"No! Stop!" Sherlock's voice held a raw terror that John had never heard from him before. He thrashed around on the bed in a strange way that made him look bound with invisible chains.

"You're not being hurt. You're at home in your bedroom. I'm the only other one here. Sherlock, it's John. Can you hear me?" John suddenly wished he had paid more attention in his psychology courses. He could only vaguely remember the few flashbacks he'd had and didn't know whether trying to talk him out of it was good or bad.

"Let me go! It hurts! Let me go!" Sherlock stared blankly into space as he struggled, like a sleepwalker. "Please just stop!"

"You are in your room, you are safe, and she is not with you." Maybe he'd come out of it quickly. He had last time.

He suddenly stopped struggling, arms and legs going limp. It didn't look like he'd come out of it, as he was still saying under his breath, "Stop stop stop stop stop..."

In the midst of his struggle, Hamish had been knocked out of the bed. John put him back next to Sherlock in hopes that the toy would bring him back, but it appeared to have no effect. He still pleaded with his attacker to stop. As his distress grew, he brought himself up to an almost sitting position. John kept trying to reassure him, but each minute seemed to make his distress worse. After a seemingly endless period of time, Sherlock's body jerked and he vomited all over himself and the blankets. He let out a cry and crumpled back on to the bed, curling up in a ball.

"Sherlock?" John asked quietly, not sure if he had really come out of it this time.

At first Sherlock appeared not to hear him, but something got through; after another minute he slowly turned his head to face John. "John?" he hoarsely replied.

"You were having a nightmare," John said as he came to stand next to him. He took hold of the blankets and threw them to the ground, then turned on the light.

Sherlock pulled himself into a sitting position again, this time clearly aware of what he was doing. He reached for Hamish with his left hand. Only when the bee was pulled to his side did he start to look around. He looked down at the front of his pajamas like he didn't know how he'd come to be covered in vomit. "I see," he said, although he clearly didn't.

"You'll need to take that stuff off so it can be put in the wash." John gave Hamish a look and was relieved to see the bee was clean. "If you want me to leave for that I will."

"Come back in a minute," Sherlock quietly said.

"I'll be right outside the door," John said before stepping into the hall. He shut the door behind him.

In a minute he heard from behind the door, "You can come back in," and John entered the room again. The pajamas had joined the blankets on the floor and the bed had been stripped of its sheets. John picked up the bundle without saying anything and headed downstairs. Sherlock and Hamish followed.

Once everything was in the wash John headed to the kitchen. He hoped that there was still some vanilla ice cream and was delighted to see that half a carton remained. He spooned it into a bowl and came back into the sitting room. He sat down next to him and handed him the bowl. "This'll make you feel better," he told Sherlock. "Tiny bites."

Sherlock put a tiny amount into his mouth. He ate the ice cream not like he was savoring it but rather like he found it as distasteful as a bowl of brussel sprouts. As he ate he rubbed Hamish with his free hand.

What John really wanted to ask him was what he'd been dreaming about, but he also knew that if he asked he'd be met at best with stony silence. "Do you want to take a shower after you finish that?" he said instead.

"Possibly," said Sherlock in a faint hoarse tone.

"You'll feel better if you do." John fell silent. He couldn't think of anything to say that wasn't about the nightmare.

They sat in silence while Sherlock slowly finished the ice cream. As soon as he was done, he said, "Shower," and walked back up the stairs. For some reason he'd left Hamish sitting on the sofa, and John picked up the bee when he headed back upstairs. He set him down by the bed and remade it with new sheets. Once he was done, he sat and listened to the shower running.

When after twenty minutes the shower was still running, he got up and headed to the door. He knocked on it, but got no response. "Sherlock?" he asked. No response. "Are you okay?" Still silence. "If you don't answer me in another minute I'll just come in there."

Apparently that threat was enough; the shower turned off. "I'm coming out," Sherlock said from behind the door. In a minute he emerged, skin red from scrubbing. John suspected that he would have scrubbed himself until he bled if he hadn't been interrupted, but he said nothing. They headed back to the room and got back into bed, like nothing had happened. John fell asleep quickly, and was half-aware sometime in the early morning Sherlock left the room, but it wasn't enough to rouse him before the alarm went off.

When he woke up, his first thought was that Phillip would be testifying today. It weighed heavily on his mind as he got dressed and went downstairs. To his surprise he could smell coffee, and instead of being curled up on the sofa, Sherlock was at the kitchen counter, typing furiously away on his laptop. Hamish sat next to the computer. "You made coffee?" John said in surprise. He poured himself a mug and drank it down quickly. Surprisingly, it was very good. John deliberately stood far enough away that he couldn't see the screen.

"I desired something caffeinated," he replied without looking away from the screen.

"Did you tell Phillip I'd be there in the court if he got nervous?"

"I did. However he doesn't have as strong a connection to you as Moira. I think he would only be reassured if I were there." Sherlock looked briefly away from the screen. "Your comment yesterday about Phillip's mother was very helpful."

"Is that what you're working on?" he asked.

"Indeed. His mobile is not registered in his mother's name. It is registered to a Bruce Rodgers. I also discovered that Phillip is registered at school as Phillip Benton, his mother's last name."

"Who do you think Bruce Rodgers is?"

"His father, of course. And I don't merely think it, I know it. In fact I have discovered that his father didn't desert him and has spent the last ten years trying to see his son. There are quite a few court documents relating to him and Phillip's mother Lisa Benton."

John had to sit down. Phillip was probably the most vulnerable of K's victims. Moira Aherne had her brother, father, and dog. All Phillip had was Sherlock. He had been afraid that even after the trial Phillip would still seek out another abuser so he could pretend he was loved. The idea he might have a caring parent to fill that need was amazing. "Let me guess, they weren't married."

"No, and the court has been lax about enforcing his visitation as such. He pays child support in addition to his son's mobile."

"I can't understand why his mother would be so cruel." John shook his head.

"I know you will see him in court today. Please don't tell him about this; I don't want him to be disappointed."

John could see Sherlock blink. He knew that Sherlock and Phillip were a lot alike and had developed a close bond even separate from the case, and he realized that Sherlock had always known his dead father couldn't come to save him like that. "If he's really spent ten years in court I think he'll be happy to see his son again. And it won't help his mother's case when Phillip testifies today. I mean, she knew he spent the night at K's flat."

"Correct. However there still might be legal issues. His mother's position has been that Phillip is not interested in a relationship with his father." Sherlock's tone made it clear what he thought of that argument. "Undoubtedly by this weekend I will have more information."

"You're going to help him fight for custody." It wasn't a question.

"Phillip needs someone to love him."

John did not mention that he already had someone - Sherlock. "He does need a caring parent," he said, aware that that was what he'd meant in the first place. A thought occurred to him. "All the victims. They're not just from homes with abusive or distant parents. All of them have a distant, absent, or abusive mother in them."

"Correct." He could tell from the way he said it that Sherlock had been aware of this for some time.

"K was that mother figure they wanted. She was there and didn't smack them around, so they all figured it was worth the sex." John knew perfectly well that Sherlock heard the unspoken just like you at the end of the sentence.

"If you still wish to be at the trial early today, you should leave soon." Sherlock began typing furiously again.

"I'm going to leave in a minute." He picked up his wallet and headed out the door, the clatter the keyboard made echoing behind him.

Unlike yesterday, the driver of the cab he hailed seemed content to drive along in silence, the radio not even turned on. John welcomed the silence enough that he tipped the man more than he usually would. He walked up the steps to the courthouse and when he got to the top the door swung open and Susan was there to greet him. "John," she said cheerfully. "You're here. Lou should be coming with breakfast in a minute if you'd like to wait."

"That'd be fine, thanks," he said, and they walked into the courthouse together.

"Victim One's probably going to testify for most of the day. The doctor who treated him for the broken arm he had is the only other witness directly related to the case. She'll likely be fit in tomorrow. Victim One's a bit of a hard sell anyway."

"Because he's older?" John guessed.

Susan nodded. "The jury will see him as he is now, and wonder what was going on that he didn't fight back. And he also has to testify about what the defendant made him do to other children. That won't be easy."

John shuddered as he recalled both Phillip's fear he would be arrested and how even he had thought that if K had claimed to have been the victim he would have believed her. "You've got those pictures, though."

"That will help, no doubt about that. It's the biggest reminder we have of how small he was at first." Before she could say anything else, Lou came in through the doors and fell into step with them. He had a large bag in one hand and a drink holder in the other.

"Egg, bacon, and cheese sandwiches, and your cocoa of course," he said. "The same room is open today. Do you know if Victim One is here yet?"

"Last time I saw him he was throwing up in the bathroom," Susan replied. "He asked me to leave him alone."

Lou shook his head. "The poor boy." He reached into the bag and took out a wrapped sandwich. "Will you be eating with us, John?"

"I think I'll wait in the courtroom," John replied.

"One of these sandwiches has your name on it, in any event." Lou handed him the wrapped sandwich.

"Thanks," he told Lou, and walked into the courtroom. Just like yesterday the buffalo had already made themselves comfortable in their row. No members of the media appeared to have arrived yet. The buffalo ignored him as he sat down in the same place as yesterday and made short work of the sandwich. When he got up to throw away the wrapper, the media had started to trickle in. Knowing the routine made everything seem easier, and John found he could stay calm even when K and her solicitors came in and escorted her to the dock. The crowd that had assembled in the court seemed calmer than they had been the previous day. Lou and Susan quietly made their way in moments before the cry of, "Court rise!"

After Judge Foster had seated himself and asked both parties if they were ready, Lou made his way up to the stand. "The prosecution calls Phillip Rodgers." An usher led Phillip up to the stand. In fact, he was more leading him by the arm, as Phillip walked slowly, hesitantly. He looked petrified.

John got a good look at him once he was in the stand. He'd expected Phillip to be in a suit and was surprised to see he wore a dark navy jumper and khaki trousers. Once he'd gotten used to it, he realized why: it made Phillip look younger, emphasizing his more boyish features. His hair was neatly combed for once and not hanging over his eyes.

"Hello, Phillip," Lou said as soon as he was settled.

"Hi," he said quietly.

"How long have you lived in London?"

"My whole life."

"What year are you in school?"

"Year seven."

"Where have you gone in the city when you need medical treatment?" Even Lou looked uneasy.

"St. Bart's. The clinic there." Phillip shrank down in his chair as he spoke.

"Can you remember the first time you went there?"

"Yeah."

"Tell me about that."

"It was just after my fourth birthday. My mum hadn't even got a cake for me, and I was upset about that. She said I needed a checkup and she took me there. I remember thinking how big it was, that I hadn't seen something like that before. When the doctor came out to see me She told my mum that she didn't need to stick around and if she came back in half an hour it'd be fine. She took me into the exam room and took off that white coat that doctors wear and hung it up. I could see then Her blouse was kind of open, and you could see Her, uh, breasts. Just part of them. I wanted to tell Her about it since She didn't seem to notice, but I didn't want her to know I'd been looking. She told me to take my clothes off and get on the bench and I did. Then it was mostly just normal stuff in a medical but at the end She put her hand down my pants and said to me that no one should ever touch me there but a parent or a doctor. Then She just rubbed me for a few minutes."

"Did she explain why she was doing that?" Lou had lost his earlier uneasy look and seemed more matter-of-fact.

"No. I just thought it was part of the medical, since you have to get undressed and all." His face reddened.

"When was the next time you saw the doctor?" Lou asked.

"A few days later. It wasn't at the clinic, though. Mum'd been yelling at me all day and I walked out of the flat. There was a park down the street and it didn't have a play yard or anything but there was one of those little round shelters there and I liked to go under it and daydream. I'd been there a few minutes and I heard Her asking what I was doing hiding under there." Phillip broke eye contact with Lou and looked at the floor.

"What did you do then?"

"I told Her I wasn't hiding and I came there to play. She said to me that I could probably have a lot more fun somewhere else. Then She asked if I liked ice cream." He paused. "I came out then and said I did. When I saw Her She was wearing a different blouse, with flowers on it and a lot of buttons. Only a few were done up, so you could see most of Her breasts, even more than from before."

"Did you say anything to her about that?"

"No. But She must have known I was looking. She knelt down and asked me to help Her with the buttons. She wasn't wearing a bra either, so when I did them up I touched Her breasts. Once I did that She grabbed my wrist and said that I had to ask before doing something like that."

"Were you intentionally touching her breasts?"

"Not really. I hadn't really seen anything like that up close and I wondered what they felt like but I wasn't trying to grab them."

John couldn't help but take a deep breath. When he'd heard Phillip tell Sherlock of that incident, he'd suspected that Phillip hadn't just taken his hand and shoved it down K's blouse, but he assumed she'd just asked him to do it. Seeing how she had essentially wordlessly manipulated him into it was frighteningly cold.

Lou's voice broke him out of his thoughts. "What did she say after that?"

Phillip looked up briefly before speaking. "That.. She asked me if my mum knew where I was. I told Her that she knew and didn't care. She said it was horrible when your mum or dad didn't love you. I liked hearing that. Because even when I was little I knew Mum didn't love me. I'd pretend my dad would come to take me away sometimes, but after Mum told me he'd run off and didn't want anything to do with me a bunch of times I stopped that. She said She could try to do things like a mum would for me."

"And after that what happened?"

"We did get an ice cream. We went back to the park to eat it. We sat inside the place I had hidden under. Then She said that it was a good thing I'd shown Her how I couldn't control myself, because She liked me."

"Did you know what she was talking about?"

"Not really." Since Phillip had kept his head lowered for so long, his hair once again hung in his eyes. "She said that She'd try to help me with that, and She hoped She'd see me soon. Then She took a tissue and wiped the ice cream off my face, and She left. I went home then."

John wasn't sure how he managed to hear it, since the door wasn't particularly noisy. But he did hear the faint creak of a door opening and he looked towards the back of the court, wondering why someone would be coming in when the trial was ongoing. A man stood in the doorway. He scanned the courtroom, and scowled. He shut the door and vanished. While that was strange enough, what really stood out to him was the man's black hair hanging in his eyes. It took him only a second to make the connection.

The man looked just like Phillip.