Work Text:
Kitty encountered the work of “Grover Ogden” in an airport lounge. She read it on her flight, increasingly uneasy as she attempted to deduce who at the 11th precinct might have written the garbage. She wondered if she ought to alert Sherlock and Joan to its existence, or if someone else already had.
It was not difficult, on terra firma once more, to locate in the publisher’s author roll an obvious culprit.
Kitty went back through every passage featuring Joan’s analogue, hoping the work would be transformed by her new knowledge; indeed it was, but not for the better. Every description – the silken strands of Joan’s hair caressing her cheek, the litheness and flexibility of her legs as she powered through a roundhouse kick, the entirety of chapter 32 – filled Kitty with misgiving. This was written, not by some distant admirer as Kitty had first assumed, but by the man who raised Joan, who slept just down the hall while she was a child.
While she was vulnerable.
Kitty burned the book, and stole a copy of the sequel for the satisfaction of burning it as well. As she watched the pages curl in the flames she caught the dedication To my darling daughter Joanie and gagged.
She stared at the ashes for quite some time afterwards. She wanted to do something, to lash out. But Joan’s stepfather was far away, and Joan had never given any indication that she would welcome Kitty’s interference. It was immensely frustrating, and she did not sleep well that night, dreams filled with shadows.