"So when were you going to tell me that John is mixed up in the Morgan's Goods case?" Lestrade asked.

"Is he?" Sherlock feigned mild surprise.

"Of course he is, and you knew it. I suppose you've got a copy of the catalogue? You must know that I at least need to question him."

"You don't," Sherlock answered, "I have questioned John myself and he does not know anything important."

"Look, you know I trust you, but I can't just look the other way. If you want to take the case yourself, please do so; if not, I will have to launch a police investigation."

It was, Sherlock thought, a perfect excuse to continue his work. Despite a feeling of unease, he already knew his next step; he immediately took a train to the suburbs to visit the Watson home.

"Mr. Holmes," Mrs. Watson said, astonished, "I certainly did not expect to see you."

"I wish to speak with Mr. Watson, I understand he is home," Sherlock said, gesturing to the car parked in front of the house.

"He is, but you have to leave," she said, trying to close the door in great haste, but Sherlock held it with his hand.

"Who is it?" a man's voice asked from the depth of the house and Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at Mrs. Watson.

"Just a canvasser, dear, I'll deal with him," she said and stepped outside, closing the door behind her, "Does John know you are here?"

"No," Sherlock said and felt genuine remorse, "But I have to know the truth."

Mrs. Watson's gaze softened and Sherlock felt that she was considering her options.

"You are such a handsome young man," Mrs. Watson said, deep in thought, "And you genuinely seem to care about him. Perhaps John will understand me. Meet me in Main St. café in half an hour and I'll tell you all I know. Mind, it is not much."

Sherlock spent the next half an hour locating the café and having a cup of acrid coffee, staring out the window at the almost-deserted street and ignoring the furtive looks of the servers. When Mrs. Watson showed up and took a seat opposite of him, he had to remember that she was John's mother and it was not prudent to fully launch himself at her.

"I appreciate your patience," she said, as the waitress filled her cup of coffee, "It must be hard for you."

"Please tell me everything you know. Do not skip any details, however minute."

"As I said, it is not much, but it is more than John thinks," she chuckled good-naturedly, "He probably thinks that I am blind, but I know my son. He was always a warm-hearted, handsome boy, and it pains me to think that someone might have taken advantage of that."

"I knew that he was different from about the age of 12 and it was painful to see him retreat into himself slowly but surely over the years. His father knew too, I think; after the first suspicions he stopped communicating with the boy and once John became a teenager they had an open conflict about an unspoken problem. I thought it was best to give John his freedom…that's why I was happy for him when he started going to the city. He said he'd met some friends, and I thought to myself that, perhaps, he had met someone special. It surely seemed so – he always returned happy, and it seemed like he was in love."

"Anyway, this went on for a while and I think that his father started to guess what was going on in John's life. He tried to restrict his trips to the city, but John would sneak out anyway. I sided with John, at first, giving him money for the trips and even talking to his father, but now I wonder whether he was right, whether I should have met his friends, known what was going on…"

She stopped momentarily, looking out the window.

"Well, one night John returned home and it was apparent that he was attacked," she said, her voice muffled a little, "He said that he had gotten into a fight on the train and I believed him. The whole week he was quiet…forlorn, I'd say. Then the weekend came. He left as usual, but he returned in the middle of the night. There was…blood on his shirt and he looked scared. I could not get him to tell me what happened, and he made me promise that I would not talk the police."

"This happened in September," Sherlock said, seemingly unmoved by her story.

"It did," she said, eyeing him warily, "How do you know that?"

"I must ask you for the same thing John did, Mrs. Watson. If anybody from the police contacts you, please do not talk to them."