Fic: All Before Breakfast
Title: All Before Breakfast
Author: rev02a
Rating: PG
Characters: Kitty Riley, Richard Brooks
Warnings: Character death, SPOILERS for TRF
Summary: Kitty has written the unmasking of the century. She deals with the consequences.
Richard was in the kitchen when Kitty woke up. She heard the kettle boil and him shuffle through the cabinets. She tied her dressing gown tightly around her middle and made her way down the steps.
Richard was already dressed, but not in his usual attire. His hair was slicked back and he looked rather dashing in a formfitting suit. He smiled blandly at her when she entered the kitchen, and he courteously handed her a fresh cup of coffee.
“Thank you, Rich,” she replied, taking a sip even though it was still too hot. “Do you have an interview or audition today?” She motioned to his outfit with her mug.
Richard smiled. “Oh, no. I’m just celebrating another day in the life.”
Kitty smiled, unsure what that meant. “You see...chipper today.”
Richard stuck his tongue into his coffee and then drank. “Well, you see, today is the day that Sherlock dies.”
Kitty raised an eyebrow. “Yes, his unmasking. You’ve been so brave to tell your story. Your performance will no doubt get you noticed--”
“Oh, no,” Richard interrupted, and his eyes were fever-bright, “you misunderstand. You see, today I offer him the chance to live or die. Of course, it’s not looking so good for dear old Sherlock. He’s so fond of his pets.”
Kitty set her coffee on the table and stared at Richard in alarm. He was almost manic. “Richard...”
“Oh, stop that now,” he growled, his eyes locking on her. He looked as wild and unhinged as his character had upon his arrest. “It’s Jim and you know it.”
“Wait,” Kitty began, standing and moving for Rich, “you don’t have to play this part anymore. The paper is already published. You’re secret is known. It’s safe now!”
“Yes,” he replied, reaching out and stroking her cheek. Kitty froze. “It’s all blown wide open now, isn’t it? Sherlock is a dead man and I can get back to the important things. Why, who knows what I could do? Wouldn’t it just be ironic if just as Sherlock’s body’s cooled I kidnap the Queen? Or maybe I’ll blow up Paddington station? I do so like a challenge.”
Kitty retreated, with horror growing in her belly. “You...you’re mad. This is all...”
“Oh, but it’s quite real, you see. I’ve just dethroned Sherlock Holmes--I made him into a fugitive and a failure. Every crime he helped bring to trial is now up for question. The very police force will fire most of their competent staff. I’ve brought chaos to the world that Sherlock so carefully ordered. It’s all very simple.”
He ran his finger around the rim of his mug and watched her. Kitty stumbled backward and was surprised to find that the muscles in her legs felt weak. She tripped and fell to the floor.
“Of course, I’ll make it look like suicide. Why, your little tell all is all the proof anyone needs. Some might think it strange that Sherlock would do such a thing, but once they see the tale of Richard Brooks and Sherlock Holmes’s dream of being great, they’ll put it out of their minds.”
Kitty lost the ability to sit up and she flopped to the floor. She grasped uselessly at the table leg and tried to pull her body away from Richard--no, Moriarty, who was just as real as any criminal mastermind should have been. He leaned down over her and observed her with curiosity.
“It’s a mixture of larkspur and hemlock, if you’re wondering, in your coffee. My own special mix; it works so quickly that your body will have run all traces from your system in just a few hours. The autopsy will show strain on the heart--but journalism is so stressful anyway. A young reporter finally gets her big break, only for the excitement to claim her life. So sad,” he mocked. Kitty cried out, but found her head too heavy to hold anymore.
She sprawled on the floor, gasping.
“Congratulations, Kitty Riley, you killed Sherlock Holmes, ruined John Watson, freed at least three murderers, and ended your own life--all with one little article! That’s quite a feat to accomplish before breakfast.”
Moriarty stepped over her. Kitty heard the door to the flat open. “Tata!” Moriarty called over his shoulder before he closed the door.
Kitty struggled to move. She struggled to breathe. Her body betrayed her as she lay, unblinking, on her kitchen floor running the man’s words over in her head. She replayed Holmes and Watson’s reactions when they saw her article and when Moriarty entered her flat. No wonder, oh God, no wonder. Her death was slower than she’d hoped, but she spent her time recounting how wrong she’d been.
Her obituary was small and obscured by the news of Sherlock Holmes’ apparent suicide, the retrial of a serial killer, and the vast restructuring of Scotland Yard’s detectives.
As a joke, Moran ran an obituary to Richard Brooks, right beside one for James Moriarty. No one at the papers even noticed.