Kitty Riley must be on the top of the least favorite characters in the Sherlock BBC series. I'm not fond of her, either. She repels me:{

Then it occurred to me: what if she was not a reporter at all. She might have her own secret. So here is a story that might change our notion towards Kitty. This story is loosely related to the "Magic Trick" and "Out oF Character".

A day after the verdict

Richard Brook, a.k.a. James Moriarty was alone in his hotel room, sipping wine from time to time. His eyes were fixed on a five-minute clip of recorded images on the screen. He concentrated on the image because he couldn't hear the dialogue, but it was obvious that the tall, lanky and black-haired man made some derisive comment before leaving the ginger-haired woman in the toilet of the Courthouse. The woman was fuming: she had been hitting on Sherlock for minutes obviously and failed. Moriarty could sense her anger mounting based on her mouth movement. How thick she could be. It was Sherlock Holmes, after all. He captured the woman's close-up picture and sent it to one of his IT staff for identification.

A week later

Kitty Riley, a rookie reporter working for the Sun.

Moriarty's mouth twitched when he received the report about the woman's ID. A rookie reporter who has a burning ambition in journalism – no one could be better than her. She would do anything to make her name as a journalist. Her injured pride was the icing on the top: he was confident that she would be the right weapon against his enemy, Sherlock Holmes. He called the Sun and asked for Kitty Riley's number.

Office of Mycroft Holmes

Mycroft Holmes opened the e-mail from agent R17 immediately. His assistant had to interrupt his phone call with the Prime Minister, but he didn't care. The e-mail was short.

Today at the West End. R17

He typed a short reply before he picked up the phone again and apologized profusely to the annoyed Prime Minister.

Café at the West End

Kitty Riley hurried inside the café; she was late for about ten minutes. She should've left the office earlier but the bloody stubborn editor nitpicked her latest article for 15 more minutes than she had expected.

She looked around, and found a nervous man standing up at the corner. That must be him. She could recognize the face that had been on the front pages for weeks. James Moriarty, the man who broke into the three most heavily guarded places in the U.K. In the courthouse, he had looked so confident in the stylish grey suit. Today he was wearing faded jeans, a white T-shirt, and a beige jacket. She noticed the man was shaking a bit from nervousness and maybe fear? He actually looked as if he might faint right away. His face was paler and his eyes darted all around. She slowed down, put on her best assuring smile that she could manage, and walked to the man's table, never breaking an eye contact. Moriarty held out his hand to her.

"You are…Ms. Riley…"

"Just Kitty, please. Thank you for meeting me. Mr. Mori…"

The man cut in rather harshly.

"I told you my name is Richard Brook."

Taken aback slightly, Kitty raised her eyes. The man stammered; his uneasiness was palpable.

"Uh, I'm so sorry. Nerves…I didn't mean to be impolite… Sorry. The pleasure is mine."

Kitty was about to ask how he could assume a different name after all those frenzy media reporting on his trial, but decided not to for now. She kept on talking to break the ice.

"I'm sorry to be late. The work thing. You don't know when a bomb drops."

"Yes, I understand."

"Do you want to drink something? Coffee?"

"Cappuccino, please."

She placed a tray of two cappuccino cups on the table and sat down. She looked at the man who had broken into the Tower of London, the Bank of England, and the Pentonville Prison; did nothing else but got arrested without resistance; was put on the Trial of the Century and acquitted to everybody's shock. For a man who was capable of doing the impossible, he looked timid and small: his hands were trembling when he picked up his coffee.

"You are him, James Moriarty."

"Ms. Riley. No, please, listen to me. I am Richard Brook. There is no James Moriarty."

Kitty made an awkward smile but her face looked incredulous.

"The media had been following you for weeks since your arrest. Everyone involved is calling you Moriarty and now you are saying you are not him?"

In haste, he stuttered.

"I was… was…hired by..Sher… Sherlock Holmes. He made me act as James Moriarty."

Kitty forgot her coffee and stared at the man. This was too good to believe. Managing to hide her glee on the face, she tried to look doubtful.

"You're saying Sherlock Holmes created James Moriarty? You are stretching your credulity to the limit."

The man stammered, wiping off the sweats on his forehead.

"Please, believe me. There is no James Moriarty. I am Richard Brook, working as an actor on and off. I was out of work for months. I badly needed some money. My mother was a drug addict. She had borrowed some money from wrong people and I had to help her pay back."

"I'm listening."

"The detective contacted me about 14 months ago…Febuary, last year, I think. He offered me some money if I played along with his plan. He wanted me to act as James Moriarty."

"Just to pull off the Trial of the Century?"

"No, that wasn't the first. Sherlock needed a master villain to make the public give high credit on his deduction. He had planned it a way before the trial."

"The three unbreakable places that you had broken into - Sherlock Holmes has obtained the fame as Reichenbach Hero. Well, his plan has worked."

"Yes, Ms. Riley. But there was someone who Sherlock needed to deceive thoroughly before this."

"Just Kitty. You mean the doctor?"

"Yes, Dr. Watson. Do you remember Connie Prince and the fake Vermeer painting scandals? Mr. Holmes had instructed me to send texts to the hostages and force them to copy the texts. He pretended to save the victims in time."

Kitty took a few sips from her cup. Then she asked rather coldly after realizing something.

"There were some people dead, if I remember correctly. Gas Leak, the reports said."

"It's Sherlock 's fault. I don't think he did it on purpose, but something went wrong and the bomb exploded. It wasn't a gas leak."

"You are making a significant allegation that you might have to be accountable for. You're incriminating Mr. Holmes, the Reichenbach Hero."

"After that explosion, I knew Sherlock would do anything to have his way. I had to cater to his requests to save my own life."

He couldn't continue apparently: he was choking up. Kitty urged him to drink some coffee. After a few sips, he said.

"I realized that he would be able to silence me given that he has acquired the fame from my trial…and he doesn't need me anymore."

Kitty inquired,

"But you could have served your whole life in a prison!"

"Sherlock…he told me that I, that I would be freed if I gave up my defense and kept my mouth shut."

Suddenly the man began to sob, and Kitty had to wait until he calmed down. She asked to continue the interview.

"You said Sherlock had to fool Dr. Watson?"

The man swallowed a couple of sips down and then took a deep breath.

'Yes, Sherlock ordered me to kidnap Dr. Watson, put him in a bomb vest, and appear in person before him. I didn't know what he was up to at that time and left the pool after I finished my act as instructed."

"And Dr. Watson believed it?"

"As far as I know, he did."

Kitty forgot her coffee. His story sounded too truthful.

"Do you have any proof? For example, a text message, handwritten letters or anything from Sherlock Holmes?"

"He made me delete everything. How stupid of me!"

Richard cursed at himself. Kitty said in an assuring voice.

"Dont' worry. The police can restore the texts once the investigation opens."

Brook flinched a little, but recovered nicely.

"As long as there IS an investigation, Kitty. But I have other proof. I'll show you."

Immediately Richard took out a file from his backpack and showed her his portfolio. She perused the paper carefully: every document, newspaper clippings…looked genuine. However, she had to ask one more thing.

"Do you have witnesses like your colleague or boss who can prove that you're an actor?"

"Yes, of course. I can take you to theaters now and introduce you to my colleagues."

Kitty pondered over something and answered apologetically.

"Can it wait? I have another appointment, unmovable one, after this. Can we do it tomorrow, the first thing in the morning?"

"No problem. How about 10 o'clock here. Kitty. You can take my portfolio with you and read it thoroughly. I have files in my PC."

She thanked him and left with the file. She didn't see the man's transformation because she was too obsessed with the new information she just acquired. Left alone, a small, timid, scared Richard Brook disappeared. James Moriarty ignored the coffee and texted to someone before he left.

Holmes Manor

Mycroft sensed that he was not alone in the house. Silently he deposited his coat and jacket, and opened a side drawer to take out his gun when a low familiar voice stopped him.

"Anything new?"

"Sherlock. I didn't expect you today. You shouldn't be here. If someone sees you…"

"I was careful."

They sat on in front of a computer and turned it on. Mycroft asked if Sherlock would like some tea but he refused as usual.

"I got only half an hour, Mycroft. Now, show me the portfolio."

The brothers perused scanned images of Richard Brook's CV on the screen.

"From your agent?"

"Yes. One of the best that I've got."

"And our villain's next move?"

"They are going to visit the West End to verify the CV."

"So, Richard Brook is real, flesh and blood.

"Yes, he is a law-abiding citizen on one side of the world, but..."

"He is a consulting criminal on the other side. He had already given me a hint."

Sherlock told his brother about the message from Moriarty about a year ago.

Man: The clue's in the name - Janus Cars.

Sherlock Holmes: Why would you be giving me a clue?

Man: Why does anyone do anything? Because I'm bored. We were made for each other, Sherlock.

Sherlock Holmes: Then talk to me in your own voice.

Man: Patience.

"He had said that it was all about him and me. It wasn't just a clue for his puzzle. It was about my previous question. I had asked who he was. The answer was Janus. A god with two faces. Richard Brook is James Moriarty."

"There is no record of a J. Moriarty in government database, Sherlock. It must be his alias, only known to his clients."

"So it will make his allegation more believable that he is Richard Brook."

"In addition Richard Brook on record is a model citizen…"

"He must have worked sporadically as an actor on purpose. Assuming the mask of a innocent citizen…"

Sherlock closed his eyes in concentration. Mycroft tried to hide his anxiousness and agreed.

"Yes, and the public will believe it eventually. His purpose is to stain your name as a fraudulent detective who created a master villain as his archenemy. A fall, did you say?"

Sherlock pondered the statement for a few minutes in silence. Suddenly his eyes were open.

"On the day of the Verdict, he had told me that falling's just like flying except there's a more permanent destination. Hold on. That's the second meaning of the fall. A fall from a great height. That's his plan."

Mycroft stammered in alarm.

"Your fall. Your death from a great height."

Sherlock's face got tense. His voice had some urgency.

"I need to fake my death. It won't be a bullet or a poison or a traffic accident. It's as good as he had told me. Somehow, Moriarty is going to force me to jump and die, maybe from a top of a building in London"

"What building?"

"I have no idea. The Yard? No, he has no escape, then."

"You can't let him decide where. You should."

"I know. Mycroft, I need some kind of apparatus to break my fall."

"Just name it, and then it will be ready at your request."

"I need to go."

"Sherlock, next time, use public phone and call me. Don't use mobiles."

The detective headed out in a hurry. Mycroft sighed and turned off the computer after deleting the files from the system.

Noon, the next day.

Mycroft excused himself from the Cabinet meeting. In the toilet, he opened the text message from Agent R17.

The CV authenticity was verified. R17

Mycroft called the Sun and talked with the Editor in Chief.

A month later, Sherlock visited his brother again. They discussed a basic plan of a fake suicide: a safety apparatus to break the fall, a hideout, a fake identity, and next plan after the fall, some disguises like hair dye and glasses... Then an uncomfortable silence fell because the brothers knew there was one problem left: Should John be in the plan? Sherlock hesitated for seconds, and then told Mycroft that John should be the last person to know the truth for people would believe John. Mycroft heaved a sigh of relief: he was thinking of the same thing, but he couldn't say it loud.

A few days before Reichenbach Fall

Mycroft was waiting for John to arrive. The traffic must be bad because John was late for about 15 minutes than usual. Well, it wasn't the traffic. John happened to ignore the Total Silence rule of the Club and was ushered out disgracefully. The tradition… He calmed down the annoyed doctor. John noticed the Sun on a side table as Mycroft had expected. Casually, the older Holmes planted the idea about the big expose by Riley and a name, Richard Brook. He also gave the impression that his sibling relationship had come to a breaking point after he informed John of the presence of assassins nesting around Baker Street 221B. John didn't take the presence of professional killers seriously, although his face hardened briefly when he realized that the two brothers were not even on a speaking terms.

A day before the Fall, Diogenes Club

Mycroft knew everything went along as planned when he found John waiting for him. John seemed very upset and angry for some reason. He shot a cold, spiteful glance at the older Holmes and demanded an explanation. When Mycroft muttered out he was sorry, he truly did mean it.

He wasn't sorry for feeding fake information to Moriarty. Sherlock and he had agreed upon it: that was the bait to hunt down the criminal mastermind and to tear down his net. Sherlock and Mycroft did their best, planting ideas to John that it was Mycroft's betrayal that had estranged the two brothers.

It was the doctor for whom Mycroft Holmes felt guilty: His brother's fake suicide was the biggest lie that would surely depress the doctor for the time being. The time for a closure was approaching: John would face the news of his flatmate's suicide in disgrace sooner or later. The older Holmes felt his eyes burning, a rare thing in his life, when he stared at the door closed behind John. He picked up his phone and made a few calls to get everything ready.


As planned, a big trash lorry parked alongside the building. Moriarty had just killed himself – the detective hadn't expecting it so he had no choice. He had to jump and John had to believe it. He had just finished a "teary" phone call with his flatmate: John looked blurry far away behind the building. Throwing away his mobile and taking a deep breath, Sherlock Holmes plunged down: the net looked larger and larger while he was flailing his arms to land on the net. He barely made it. He must have broken his left arm, but he was moving all right. Throwing the net into the lorry, Sherlock opened the door of the lorry with his right hand. Wincing and trying not to use his left arm as much as possible, the detective crawled on the truck, and closed the door. He literally crumpled himself inside the tight space beneath the control panel next to the front seat. The driver took no notice of this new passenger, and started the lorry almost immediately when the door was shut. On the pavement lied a body, dressed like the detective with the pool of blood around his head. Soon there was a commotion around the body: pedestrians were gathering around it; paramedics and some nurses were running. After a few minutes, the detective managed to get out and sat down next to the driver. The driver flung a baseball cap and Sherlock put it on although the lorry's windows were tinted dark.

In silence, the truck ran for about thirty minutes before it stopped at a safety house. The sleuth got out and opened the door of the house. He choked out a few words to the driver before he entered it.

"Thanks for the ride, Agent Riley."

"Anytime, detective. I'll be busy for the time being, writing articles. Your items that you had required are there, ready at your disposal. Good Luck, Mr. Holmes."

The ginger-haired driver sent a text to her boss, Mycroft Holmes, and started the lorry when the door of the house was shut.

What do you think? I hope you enjoyed this;) Reviews or comments are very very welcome. Until next story... Bye.