Once they had finally got a solid lead that could lead them to K, like the flat and the checks, John was sure that the case would be wrapped up soon, or at least move quickly. So little happened between that day and the Friday they met Michael Ogbeide that it was like nothing had developed at all. Lestrade had only spoken to them once more, saying that if K was found and it came to that he could at least be taken in on fraud charges for renting the flat under false identification.

Nothing had developed in the case, that was true, but John couldn't say that about the rest of his life. Two conversations, one he had with Sherlock and one he happened to overhear, revealed several unsettling things. The first one had occurred after supper the day they had talked to Dr. Arthur. "He didn't lie," Sherlock had said suddenly. He was lying on the couch with one arm draped over his eyes. After eating a few bites he had left the kitchen and perched himself on the couch. For the past half hour he had seemed lost to the world.

"Dr. Arthur?" said a bewildered John, who wasn't sure why this was coming up or why Sherlock had picked now to say it.

"Yes, him. He showed a stubborn refusal to admit the existence of viewpoints other than his own, but he didn't lie. He did not even lie by omission or by crafting his words so someone would get the opposite impression of what was true, as so many do."

"You sound like you're speaking from experience." If he was trying to make a point about the case John couldn't make the connection.

"You engage in the practice on occasion." He didn't sound accusatory, but just like he was stating a fact. "When people assume we are in a romantic relationship you frequently respond that you are not gay. This makes others assume you are heterosexual because they cannot think of more than two options."

"Were you just bringing up Dr. Arthur as an excuse to talk about this?" John replied.

"No."

"Because you haven't mentioned it before."

"I don't choose what you would say in any particular situation."

"That's not an answer." He was positive that Sherlock wasn't bringing up the subject because the response he gave somehow bothered him; if that was truly the case he would have said something long ago. But he had no idea why he was bringing it up. It could relate to the case, or the bee incident, or some third subject that hadn't been broached yet.

"No. It is merely an observation." He hadn't moved once since the conversation had begun.

"Yes. But you're bringing it up for a reason. Even if it's got nothing to do with what's been going on recently, you didn't just say that because you felt it needed to be said." John thought it was strange that someone as intelligent as Sherlock would spend so much time talking in circles. A thought occurred to him. "Did Phillip call you today?"

"He hasn't called me today," Sherlock told him.

"And he hasn't e-mailed you or anything like that?" It didn't take a genius to figure out why Sherlock was being so encouraging with Phillip. However, the emotions it seemed to bring up in him made John wish he could just talk about it like anyone else would. "Since we're talking about lying by omission here," he added.

"We have not been in communication since the last call you witnessed," was Sherlock's reply.

"Then please tell me why you brought this up."

John half-expected Sherlock to fall into one of his silent sulks, but to his surprise he responded with: "Why do you say that?"

"You could have just asked me," John said, resisting the urge to laugh.

"Well, I'm doing that now." He sounded sulky, but at least was not silent.

"People want to know whether I'm in a relationship with you. Just saying 'no' wouldn't end those questions, but if I imply I'd never be interested at all it ends things. And it means you don't have to answer any questions." He paused. "You don't like to talk about sex or relationships with other people, at least not if it relates to you."

Sherlock finally removed his arm from his eyes, and half-sat up. "That's... kind of you."

"I'm aware you have feelings, Sherlock, no matter how much you try to deny them."

"You were interested in a relationship with me when we first met," he abruptly said.

"Yes, I was," said John, truthfully.

"But not now." He was accusatory.

"You told me you weren't interested. I accepted that."

"Are you still interested?"

John swallowed. There wasn't really a good way to answer that. "It would depend. Since you told me you were married to your work I took that to mean you were not interested in romantic relationships. I still wanted to be your friend. I still am. I think this case is stirring up a lot of feelings in you and that's why you're thinking about relationships so much. And knowing all that I don't think you're fully in a position where you can determine that. After this case is over that might be different."

He wasn't sure if that sounded like reassurance or a gigantic waffle, but Sherlock seemed to think it was a good answer. "I see," he said as he nodded. Them his arm went back over his eyes and the subject was dropped.

A couple of nights later John woke up for no reason he could discern. His bedside clock declared it was two in the morning, and he was about to roll over and go back to sleep when he heard something outside his door. "As I've said before, Phillip, I don't sleep much. You've never woken me up." Sherlock was speaking in a perfectly ordinary voice, so he had to be right outside the room, maybe sitting on the stairs. John very much doubted that Sherlock knew he was lying awake right now, but at the same time the fact he'd chosen this spot to have the conversation meant he didn't mind being overheard. "You are up late, though."

While it didn't feel right to just eavesdrop, he didn't know if any sound of outsiders would make Phillip stop talking. And if he really found talking to Sherlock so therapeutic, John wasn't going to be the one to stop it. "Do you dislike sleep for the dreams or for something else?" A pause, presumably Phillip talking. "I understand that. You're not the only one." Sherlock chuckled softly. "Yes, I do, but there were a lot of years of isolation in between." He sounded similar to when he talked to Moira, soft and gentle, but at the same time there was another element to it. It wasn't exactly paternal, but more like giving advice as an older brother would. "In secondary school? Yes, one. Until I got sent to boarding school. Then my mother died and I never was able to find out what happened to him." It was hard to tell whether he was talking about his abuser or someone else who just happened to be his friend. No, wait a minute, he thought. He mentioned secondary school and he knew the abuser since he was four. This has to be a friend.

"That's very direct of you. The answer is yes. And the answer is yes to that as well. No, that doesn't change what I said before." John heard shuffling. "I understand that too. There's not an answer to that. Phillip, you're – " Sherlock abruptly stopped talking. "No," he began again after a long pause. "None of that is true." His voice was quieter. "And you can..." Each word was softer than the next, so that after the "can" John was unable to discern any of the conversation. After a few minutes Sherlock spoke in a normal voice. "Yes, you should go to bed. Please remember you can ring me any time and I will talk to you. You are never an inconvenience. Good night, Phillip." He heard the creak of someone going down the steps. John lay there in the dark for what seemed like a long time, unable to get the conversation out of his head, even if he hadn't understood most of it. He didn't mention what he had overheard the next morning, and if Sherlock was truly aware that he had been listening he never let on. Despite that, John was almost certain he knew, and that he had intentionally let him hear the conversation. What that meant he couldn't figure out.

It was almost a relief to head down to Scotland Yard that Friday for their talk with Michael Ogbeide. John had been unable to have any sort of real conversation with Sherlock after overhearing him talk to Phillip. He'd said a few things, but only a sentence or two at a time. Fortunately, Sherlock was in one of his silent moods, and would only nod or shake his head to any conversation. Perhaps that was due to the three additional bags of "rubbish" he'd felt the need to get rid of. (John knew better than to ask what was in them, and he resisted the urge to look inside them before they were collected.) Even now, they both looked out opposing windows and tried not to acknowledge the other person in the cab with them. When they walked into the Yard, John trailed behind him all the way to the interview room, not wanting to get too close.

Michael Ogbeide had arrived before they had and was sitting in the room with Lestrade. When he saw John and Sherlock walk into the room he stood up and offered his hand. "You must be Sherlock Holmes and John Watson," he said, in a cultured tone with only a hint of his native language behind it. He was about John's size, but leaner, with skin the color of dark chocolate.

"Yes, and we're here to talk to you," Sherlock said.

"Should I be going?" Lestrade asked. "Tape recorder's here and you've wanted to interview the others by yourself."

"Do whatever you need to do, you're not needed here," Sherlock said dismissively.

Once Lestrade had left the interview room, Mr. Ogbeide, Sherlock, and John arranged themselves in the remaining chairs. Sherlock stopped to push the record button on the tape recorder before speaking again. "As you know, Mr. Ogbeide, we're investigating a series of cases of child abuse, and your daughter has been mentioned as a potential victim." He nodded, and Sherlock continued. "You are on the record as having brought your daughter to the A&E at Bart's. Can you explain why you did this?"

Mr. Ogbeide swallowed visibly, and looked away from the both of them. "That's – well, I'm not even sure where to begin. It wasn't just one thing, you know. It was a series of things. In hindsight it all fits together but I wasn't able to make the connections at the time."

"All right." Sherlock's voice was soft. "Perhaps we should start with something easier. Do you have a picture of your daughter with you?"

Mr. Ogbeide reached for his wallet and pulled it out of his pocket. He opened it and revealed a picture of a mocha-skinned small girl, about six years old. Her dark brown hair was pulled into multiple small braids and she wore some sort of school uniform. Her smile revealed a missing front tooth. "That's Jennifer. When this was taken she'd been with me for a year after being in care and her mother being arrested."

"Her mother was arrested?" Sherlock inquired.

He nodded. "It's – well, it's a very long story."

"We'd like to hear anything that you think is relevant," John broke in. Sherlock nodded in his direction as he said this, so he clearly thought that was the case as well.

"I met Jennifer's mother, Debra Bena, almost eight years ago. At a particularly low class club, I'm sorry to say. I was a foolish person then, not concerned with much but having a good time and doing the easiest work possible. She was a good dancer, liked to drink, and had lovely long brown hair. All of that was enough to intrigue me, and we both wanted the same things. So our good times became shared ones. I don't think either of us took our relationship very seriously until Debra got pregnant. Not a birth control failure, as we took no precautions in the first place. She said she wanted us to raise the child together, and I agreed with her. I don't know if either of you have children, but you're both aware that a child changes a person, for better or for worse." He looked down at his daughter's picture. "So I decided I should get my act together. Stopped all the clubbing, found a better job. Debra had a difficult pregnancy and had to spend most of it on bed rest. But when Jennifer was born all seemed well. Debra wanted to stay at home with Jennifer and I agreed to that. Looking at it now I think she had post-partum depression, but I didn't see it at the time. She wasn't taking care of Jennifer, just staying in bed. When she was three it got to the point where I didn't feel safe leaving her with her mother, so I left and filed for custody. Debra filed in response and we each had her alternating weeks. I think she started using drugs before I left, but I know she was using them a few weeks after I left. She used crack mostly, and MDMA. According to her she kept it from Jennifer, and I think that was mostly true."

There was a long pause. "Go on," Sherlock encouraged him.

"The week I brought Jennifer to the A&E I had only had her for a day and a half. It had been a hard week anyway. Debra and I had argued over the drugs again. Like with her mother's depression, I think there were signs I was missing there, but I didn't put them together. I was about to put her down for a nap and as she got into bed she said something I didn't catch. I asked her, 'What did you say?' and she said it again. This time I heard it." His voice broke, but he did not tear up.

"What did she say?" asked John.

"She said, 'Fuck me.' I said to her, 'What?' Children pick up all sorts of phrases they don't know the meaning of, and that's what I thought this was. So she says it again. I sat down on the edge of the bed because I thought I might pass out. Jennifer crawled into my lap and said, 'Please fuck me.' My whole body was numb but I managed to ask her what she meant. She took a few of her fingers and pretended to jam them up between her legs. 'Like my friend does,' and she looked at me like I had to know what she was talking about. That's when I picked her up and told her we were going for a ride."

"Did she say anything to you about the friend?" Sherlock locked eyes with him.

"Nothing. Of course when we got to A&E she was in hysterics and said she didn't want to see the doctor and wasn't sick. The doctor that did talk to her seemed more interested in me than her. Then someone from social services came and told me that she needed to go into care while this was all sorted out. I had to call Debra, and she was furious at me, of course, but she didn't seem shocked by everything. I didn't want to think then why that might be the case, and as far as I knew she wasn't seeing anyone. After that I was questioned by the social workers and the police about my relationship with my daughter." The last sentence was still tinged with bitterness. "Nothing came about from it, of course, and the carers for Jennifer didn't ever hear about her 'friend'. In the middle of all that Debra was arrested for possession. She still wasn't working."

"When did the dealer tell you that she was involved in solicitation?" Sherlock asked, like he was talking about the weather.

"After she was sentenced. The social services workers were moving to terminate her parental rights and were trying to work out a plan for me to get Jennifer back." Mr. Ogbeide sounded remarkably calm. His voice no longer wavered. "The man appeared on the steps of my flat and said he wanted to talk to me, said he'd known Debra. I wanted nothing to do with him, but he said he thought there was something he should tell me about my daughter. That caught my attention. He told me that she often bought 'substances' from him. Since he noticed she didn't work, he asked her where she was getting the money, and if it was support money. She told him there were ways, and didn't seem too bothered about it. A few days after he asked that he was leaving the flat and saw Jennifer standing by the door. She asked him if he was coming to take her away. He thought that was strange and asked where she thought he'd take her. She said, 'To the fucking room.' He was disturbed enough to leave and not go back to the flat again." The calmness had faded into a flat tone. "Apparently that was all he knew, but he told me when I got her back I should leave the area."

"Did Jennifer ever talk to you about those things once you got her back?" Sherlock also sounded flat.

"No, I'm afraid. I've never had the courage to ask her and I know she wouldn't understand what I meant if I asked about being sold." He looked to the ground. "That's all I know about this. I'm sorry I couldn't be of more help."

"On the contrary, Mr. Ogbeide, this has been a very useful conversation, and I'm glad to have spoken with you." Sherlock rose from his chair and turned off the recorder.

"Thank you. I've got to run; Jennifer's waiting for me." He took Sherlock's hand and briefly shook it before heading out the door. A few seconds after Mr. Ogbeide left Lestrade walked back into the room.

"Did you get anything useful?" he inquired.

"Yes. K's wealth is extensive enough that when no one else is available, children to assault can be bought." Sherlock was back to his calm deducting voice, even when Lestrade gasped in shock. "Jennifer Ogbeide-Bena was one of them, and that money went to her mother's drug habit. Since one threat she probably heard was that she'd be taken away from home if she told, her enforced stint in care was enough to make her not say anything again. Like Moira Aherne, but more severe." He turned for the door. "You may listen to the recording. John and I are going back home."

Once the two of them were in a cab and on the way back home, the silence that had permeated the trip there returned. Truthfully, John didn't have the slightest clue what he might say and was glad for it. He didn't want to look at Sherlock at all. If everything that he'd heard had disturbed him this much, he couldn't imagine what Sherlock must be feeling now. When they got home, Sherlock went straight to his room and slammed the door shut. John distracted himself by taking up an invitation from Mrs. Hudson to join her for dinner and a movie (she liked James Bond just as much as he did) and that was enough to put him in a better mood. He didn't see Sherlock when he got back upstairs and went to bed in silence.

He woke up at seven in the morning, vaguely aware of noise from outside. Wondering what could possibly be going on, he threw on some clothes and headed downstairs.

"Are you here for a reason?" drifted up from the window. John looked out and saw Sherlock standing in front of Phillip Rodgers, hands in his coat pockets.

"I've got something for you," Phillip said as he handed Sherlock a piece of paper. "This might help."

Whether Sherlock was aware that John was watching from the window, he didn't know. He grinned and although he was too far away to see, John imagined that his eyes had just lit up. "Oh, yes, this will be very helpful. I'll go right now. Thank you, Phillip." He twirled and looked like he was about to dart off without a second thought, but stopped after a few steps and turned around. "Go home, Phillip, or go somewhere safe." Phillip said nothing in response, but nodded and walked back in the direction he'd come from.

In a few seconds Sherlock would be out of sight. John knew he had to act now, so he grabbed his mobile and gun, pulled his coat on, and ran out the door to shadow him.