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They didn't listen.
They never do, really. She thinks she should be used to being dismissed, or overlooked, at this point, but it still burns — the arrogance, the condescension, the pity, most of all. Poor Kitty Winter; haven't you heard? They pretend to indulge her, they let her send her reports in, they even let her talk... but they don't listen.
She wishes she had something to kick, something fragile, breakable, that would shatter with a satisfying crash. Her fingers clench around her tablet and she almost hurls it to the ground, only stops because of the scene it would make, the attention it would bring on her. Instead, she drills her gaze to the pavement and walks away from New Scotland Yard, jumping out of the way of someone going the other direction before he can knock into her — she doesn't let that happen these days. She walks, and walks, and walks, until the streets blur together.
She's done the research. So what if she's doing it out of trauma, or whatever other reason they think? It doesn't mean her results aren't there. It's all there, in the folder she clutches to her chest like a lifeline. The backpack was a plant; the whole investigation started off on the wrong track, giving them no chance of actually finding the kid, and now it's been days, and who knows what Latif is going through.
All because they won't listen.
In another life, she thinks, she might have screamed in frustration, right there, in the middle of the street.
Instead, she grits her teeth, looks down, and walks faster. She'll go over the information again. Maybe there's something she missed. Maybe she can find something that will make them listen.
She doesn't hear it at first, which is odd, because she's always listening, always on guard — but she's so absorbed in her thoughts that it takes a moment to break through the fog in her head.
Someone is calling her name.
She has no friends in London. No one to be calling her name with such enthusiasm. No one to even recognize her, really. The only people who could are the detectives she keeps pestering, and she knows for a fact they're still at New Scotland Yard, seeing as she just got ushered out of their office.
A voice at the back of her head says journalist, and she has to bite her tongue against visions of camera flashes and shouted questions — vultures and true crime enthusiasts, and all sorts of people Kitty doesn't want to even think about ever again. She walks faster, but the light ahead of her turns red — cars whizz past down the avenue, and she's trapped.
The voice calls her name again, and it's... odd. It doesn't sound like the frantic excitement of a budding story, or horror-tinged awe. It just sounds.... friendly.
She turns around, and finds herself face to face with a woman.
Kitty keeps her head down, these days. She definitely doesn't stare at people. But once she looks at the woman, she can't seem to look away, can't seem to drag her gaze back down to the safe, grey pavement.
Maybe it's the way her blonde hair falls in nonchalantly yet oh so expertly tousled curls. Maybe it's her smile, seemingly so delighted, yet with an edge that makes Kitty hold her breath. Maybe it's her eyes, a striking blue, and sharper than Kitty remembers seeing eyes in maybe her entire life.
Spotting danger isn't always easy, even though Kitty thinks she's gotten rather good at it. But sometimes, it's very, very simple.
Kitty knows this woman is dangerous the moment she lays eyes on her.
"Kitty Winter," the woman says, sounding friendly, sounding pleased, smiling and open and somehow sending a shiver down Kitty's spine. Her accent is neat, syllables clipped and clear, and for some reason, Kitty is instantly and absolutely convinced it's fake. "Such a pleasure."
She means it, too, Kitty's almost certain of it.
But she extends a hand in Kitty's direction and just like that, the spell is broken. Gravity claims her gaze again, and she looks down, away from the magnetizing person standing in front of her. She hears the cars pause behind her, knows the light has turned green, and takes a step back — but she doesn't go. Not yet.
"What do you want?" she says, instead, because if she's learnt one thing, it's that people always want something.
If the woman is taken off-guard by her brashness, it doesn't show in her voice or her body language. The hand drops slowly, the most natural thing in the world, and she says, "I was rather hoping we could have coffee."
The surprise is almost enough to have her look up — but the memory of those sharp, sharp eyes keeps her head down. "I don't do coffee."
"Tea then, if you'd prefer. There's a rather lovely place just around the corner. I'd like to have a chat with you, if that's alright."
Journalist, then. Kitty's almost disappointed, her throat tight. "I don't do chats," she spits out, and spins around. She's stepping onto the crossing when the woman speaks again.
"You're right, you know."
She stops despite herself, only barely manages not to turn back around. She doesn't do curious, either, not anymore, but she can't move.
"About the backpack," the woman continues, her tone deceptively casual. "It was planted; rather sloppily, too. Shame they wouldn't listen to you. It would save them a lot of time."
The tightness around her throat becomes a stranglehold. She spins around, and knows her eyes are glaring daggers. "How do you know about that?" is all that comes out, but there are dozens of questions behind it; who are you? How do you know about my research? About this case?
Why do you believe me?
One look at her smile and Kitty knows she's heard every single one of them. "It's all part of what I'd like to discuss with you. If you're amenable, of course."
"And what's that, then?"
She cocks her head to the side; a stray curl falls across her forehead, artfully dishevelled. "An opportunity. For you and for me."
Yes, Kitty thinks. This woman is dangerous. Every instinct she's been honing for the past few months is going off, alarm bells ringing, warning lights flashing. She's not obvious, but Kitty picks up the signs anyway — too sharp teeth glinting, too bright eyes gleaming, her posture too still, too poised, like she's ready to strike.
But for what feels like the first time in a really long time, Kitty doesn't feel like she's the one in danger. Instead, she feels like that formidable threat, standing in front of her like nothing more than a fashionable woman with a beautiful smile, isn't aimed at her, but for her. Like she has someone on her side.
It's insane, of course. "What's your name?" she asks.
The smile widens, and Kitty suppresses a shiver. "Call me Jamie."
*
It's all quite simple, really. Observation, leading to conclusion, leading to action.
Observation 1: Sherlock has changed during their time apart; enough that he managed to best her.
Observation 2: During the period that led to said change, he took on an apprentice, to whom he taught his craft — observation and deduction and investigation.
Conclusion: If she is to understand the changes he has gone through and thus best him, Jamie Moriarty needs a protégée of her own.
From there, the leap to "Action: Kitty Winter" is a relatively effortless one.
*
There were other candidates, of course. Not so much candidates as interesting possibilities: a promising jewelry thief currently making her way through Paris' best protected vaults; a young man making a name for himself as one of the most efficient collectors of interesting information this side of the Atlantic; an inmate about to be released from a self-defense charge with a gleam in her eyes that says she won't be caught next time.
Talented, all of them. But then again, talent isn't quite as rare as some people tend to think. It's all a matter of knowing where to look, and Jamie Moriarty has an excellent eye for it.
But while that kind of talent is always useful — and she does drop a line to one and send a lieutenant to another — none of it says apprentice to her. They're too... specialized. Too good at what they do to broaden their horizons sufficiently.
She finds Kitty Winter by accident. If she believed in that sort of thing, she'd probably say luck.
She sits in a cafe, a stone's throw away from New Scotland Yard, waiting for her contact. She hadn't planned to be in London at all, not so soon after her release, but circumstances — read, a surprisingly alone Sherlock setting his sights on her local operations with dogged determination — had made the trip necessary. And so, she waits, for her ears and eyes inside Scotland Yard to drop off the promised information on Sherlock's progress, until her attention is caught by a mismatched pair at the back of the room.
One of them is a detective, she knows. Would know, even if she didn't recognize him, which she does — it's all in the shoes, and the way they hold themselves. DI Jennings, if memory serves; she'd considered getting in touch a few years ago, making him an informant, but had ultimately found him a bit too dull for the task. She dismisses him almost immediately.
His interlocutor, however, is more unexpected. Long, dull brown hair, falling limply over hunched shoulders; dull, muted clothing, suggesting a desire to go unseen. Or at least, would, if the girl wasn't shouting, dragging the attention of every patron to her.
"Why won't you just listen?" She digs two fingers into the surface of the table in front of her — Moriarty can just about distinguish what looks like crime scene photographs, glossy and high-resolution. "I'm telling you, her brother's alibi isn't worth shit! He's been lying to you for days, and you all just let him!"
Moriarty takes a sip of her tea, the pieces clicking together quietly. The Mortimer case — a woman found mysteriously murdered in her bedroom, days before she was set to lead a history-making auction at Christie's. The auction had been delayed, creating quite the fuss among the richer antique collectors who'd travelled for the occasion. No suspect has yet to officially emerge.
Of course, Moriarty doesn't need one. She's perfectly aware that Natalie Mortimer was strangled by her brother, because she orchestrated the entire affair. It was a delicate business; managing to drum up familial conflict with an outside hand, arranging an alibi to make sure he'd not take the fall. All to move the auction back, of course — create an opportunity for one of her agents to replace the lead piece with a facsimile. The whole thing had gone smoothly, and left London's finest scratching their heads, which was what Moriarty had counted on.
But this girl... This girl's worked it out, at least partly.
Moriarty watches her, a little more attentively. Underneath the plain surface, clearly designed to blend in as much as possible, is a fiery sort of determination. Moriarty starts to smile.
DI Jennings frowns. Sighs. Downs what's left of his coffee. "Miss Winter," he says, tired, and doing a terrible job of masking his annoyance. "While we appreciate your.... assistance, I assure you we have the situation well in hand."
"But—"
"I know your circumstances are particular, but you do need to let us do our job."
The girl flinches at the word, shrivelling ever so slightly in her seat. "I'm telling you," she says again, lower, unsteady, her knuckles whitening as she clenches her fists, "you're looking in the wrong place."
"Go home, Miss Winter." Jennings stands, and tosses a bill on the table. "We'll let you know once we know more." He walks out, the door slamming shut behind him.
Miss Winter doesn't move. She watches the door, eyes burning, so intense Moriarty would swear she can feel the heat of it.
Four minutes later, the girl makes her way out as well, never noticing her. But it's enough for Moriarty to make her decision.
She's picked her apprentice.
*
The woman — Jamie — takes Kitty to a tiny, yet clearly upscale coffeeshop — the kind of place where they serve tea that comes from remote mountain ranges, and where the menus don't have prices. Kitty immediately feels out of place, but Jamie waltzes in like she owns the place, and in moments, they're seated at a comfortable table by a window, with a fragrant, floral pot of tea.
She waits until Kitty's taken a sip before speaking. "I will cut straight to the point. A friend of mine recently recruited an apprentice for his trade, and, as a result... grew considerably. As a person, I suppose." She delicately bites into a small macaron. "I would like to experience this for myself."
Kitty frowns, still somewhat unsettled. The place is public, and far from empty, but she can't shake the uneasy feeling that Jamie could make her disappear with a click of her fingers if she so chose. "So, what, like a mentorship sort of thing?"
Jamie grins, dazzling. "Precisely. I believe we could learn a great deal from each other."
It's an odd thing to say, considering that, as far as Kitty knows, this woman knows nothing about her aside from her name and, probably, her personal history. Somehow, she gets the feeling she might know more than Kitty expects.
Still, Kitty takes a moment to think of her next words. Despite the fact that she never asked to be here in the first place, this feels uncannily like a job interview, or an exam of some kind. For some reason, she finds herself really keen on passing it. "You said your friend taught his trade to his apprentice," she says slowly, and a flash of amusement shines in her interlocutor's eyes. "What's your trade, exactly?"
Jamie stirs her tea delicately, before taking a sip. "My skillset is diverse," she says eventually, which isn't an answer. "If you were to accept my offer, I would provide you with education on a wide variety of topics: history, geopolitics, biology, art..." She puts down her cup. "Only useful things, though, I promise you. I am not one for wasting time."
"That's a generous offer," Kitty comments, guarded. "But it doesn't answer my question."
Jamie smiles, a brief flash of teeth, and Kitty gets the feeling that, as much as it is possible, she answered correctly. "It isn't," Jamie says, and leaves it at that.
Okay. One more reason Kitty should walk out — this woman is clearly a lunatic, or a conwoman of some sort. But somehow, she finds herself rooted to the spot — wanting to get to the bottom of this bizarre situation. "Why me?" she asks, more than a little curious. She can't work it out.
"Like I said; I believe we'll be a good fit for each other."
"You've known me fifteen minutes."
A slow smile pulls at a corner of her mouth. "I'm an excellent judge of character."
Kitty sits back in her chair. "Really," she says, drawing out the word. "And what does that sense of character tell you, then?"
Jamie pauses; watches her for a moment. "I think," she says, her voice lower, her accent less pronounced, more real, "that you possess a bright mind — quick and sharp and connecting ideas. That you want things to change; that you want to drive that change yourself. You resent inaction, in others and in yourself, and you're willing to go to great lengths to oppose it. I think," and she crosses her arms on the table, leans forward a little, "that you want to protect others. much in the way they didn't protect you. I think," and she tilts her head, her gaze piercing, pinning Kitty into place, "that you could do great things, in that quest, if you're only given the means. Means that I can give you."
Kitty's cheeks are flushed, in embarrassment or indignation; her eyes burn. "Okay," she says, and stands, throws her napkin onto her chair. "We're done here." It's just a con, she tells herself — someone who saw her face in the papers, and thought she'd make an easy target.
But before she can walk away, Jamie's holding her back, her hand circling her wrist. With her free hand, she holds out a card. "If you change your mind," she says, and hands it over to Kitty, who takes it reflexively — anything to be free of this place.
"I won't," Kitty says, and walks out.
The walk back to her apartment is a blur, adrenaline rushing through her, hot and uncomfortable. It doesn't ease until she's closed the last lock on her door.
She presses her forehead against the shut door, taking a deep breath.
Just a lunatic, or a cultist, or whatever else. It doesn't mean anything.
Spinning around, she leans back against the door and looks at the card that she's somehow still holding. It's beautiful, thick cardstock, the expensive kind. On it is printed two things: J. Moriarty, and a phone number. No occupation, no address.
Kitty thinks back to the woman's piercing eyes; to the quiet ease with which she'd read Kitty. She swallows, and shakes her head, before heading to her computer.
On her way, she throws the card in the bin.
*
It's two in the morning when her phone buzzes with a text.
She startles awake at her computer, blinking in the blue glow coming from the screen. She'd dozed off mid-transcription — the recording has long since finished playing. Blinking blearily, she reaches for the recorder and switches it off, before pulling her phone out of her sweatshirt pocket. She immediately almost drops it.
On the screen is a text from an unknown number: a picture, of a small, worn teddy bear, propped up against a wall.
She'd know that bear anywhere. It's the one Latif had with him when he was taken; his favorite toy, which he holds in every single photo.
She can't breathe.
Before she can get a handle on herself, her phone buzzes again. Same number; this time, an address. She waits, but no more messages come.
She searches the address up on her computer — an area under construction and renovation, full of empty houses. It's in Latif's neighborhood.
She swallows. Looks at the picture again.
She could call the police; call Jennings, show him the picture.
But she knows what would happen then — he'd demand answers, ask where and how she got them. Worse, he might not even believe her. And during all this time, Latif will remain unfound.
She can't let that happen.
Her decision made, she grabs her jacket and heads for the door.
*
The area is deserted, unlit save for the moonlight piercing through the thick clouds. It glints off the metal scaffolding affixed to every house, off the windows. Kitty shivers in the cold, and hurries forward, to house number 26.
It's barely even a house — just a structure, with walls and a roof, but no doors or windows. She makes her way inside easily, using the torch she brought, and stops in her tracks.
There's a man lying facedown on the floor, a clean gunshot wound at the back of his head.
Kitty swallows, and clicks off her torch. She doesn't need it to recognize him — he's the man she suspected took Latif. She knows it for certain.
Footsteps sound behind her — high heels clicking against concrete. Kitty doesn't turn. She doesn't need to.
Jamie Moriarty stops next to her. She says nothing.
"The kid?" Kitty asks, eventually, her voice raw and cracked.
"Safe. Home." Jamie's looking at the dead man, but Kitty still feels watched. "Thanks to you."
Her mouth is dry. "Thanks to me?"
"It was your intel that allowed us to track him down this fast," Jamie says. "I took the liberty of liberating your report from DI Jennings' office." A beat. "Thanks to you, Latif was found before he could be hurt. It's better than the previous children."
Kitty closes her eyes — she'd suspected the man was tied to other disappearances, but hadn't been able to prove a thing.
When she opens her eyes again, Jamie is watching her. "I prioritize efficacy," she says delicately. "In all matters."
Kitty's eyes drift to the dead man again.
"My expertise," Jamie continues, "is, as I told you, wide-ranging. Sometimes, it reaches beyond the bounds of legality. That is intentional. I believe real change can only be effected from outside the system; playing with it, but not from within it."
Kitty remembers her earlier words — means that I can give you.
"Will that be a problem?" Jamie asks.
Kitty knows she killed that man. Knows it with the most complete certainty, with every bone in her body. She also knows that she could walk away right now, go to the police, and that they'd never prove it. Hell, they'd never so much as find that woman again; not in a million years.
She thinks of Latif — his smiles, on the pictures. His teddy bear, that he takes everywhere he goes. She thinks of the kids before him, whom no one helped — whom no one even found.
She thinks of being lost, and alone — at the mercy of someone who wanted to feel stronger, superior. She thinks of no one coming to help her — no one at all.
"No," she says quietly, and turns to look at Jamie. "It won't be a problem."
Jamie smiles. "Good," she says.