And John talked while Sherlock listened. He did not interrupt or groan in exasperation when the doctor struggled for words or repeated himself. He did not offer snarky comments. He only asked one or two questions. To understand.

Like, "Were you afraid of dying?"

And John answered and he found it felt good to talk. So he told Sherlock all the things he had never been able to tell, his fears, his anger, his despair. And Sherlock listened.

They had fallen silent, when Sherlock said, "I was," and John had to shake himself awake, "Afraid of dying. It hurt," Sherlock said, and John blinked. He knew, it was his turn to listen.

"Back then. I. The things he did to me. Went on for hours. You saw the pictures, but you can't imagine- ... I was nine, John. I was hurt and bleeding, and he left me. I couldn't walk, so I crawled to the phone to get help, but he came after me and- ... And I ended up with my head smashed in," he spoke in a calm voice, hiding his feelings behind facts, "CCI. PVS. They. Weren't sure about the damage. I. Heard them. But I couldn't speak. And then they gave up, John. They gave me up! And all I could do was lie there and listen." Just like that day, Sherlock thought and remembered John breaking down. He remembered the panic in his friend's voice, remembered the pain in his eyes, remembered him crying. And he couldn't stop them. Couldn't take away the fear and pain, couldn't dry his tears and shrug things off as a joke. Because they would have killed him. His John. So all he could do was lie there and listen and feel guilty.

John nodded. He suddenly realized that it was not only the abuse that Sherlock had suffered that haunted him, but the fact that his own family had abandoned him.

"Mycroft was the only one who would have none of that. I think it was because he felt responsible. For being late."

"So Mycroft knows."

"Of course he knows," John was surprised at the fervour of the venomous answer.

"Sorry," came the addendum, "Yes, he knows. And he understands. Because he'd been through it, too, before me."

"Ah," was all that John could manage.

Sherlock sighed and continued, "You were right. This is why I don't do … sex. Not anymore at least. I can't-"

Sherlock gulped and hesitated before he explained that he wasn't able to forget what had been done to him, "I know it's stupid. But this … experience … is my only reference point in that area, and it just forces its way back into my head every time I-"

"You tried," John's voice carried surprise.

"Course I tried," Sherlock said, "Does that surprise you? You know I'm curious, John. I want to know! Sex doesn't alarm me. In fact I'd like to-" he sighed, "I wish I could-"

"You want to know what it should feel like. Making love," John finished and felt Sherlock's shoulders stiffen.

"There are therapies," John said but Sherlock huffed indignantly.

"Maybe you haven't found the right," John bit his lip. Woman? Man? Oh, sod it, he thought, "person yet."

Sherlock chuckled at the hesitation, "Man is fine. I. Despite … or because … I'm not sure … I still prefer men."

"That's alright," John said and turned to face Sherlock who had rolled onto his back, staring holes into the ceiling, "With your looks – you could have about everyone."

What if I didn't want Everyone? Sherlock thought, but chose to say, "Not everyone."

"So there is someone?" John could not believe it.

Sherlock smirked sadly, "Yes."

"Does he know?"

Sherlock laughed and tried to find John's eyes in the near-dark, "He doesn't get it."

"So you've – what? – dropped hints?" Sherlock could hear John's smile in his questions, "You've flirted!?"

"Yes," the young man's voice took on some pride, "And I've taken him out. Quite a lot of times."

"And?"

Sherlock shook his head, "Nothing."

"Have you held hands?"

"Twice," Sherlock blushed and was glad that John could not see.

"Have you kissed?"

"No," he admitted.

"Well, maybe you should," John declared, and Sherlock agreed.

They said nothing for a while. And then it was John who spoke first, "Are you waiting for a formal invitation?"

"W-what?" Sherlock gaped and was once again glad that John couldn't see.

"I won't run," John knew it was a stab in the dark, but he was quite sure that this was what Sherlock wanted.

"How did you know?"

"I didn't know. I saw," John quoted his friend.