Kitty shouldered open the door, tears streaking down her face, making her makeup run. Damn them. Damn them all, every single one of them.

Well, no, that wasn't quite fair. Her predicament was her own fault, in a way. She had been so proud, so public, about her denouncement of Sherlock Holmes that, now that the truth was out, firing her had become the only way for her paper to regain its little reputation. They had chosen her, Kitty Reilly – the perfect scapegoat.

She sat down on the couch and held her head in her hands. She felt so guilty, about so many things. The suicide - that still haunted her. And Sherlock's face when he had been found 'not guilty' of fraud and abduction. Or, at least, his reaction, for he had buried his face in his hands and hadn't removed them for a long time. Eventually John had to lead him off, and Kitty had been following them under the pretence of going to the toilet. She had seen them hug in the hallway, and Sherlock might have been crying. She couldn't be sure.

But that wasn't all that she had to be guilty about. There was the big one, the huge one – she had been wrong. She had aided a mass murderer in denouncing and attempting to murder the only man in the world who could stop him. Moriarty. Not Richard Brook. Moriarty.

She had sat at the back throughout the trial, trying to avoid John's eyes. He had turned accusing glances on her, and they hurt. They hurt because she knew she deserved them. John had spent most of the time shaking like a leaf, unable to keep as composed as his friend, who was standing silently and unemotionally up the front. When the verdict had been given, John had practically fainted. Not guilty. Not. Guilty.

Kitty felt that swoop in her stomach, and more tears, as she remembered the tape they had played. Sherlock had explained impassively about how he had recorded the conversation on his phone, but had completely clammed up when asked about the exchanged between him and Moriarty on the rooftop. He had also been given permission to leave when they played the recording. Somehow Kitty didn't think he'd have been able to keep so disconnected if he had been forced to hear it, with a hundred other people judging him on it. It didn't seem his way. But she was no judge on his character. She had spent years convinced he was a liar and an attention-seeking murderer. Now it turned out he was a victimized genius, intent on saving lives. She slumped back onto the pillows.

She felt a burst of anger, and threw her handbag across the room, where it lay, settling into the dust. Her Dictaphone, pen and notepad were strewn haphazardly along its flight path. She ignored them. She wouldn't need them anymore. She was no longer a part of 'the media'. She thought of them as 'the media' now, like she was no longer a part of the group. The media had hassled her, hounded her, trying to get a quote, an opinion, basically trying to get her to admit her mistake. She had escaped, and had finally begun to realise why people didn't seem to like her. She had done the same thing to so many people, so many times, not even considering how it would make her subjects feel. Now she was one of the subjects, and it made her realise that she had placed her job over other people's livelihoods.

Great. Another thing to feel guilty about.

She made her way to the bathroom, to wash her face. Her makeup was sticky, and she scraped it off with her fingernails, tears still dribbling out of her eyes. Her face was blotchy and red. She squeezed her eyes shut.

The microwave dinged, and she pulled out the quick meal. She picked at it unwillingly. She didn't feel like eating. Her head hurt, her stomach coiled and her face hurt where she had scratched it. She needed to cut her fingernails.

She was in the middle of not eating her meal when the doorbell rang. She ignored it. No-one could help her, and she didn't particularly want to help anyone else. They could just get stuffed.

However, they were persistent, and rang again, this time calling, "Kitty Reilly? Delivery for you."

She sighed. She didn't want an effing delivery. She didn't want anything.

The delivery man – she assumed it was a man – knocked on the door this time, calling louder, "Miss Reilly? Delivery!"

"What?" she snapped, and flung the door open. She tripped on the doorstep, and fell forward, nearly crushing the large bouquet of flowers that were being held out to her. She squeaked in shock, and stumbled backwards.

The holder of the flowers lowered them, and his face was finally visible.

"Sorry about the job," said Sherlock Holmes.

Kitty woke on her own couch. Her head was pounding. Almost literally pounding. There was a large cut on the back of her head, and her immediate reaction was that he had hit her. But when she felt it she realised that someone – Sherlock – had washed it, and covered it in a sticking plaster. Then she remembered. That stupid doorstep. She had tripped again. She hoped she hadn't done too much damage. She hoped that Sherlock -

She looked around suddenly. There he was, sitting in the armchair across from her, texting someone on his mobile. He heard her move, and looked up. He winced at her expression. This was not his idea. John had convinced him to do it – he should make peace with as many people as possible. He didn't like the idea. He didn't need to make amends, he never had. But now he had another motive for coming to see her. She was out of work. She was unlikely to get a well-paid job again, and she was vulnerable. She needed a job, something to pay the rent, buy the food. He knew he could help her there.

But Kitty was looking at him as if he were a ghost. No, as if he was preparing to stab her. It suddenly occurred to him that she might actually be afraid of him. After all, he did have a legitimate reason for hating her. But why should he? She was just a stupid person doing what stupid people do. Making mistakes, getting in his way.

Kitty backed away from him, as much as she could, "No, please, I'm sorry, I didn't know…" her red hair was sticking to her face, and as he stood to reassure her, she shrieked and scrambled off the couch, "Don't hurt me, please, I didn't mean to – I didn't know!"

"I know." Sherlock said softly, holding his hands out in a reassuring posture, "Moriarty fooled a lot of people, It's not surprising…" he took a step towards her, and she pressed herself against the wall, "I'm not going to hurt you. I wanted to ask you something. I promise I won't hurt you." He wasn't sure if that was reassuring. Frankly, he had no idea of how to reassure someone. What were you supposed to say? But in any case, his submissive posture and outspread hands seemed to send a message that his words couldn't. She slowly relaxed, moved away from the wall, and slumped back onto the couch. Sherlock sighed in relief, and leant back onto his armchair.

"What do you want?" Kitty asked, some of her previous fiery mood creeping back hesitantly, "Why are you here?"

Sherlock leant forward, placed his elbows on his knees and steepled his fingers under his chin, "I said I was sorry about your job. But, I can offer you another."

He had her attention.

"Working for me."

She stared at him incredulously. Sherlock sat back and explained.

"I'm too conspicuous. Too many people know me. The majority of the homeless people I used to employ are too scared to work for me now. I need as many people as I can to help me. I need someone with something resembling a brain between their ears, but who isn't going question what I ask them to do. Someone to snoop, gather information, become friendly with people, infiltrate, basically. I used to be able to do that myself, but I've become to recognisable." He watched her, gauging her reaction, "You'd get paid well. Probably better than that pathetic newspaper ever paid you."

"Why me?" Kitty croaked. Sherlock leant in, and his face went deadly serious.

"Because you owe me. Because you need work. Because this work wouldn't require you to write, report, or tell anyone other than me what you find. Because your reputation is in shambles, and you don't need a reputation for the work I'm proposing. You might even earn yourself a good one. But mostly because you're guilty. I know you're guilty, I can read it in you. You don't want to be guilty, but you are. I am perfectly willing to forgive and… well, I won't forget. But I can do forgive," he chuckled, " This is a fairly rare moment. I don't generally forgive people to their face. I advise you take my advice, and the job."

Kitty held a hand to her mouth.

"You don't… you won't…"

"I won't hurt you, I won't judge you, if you insist, I'll refrain from deducing your previous movements from your clothes, hair and makeup. I can't guarantee that no-one else will try and hurt you. But I doubt they will - because I won't let that happen."

Kitty sat up. She remembered the video of the Hospital Rooftop. She remembered him attempting to commit suicide for his friends. She remembered Moriarty's face. Vindictive. And she remembered her words to him. "I can read you… and you repel me…"

She knew what her answer was. And he knew that she knew. She bit her lip.

"Deal." She said, and held out a hand for him to shake.

"I was hoping you'd say that," he said, and handed her an envelope, "It's an advance," he explained, as he stood to leave, "Welcome to the club."

Kitty sat back, holding the envelope to her chest. Sherlock let himself out, and jogged over to the taxi.

"Did you do it?" John asked. Sherlock nodded. "And she accepted?"

"Of course she did," Sherlock said smugly, "I told you she would."

John rolled his eyes, and called forward to the driver, "Baker street, please. 221b, Baker Street."