John Watson was usually a good sleeper. He'd learned to sleep in all sorts of less than desirable conditions, and had figured out all sorts of ways to catch up on lost sleep after, say, being dragged out of bed in the middle of the night for a case. (Or a shooting, or a patient needing care, or the loss of the skull or the remote control.) He rarely took more than a few minutes to fall asleep; after all, you could never tell when you would be able to sleep next. Knowing all that, he was still unsurprised when he finally went to bed and sleep simply did not come. It wasn't that patients never bothered him. He'd seen all sorts of disturbing things before, and while they frequently reoccurred in his nightmares, they never interfered with his ability to fall asleep. Truthfully, he wasn't thinking about the patient so much as what would happen tomorrow. Since it was a weekend, he expected Mr. Aherne would be spending the whole day at his daughter's bedside. He seemed mild-mannered enough, but John felt that might change if some strange man made his daughter cry. Sherlock was bad enough dealing with adults, and Moira Aherne struck him as a rather shy child. On the other hand, Sherlock had promised that John could stay in the room the whole time and had permission to drag him out if he was too inappropriate. And he had seemed angry about what had happened. That wasn't too surprising; even hardened criminals and veteran members of the police force hated child abusers. Hell, even Sherlock didn't have his typical excitement about the case. Perhaps he would be better at this than John thought. But if Sherlock attempted to fake any emotions to get something out of her, all bets were off.

The day didn't start well. John hadn't got more than an hour or so of sleep, and was only feeling half awake after he had three cups of industrial grade coffee. Sherlock wasn't bouncing around like he usually did, but he hovered in the background of anything John tried to do before they headed off to the hospital, staring intensely without blinking. (At least John had convinced him that Moira wouldn't like someone coming in to question her at six in the morning, nor would anyone, so it would be better to wait until noon or so.)

When they finally did get out the door, John's attempts at small talk were met with a distant stare, and as a result the cab ride felt even longer than the one he had taken yesterday. Once they were at the hospital proper, Sherlock strode through the doors, past the admissions desk, and towards the lift, as if he were so important that no one would even think to question what he was doing. Of course, the lift was delayed for no reason anyone could see, and John (who knew better than to try any small talk this time) let his eyes wander down the hall and towards a suture room with an open door, where a woman with dark hair was saying irritably, "Look, it didn't hurt, so I didn't realize it was that bad, okay?" as a gash in her arm was stitched up. He never saw who she was talking to, as the lift finally came and they ascended to the correct floor.

Sherlock, if he had been by himself, would have probably just barged into the room without knocking. Luckily, since John was there, he got to the door seconds before him and pointedly knocked twice. "Come in," he heard Mr. Aherne say. He opened the door and he and Sherlock stepped in. The room seemed a great deal cheerier today – partially due to the smell of fish and chips that still lingered from what John assumed had been the meal Mr. Aherne had brought in, and partially because Mr. Aherne himself was sitting in a chair by his daughter's bedside, reading a book to his children. Dierdre and Kieran were sitting in the two remaining chairs.

"'I don't think they have restaurants at the end of the universe,' said George. 'We're not…' Oh, hello Dr. Watson. I didn't expect to see you again," Mr. Aherne looked up from the book in surprise. "I hope you're not here for a bad reason."

"Oh, no, not really," he quickly reassured him. "This is Sherlock Holmes. He works with Scotland Yard on occasion," (John didn't think this was the time for the "world's only consulting detective" explanation) "tries to help them on cases, and he'd like to talk to Moira."

"I suppose I'll have to leave the room again." It was not a question.

"It would be easier for your daughter, Mr. Aherne." Sherlock's voice was so quiet it took John a second to realize he had said something. He didn't sound faux-empathetic, like he had so many times before. In fact, he sounded like he truly felt sorry for the man.

"Can we go down to the gift shop again Dad?" Dierdre asked, tossing her red ponytail behind her back.

"We've already been there twice. I want to hear the end of the book," protested Kieran.

"I'll finish the book when we come back. A walk would do us all good even if we don't stop at the gift shop." Mr. Aherne tucked a bookmark inside the book, placed it on the table, and rose from his chair. "I'll be back as soon as I can, Moira," he said. Moira reached out her arms and they hugged. He kissed her forehead, took his children by hand, and walked out of the room into the hall.

Moira was still clutching the old bear with one hand, like it hadn't moved since yesterday. "Is he your friend?" she asked, pointing in Sherlock's general direction.

"He's my flatmate," John replied, uncertain how to answer the question.

"But is he your friend?" she persisted.

"Yes," he said. After all, it was true. Mostly.

Sherlock then came to sit in the chair Mr. Aherne had been sitting in. He took in the framed photograph at her bedside and asked "Is your dog allowed to sleep in your bed, or does he have to sleep on the floor of your room?"

"He's supposed to sleep on the floor. But I like having him in my bed." She smiled, and John was impressed despite himself. He hadn't earned a smile that quickly.

"Doesn't he chew on your stuffed toys?"

Moira shook her head. "No. He likes balls and rope toys but doesn't chew on my stuffed toys. They're all on the other side of the bed anyway." She paused. "Do you have a dog?"

"I wanted one when I was your age, but I never did have one. My mother and father didn't care for pets." John had moved during the conversation and was now on the other side of the room, so Sherlock couldn't see his eyes widen. Normally Sherlock was as tightly wound as a magnet and about as expressive. Even after living with him for over a year John still couldn't tell you much about his past. Why was this girl, of all people, getting him to open up? In fact, his whole appearance was softer, less imposing angles and more warm empathy. The really astonishing thing was that the empathy was real, as far as John could tell. He was genuinely concerned for Moira Aherne.

She was now frowning. "But you're all grown up. Why don't you have a dog now?"

"I've never had a chance to have one."

"Is it because you live in a flat? We live in one now. Dad says it's only for a while. He's working hard. He bakes." She shifted the bear to her opposite arm. "He works at home too, but once I get home from school Rory's my job."

"So he's not away from home a lot." When Sherlock got another shake of the head in response, he went on. "Did he bring you to the hospital?"

"Yeah," Moira said softly. "I was sleeping and he woke us all up and said we had to go to the doctor now." She shivered. "Then they saw me and Kieran and Dierdre downstairs and they said I needed stitches and I got a shot and then they stitched them up. Then I came up here."

"He brought you your bear? And the books and the picture?"

"I had Brownie with me when I woke up. He asked me if I wanted anything at home and I wanted some books and the picture so he brought them here." She had moved closer to the edge of the bed, closer to where he was sitting.

"Is he still working?"

At this point John was convinced that he wasn't going to verbally savage Moira, although he couldn't tell what on Earth he was leading up to. He'd gotten her to be chattier than John himself the previous day, and that was in itself a success.

"No, he's here all day. He only leaves to get Kieran and Dierdre from school and when he has to go to bed."

Sherlock looked briefly at the picture, and then back at Moira. "Has anyone else come to visit you?"

"No," she whispered.

"He's worried about you."

"I know he's worried. He was crying when they brought me up here. He said I was going to be all right, though." Moira glanced at the bear in her arms. "Did you have a bear when you were little?"

"I had a bee. A big stuffed bumblebee." Sherlock gave a small smile, as though he was recalling a fond memory.

"My bear was me mum's. She gave him to me when I was a baby.
My brother got me dad's old stuffed elephant. We're twins."

"And your mother died?" (John wondered how he'd managed to figure that out, and resolved to ask him later.)

"She had the break in her lung. It got all clogged up. Me dad cried then too, and that was the last time I'd seen him cry before."

"So you miss her."

A nod. "But she's in heaven now with God." Her voice had a tinge of sadness.

"Your dad is all your family? Besides your brother and sister, I mean."

"He and me mum didn't have any parents growing up. They were both in care."

"I see." He crossed his arms over his chest. As he leaned backward in the chair, Mr. Aherne poked his head in the room.

"Is it all right for me to be back in here now? Dierdre and Kieran are getting restless."

"It's fine," Sherlock said as he stood up. "I think I've asked enough questions for one day."

"Will you come back?" Moira piped up. John and Mr. Aherne both shared surprised looks. "I'd like to see Mr. Holmes again," she added.

"Once you're out of hospital I can come see you at home. I want to meet your Rory." He smiled warmly at her.

"And I can show you all my toys. I don't have any bees though, not stuffed ones. I have an insect book though."

"I'm looking forward to it." Sherlock turned and left the room, coat swishing behind him.

"Thank you, Mr. Aherne. I'm sure we can come visit again once Moira's out of here. Hopefully this will all be helpful." John shook his hand before he settled back into the same chair he sat in before, picking up the book he had been reading before.

John shut the door behind him as he left and only heard a trace of the conversation in the room. "Now where were we? Oh, I see. 'We're not at the end of the universe yet, said Eric…'"

To his surprise, Sherlock hadn't just left him behind and was standing at the end of the hall. "Was any of that useful? I'll admit I was wrong about you being too abrasive, but it didn't seem like you got anything to help catch the guy who did this." John wasn't sure if that was the right thing to say, but it came out before he could think about it.

"What did I say before about not assuming?" Sherlock lightly responded. "On the contrary, it was a very helpful conversation."

"Well, what did you learn?" He couldn't keep the edge out of his voice.

"One, the father is innocent. He didn't do anything and he doesn't know who the perpetrator is. You saw how he gave her a hug and a kiss before he left the room. She was the one to initiate that; therefore she is comfortable with him and has an implicit trust that he won't cross her boundaries. He also didn't let the presence of two adults stop him. If he was truly the guilty party, he would fall into one of two stereotypical patterns. He would either avoid touching his children with the false perception that any physical affection from him would mark him as a perpetrator, or he would pile on unnecessary physical affection as if to show anyone who loved their children that much wouldn't abuse them. Also, he has restructured his day to be with his daughter as much as possible, irrationally thinking that if he is with her all the time the abuser will not be able to further harm her. If he knew who it was, or even had an idea of who it might be, he would have said something about a suspect because his fear is genuine. It's likely someone the father doesn't know or only knows slightly. Two, one of the reasons she is refusing to name who abused her is because the abuser has threatened her family if she tells anyone who it is. Young children don't ask for photos of their family the way an adult would if hospitalized. Parents are usually given more leniency in regard to visiting their children and a child wants something to do in hospital, not something of purely symbolic value. This threat is very real to her because her mother is dead and both of her parents were in care as children. While her father has not told her too many tales about his childhood, she has managed to get the general impression that he was emotionally neglected and is certain that would be her fate if she does speak. The perpetrator is aware of Mr. Aherne's past and is exploiting that. Three, the abuser does not live in the area, as the Yard correctly surmised, but has regular access to the area, probably work-related. Because of that, the parents of the victims know little about the perpetrator. Four, she either thinks her abuser will enter their flat at night or has already done so. She lets her dog sleep on the bed because he is her protection, and I am willing to guess that she's clung to her father recently and spent a lot of time following him, since the abuser knows better than to act when he's around his daughter. Her teddy bear is a gift from her mother, and she's taken to carrying him everywhere because in her mind he has magical properties to protect her." He paused to take a breath.

John was completely certain that Sherlock could have gone on about this for a great deal longer, but when he heard, "You brought him here, of all places?" and turned towards the sound of the voice to see a very indignant Gregory Lestrade, he was startled enough to not resume what he had been saying. All John could think was that he hoped this would not be considered his fault.