Lestrade paid them a visit the next day, even though it was a Sunday. Mrs. Hudson must have let him in, as there was no knock, just his sudden appearance in the doorway. He was carrying what looked to be a police file, one several inches thick. John was glad to see him, even if his presence wasn't expected. Sherlock had spent most of yesterday pacing and glowering at nothing in particular. That was especially strange seeing as he had a case, which normally gave him a manic kind of cheerfulness that took days to fade. He hadn't done any pacing today, but had instead perched himself sideways in a chair and continued the glowering. John had tried to engage him in conversation a few times but after he was met with stares and non-answers he figured it would be better to just let him sit and mope.

"Just so you know, none of the other Yarders know I'm here or that you are helping. I intend to keep it that way; although you were much better talking to the girl yesterday than anyone would believe I think the others still need to be eased into the idea." Lestrade put the file down on the table and sat down in a nearby chair. This was enough to break Sherlock out of his stupor; he got out of the chair in an awkward twist and headed to the table. He didn't sit down, but he did pick up a few pages from the file and began to examine them.

"That's probably a good idea for now. Tea?" John figured someone had to be hospitable here, and he'd just heated up a kettle full of water.

"Please," said Lestrade. "It's cold out there. Maybe it'll even snow."

"February is the cruelest month," John commented as he got tea for the both of them. He knew it wasn't a correct quote, but it was apt enough to make Lestrade chuckle.

"Who is this?" Sherlock suddenly said, holding up a photo of a dark-haired boy.

"Good to know you're back amongst the living," John said as he sat down and took a sip of tea.

Sherlock ignored the comment. "Is he one of the children you think was involved?"

"He's actually the child who started our investigation. His name is Phillip Rodgers and he's thirteen years old. Lives with his mother, who works all the time and doesn't appear too involved in his life. Father is out of the picture, whether he's dead or just left isn't known." Lestrade sipped at his tea. "This is very good, John, you have an eye for the nice tea brands. Anyway, he was brought into the clinic here with a broken arm and a black eye. He said he'd been in a fight, but was very reluctant to say anything more. He claimed he'd been wrestling with a friend and his arm got twisted then. There was a spiral fracture on the arm, but it looked a lot more serious than something you'd usually see in playful wrestling. The doctor who saw him – incidentally, that was your friend Sarah, John – was sure there was more to it and did a complete physical examination. There was bruising on the inner thighs, and she was quick enough to realize it was the sort of bruising you'd see in forced sex. He didn't admit to any sexual contact, however. She was smart about it though, and got to talking to him, just asking ordinary questions. When he was off guard enough, she asked if the person who'd broken his arm had hurt anyone else, and he said that he was one of a hundred here."

"He didn't mention anything about the abuser?" Sherlock looked him directly in the eye.

"Other than that, no. The examination had several other nonspecific indications of sexual abuse, but he wouldn't say who'd done it. He did admit his arm was broken because 'someone got angry' but no word about that person." Lestrade sighed. "The mother didn't appear too concerned. She was mostly worried that she'd have to stay home from work. We did manage to talk to a few of his teachers, and they say he's the somber type. No friends and doesn't do well in school. All of that makes him a prime target for a predator who promises he'll be his best friend."

Sherlock put the photo down on the table. John picked it up. Phillip Rodgers did not look like a happy child. His black hair hung over his eyes and his mouth seemed fused in a scowl. For thirteen he still looked very boyish, his face still round like a child's, no sign of puberty molding it at all. If what his teachers said was right, and he had no siblings or friends and a distant mother, he was indeed the type of child an abuser would look for.

"Are you sure he was referring to sexual abuse in his remark?" Of course Sherlock would ask that. He had said a few days ago people always assume, and it was apparent that he was trying not to.

:"Oh, yes, one more thing. When he came in with his arm broken he indicated he'd been sexually active. Said so right on the form. Wouldn't say who he'd been active with, of course." He stared down at his tea. "That is what prompted the doctor to call the authorities. He did say he wasn't lying but claimed he didn't know who he'd been sexually active with, which everyone found very hard to believe."

"Are you sure it's not just some other teenager in the neighborhood?" John dared to ask. He didn't think that was the case, but once again he reminded himself not to assume.

"His teachers said he had no friends and spent most of his time by himself. He couldn't name a single friend when he was asked about them."

"He loves his abuser very much," Sherlock stated, like it was self-evident. "The perpetrator is exploiting that, by reminding him he has no other friends and that the abuser is the only person who cares about him. That's not very far off the mark, as he's well aware his mother doesn't care about him and no one at school notices him. His arm was broken because he resisted the sexual contact for once. He's managed to convince himself that was something he did wrong and if he says anything he loses the abuser's friendship. Of course that last one isn't too off the mark."

"I suspected something like that." Lestrade stared down at the file.

"Will I be able to speak with him?" Sherlock grabbed the picture from John's hands and looked down at it. "I want to speak to as many of the victims as I can."

"Not now. I want you to wait until you've talked to Moira Aherne again. I'd also like to tape that conversation, and I'll talk to her father about that. If you're going to be working on this case I think we'll need proof that you're good with the children you're going to question." He took a long sip of his tea before speaking again. "Once the other Yarders hear all of that it'll be easier for me to convince them. According to her father, she gets out of the hospital in two days. There's a school holiday on Thursday, so if you want to go over then I'll talk to him."

"How were the other victims brought to your attention?" At this point John realized that that flat repressed anger he'd seen in Sherlock when he'd told him about Moira was back. Perhaps less repressed, if the shaking of his hands were any indication.

"The Yard's attention, you mean? They were all seen at St. Bart's, the clinic. Most of them came in with unrelated injuries or nonspecific complaints, but there was evidence of sexual abuse on the examination. If we're looking at the pattern, it goes back about ten years. Different doctors at the clinic have documented it, and they are all listed in the file." Lestrade set down his now empty tea cup. "Phillip Rodgers was the one that caused the review of the cases. None of the victims said who the abuser was. There was one where the authorities thought it was the father, and his little girl was taken into care, but they were never able to connect him and he got her back eventually."

"I see." Sherlock's voice was tight.

Lestrade stood up. "I should get going now; I have a lot to do today. That file is a copy, so you can keep it yourself without sneaking one out." Before walking out the door, he added "Thank you for the tea, John. Mr. Aherne's number is in the file, so call him and plan for a Thursday meeting."

John expected Sherlock to grab the file as soon as Lestrade walked out the door and start leafing through it, but instead he stayed in his chair and looked down at the photograph of Phillip Rodgers. It looked like he was lost in thought, or memories. When several minutes passed and he had made no attempt at looking at the file, John cleared his throat. "Sherlock? Is everything all right?" Normally he wouldn't have asked something like that, but his behavior had been so off for the last few days he was becoming concerned.

"Fine," Sherlock replied flatly. There was no anger, just blankness.

"Why was your bee taken away from you?" John asked him. He wasn't sure what had made him pose the question, and fully expected to be mocked or given some non-answer.

"I was telling horrible lies." The statement sounded rehearsed.

"So your toy was taken away forever?" To John, that seemed cruel, but without any knowledge of the circumstances it was difficult to draw a conclusion.

"I was fourteen. Too old for something so childish." That sounded so rehearsed to John that he suspected that it was something Sherlock had heard repeatedly.

"What happened when Mycroft found out about that?" There were seven years between the brothers, and John figured at that point Mycroft would have been at university, but he did seem to care for his brother and would keep up with how he was at home. And of course Mycroft had apparently given him the bee. He was met with silence, and after a minute it slowly dawned on him. "Is that how he upset your mother?" John well knew that Mycroft on the warpath was not someone to be ignored. Considering the fact both brothers didn't talk about their family, he assumed it had ended badly.

"Two months later she died of a stroke," Sherlock said in his usual way of not quite answering the question. "I should have known better." He took the file and got up to leave the room.

"Known better than what?" John asked his retreating form. He was met with silence and a slam of his bedroom door. He didn't see Sherlock again all day.