All right, this one's a bit shorter than the others, but there's a lot more ahead, I promise.

This time John wasted no time looking around at the hotel suite Mycroft had arranged for them. "What is wrong?" he asked instead, facing Sherlock who pretended to be busy taking off his shoes. How did he manage to look elegant in situations like this? "I don't know what you mean!" Sherlock tried, and that really made John explode.

"Don't. Do that. To me!" he nearly yelled. "Don't you dare to lie to me!" They stared at each other for a while, a whirl of emotions crossing over Sherlock's face within a split-second. Then he sighed, looking slightly uncomfortable, but still not admitting anything. John sighed as well. "Sherlock, you barely looked at anything inside the Pantheon, and you didn't even ask about what Commissario Mandini told me. Then our trip around the entire building and you standing next to the obelisk for thirty minutes, completely exposed ... You weren't there to observe. You were there to be seen!"

"Remember when I asked you to apply my methods? I'll take it back. Don't use them." Sherlock huffed. But there was more to his expression than sulking. Something John really, really didn't like. Was it shame? Impossible. But then ...

John moved a bit closer. "Whom were you presenting us to?," he asked. Darkness crossed Sherlock's face, reluctance and ... regret?. He averted John's eyes when he answered: "Sebastian Moran. He was my ..." He obviously was searching for the right expression, only to settle on "...ex-John!" "Your ... excuse me, he was your what? Your ex? Like in ex-boyfriend?" Sherlock sighed, the sigh that usually meant something between "you're an idiot" and "I don't want to talk about it".

"My ex-John! Friend of the family. Grew up with him, more or less. We lived together when I moved to London to study. He did everything for me you always do now: bought food, was able to stand my vagaries, praised me with every existing superlative..." "Our relationship in a nutshell!" John drily remarked.

"Exactly. Only that he lacked your ... goodness. He adored me up to a point where he would have done anything for me. He even went out to get me cocaine if needed, took it with me against his conviction so we would have something more in common." Sherlock turned his back on John, looking out of the huge window, his slim frame picturesquely surrounded by the silhouette of the Eternal City.

Not for the first time John tried to create the image of a younger Sherlock in his mind. Even more driven by his genius, restless and striving for distraction. Pointlessly trying to occupy his mind with what the uni had to offer, relying on chemical stimulation to keep himself sane. Now add a friend to the scenario who supported him unhesitatingly... John shuddered.

"Back then I was only allowed to a few cases" Sherlock went on, his voice flat. "The restlessness was driving me crazy, even more than it does now. And when I was close to falling off the edge of addiction ..." He finally turned around. "The serial murders were of such an elegance, John, disguised as suicides, but all the hints just within my reach. Hidden where no-one else could find them, just barely exposed enough for me to realise. He was providing me with a stage. It was enthralling. And I was brilliant. You should have seen me, John, dancing like that for the first time in my life ..."

John only nodded, not daring to destroy the rare openness by talking. "It took me five victims to even consider Sebastian could be the murderer. The corpses were manipulated so the time of death was determined wrong, always leading to a time of death when he was had been me. His methods were varying, cooling them down, heating them up, including maggots before any would develop naturally ... He was brilliant." His eyes seemed to be lost in the past, not noticing John at all. For a while, they both kept the silence.

"Do you think he loved you?" John then asked, but Sherlock seemed to dismiss that idea instantly. "Come on, John, why should someone love me?" He looked out of the window again, his back turned towards John, who felt a strangely sad feeling spreading in his stomach. "You really can't think of a reason why, can you?" he asked softly. He was ignored.

"Now you understand why Mycroft had put you to the test in the warehouse." John nodded thoughtfully. "I always thought I had passed that test," he said. "Oh, but you didn't. You failed, and failed spectacularly. When Mycroft realised how loyal you were after just a few hours, how determined, how brave... All those weak little traitors that had moved in with me over the years had never bothered him. But with you, he instantly increased the surveillance at the flat to a maximum."

They stood next to each other like that for a while, gazing at the city below, sharing the silence. It would have made for a perfect ending to their talk, hadn't there been something that was still nagging at John. "So, that was...how long ago? Ten, fifteen years?" He saw Sherlock stiffen. He had a point, then. He waited for a moment, giving Sherlock the chance to bring it up himself. When his friend let this moment going to waste, he steeled himself. Soldiered on, once more.

"He apparently killed more than five people in cold blood. How did he get out of jail so soon?" The absence of an answer confirmed his suspicion. Again, he pictured young Sherlock, growing up in that loveless home, having but one friend in his life ... "You didn't turn him in to the police, did you? You let him get away." The silence stretched out between them, Sherlock's shoulders the only thing that gave his tautness away.

Did he also see the crossroad that presented itself to John right now? Of course he did. Letting a serial killer get away over sentiment was more than a bit not good. It was inexcusable. Especially to man with such high moral standards as John. Normally. But then ... John sighed, thinking of Lestrade's words right at the beginning of it all. Hoping that Sherlock would become a good man one day. Well, all in all it seemed like they were heading in the right direction. He had just never realised what a long way Sherlock had already come.

So, instead of turning away for good, he gave Sherlock a clap on his back, and then went to find the phone to tell the room service they needed some tea. Sherlock remained standing at the window for what seemed like forever, ignoring John, tea and everything around him, but with his shoulders a lot more relaxed than before.

John fell asleep on the sofa waiting for Sherlock to get out of his frozen state. When he awoke in the middle of the night, he was covered with a blanket.

Thanks to everyone reading and following so far, you make me happy.

My eternal thanks of course to my three wonderful beta-readers who usually make my day by telling me what they think about this story. Did I mention that I love you?

Oh, and reviews would be sooo great!