a step back. Allie observed him edging towards a cabinet next to the door. "Reaching for a gun, no doubt," Alaya whispered in her ear.
"Let's talk about Sherlock," said Allie, leaning back in the chair and crossing her legs in front of her. John froze. "Kitty? Kitty Riley? Is that you? Listen, I thought I'd told you: I refuse to give you or anybody from the London Prattler an interview! Especially not after what you did to Sherlock!"
Allie pulled a pen out from behind her ear and scribbled on her notepad.
Kitty Riley, possible reporter for the London Prattler
John looked nervously towards her writing pad. "I want you to get out," he said. Allie nodded. "Alright, John," she said, rising and moving towards the door. John looked relieved. "One more question," Allie said, spinning around.
"Is it true that Sherlock had a younger sister who ran away from home when she was twenty?" To her disappointment, Allie could see that John had no idea what she was talking about. "What?" asked John bewilderedly. "Where did you get that rumour?" "Never mind," said Allie. "Goodbye, John."
On the way back to her own flat, Allie removed her sunglasses, hat, and the braid. She looked in her pocket mirror once more.
She most definitely had the Holmes eyes, the big blue ones that looked like they stared right into your soul. Her long hair was curly, and if it were shorter it would look just like Sherlock's. She had high, wonderfully chiseled cheekbones, and her teeth were pearly white and straight.
"Yes, you're quite the looker," said Alaya, appearing in the seat next to her. Allie held up the notepad in her hand. "We need to find out who Kitty Riley is and if we can use her in any way," she told herself.
Later that night, Allie sat typing at the computer while Alaya sat on the sofa nearby, presumably going through her Mind Palace. "Allie," she said after a while. Allie, in the middle of some important research, barely heard her. "H'mm?" she asked, not looking up. Alaya rose from the couch. "Allie, I've found something. In the Mind Palace." Allie looked up. "About Kitty Riley?" she asked. Alaya nodded. "Yes," she said, "but you're not going to like it."
Allie closed her eyes and went into her own Mind Palace. There she found Alaya, not surrounded by the usual boxes and boxes of information, but instead with one piece of paper in front of her. "We really don't have much on Miss Riley, do we," said Allie.
Alaya didn't look up from her paper. "It isn't much," she said. "Just a mention." "A mention is better than nothing," said Allie, moving forwards to take the paper. She quickly skimmed over the paper. She soon found the section where it mentioned the reporter. She read it. Again. And again. And again.
"What does it mean?" Allie asked. Alaya sighed and stood up. She took the paper back from Allie and read it aloud.
"Kitty Riley, investigative reporter, is best known for housing Moriarty (see file F-23), who was staying with her under the alias Richard Brook, and writing for her newspaper the London Prattler that Moriarty was an invention of Sherlock Holmes (see file A-1)."
They both stood in silence for a moment before Alaya looked up. "It means," she said slowly. "That Miss Kitty Riley, lured in under false pretenses, was at least partly responsible for the fall of Sherlock Holmes."