John realized quickly that it was good he had his wallet on him; Sherlock was apparently heading to the railway station. Fortunately, he seemed so absorbed in whatever he was doing that he didn't notice he had a follower. He curtly informed the man at the ticket booth that he was going to Yorkshire, shoved money at him, and took off toward the platform. John quickly bought a ticket for himself and returned to shadowing Sherlock. He attempted to ring Lestrade but only was able to leave a message. "Sherlock got some information from Phillip Rodgers that caused him to take off for Yorkshire. I'm not sure what he's up to but am following him. I'll give you a location as soon as I have it." He hoped that Lestrade would get the message as soon as possible.

When the train arrived he knew he would have to get into the same carriage as Sherlock, and could figure out no way to make himself less noticeable. However, Sherlock seemed so distracted that John figured that if he just chose one of the more unobtrusive seats he wouldn't be noticed, and he was right. Sherlock spent the entire two hour trip staring blankly out a window. John felt anxious, himself. If they really were heading to the residence of the mysterious K, alias name Dana Lester, he wasn't sure what they would do. Even he knew you couldn't arrest the man without some evidence, and someone appearing at his house and telling him they were on to him just provided an incentive to flee. Maybe Phillip had included something that he could be arrested for, provided the Yarders showed up at the house? Of course there was the charge about the flat, but could he really be detained for that in the same way for a more serious crime?

The plus of thinking about all this was that it made the train ride fly by, and before he knew it they were at their station and Sherlock was marching off to wherever he was going. He didn't hail a cab; he just walked down one of the side roads purposefully. John trailed him at a distance. This area was not quite suburban or rural but rather something in between. The size of the houses in the area indicated this was a wealthy district. He texted Lestrade as he walked, telling him what he could figure out of his surroundings.

Sherlock finally stopped in front of a long walkway leading to a large sprawling house. The grounds looked well tended, the driveway and the walkway were both in good condition, and the house looked cheerful. It seemed to be the last place you'd look for a criminal like K. He looked briefly at the paper in his hands before heading down to the house. John, after sending one last text that named the street and house number, headed there himself. Just before he got to the door, Sherlock spun around and stared back at John. "How long have you been following me?" he asked.

"Since you talked to Phillip," John responded.

"Did you ring Lestrade?"

"Texted him too."

"Well, if you're going to be that way about it, come up here. We can do this together." There was a quaver in Sherlock's voice, and John thought he looked paler than usual, almost ghostlike. When the two of them were side by side, John put two fingers on his hand and found it icy to the touch. Without really thinking about it, he took his hand. Sherlock looked surprised at first, and then smiled wanly. They walked the rest of the way to the house like that, silently.

John figured he'd have to be the one who knocked on the door, but to his surprise Sherlock used his free hand to knock. In a few seconds the door swung open. A woman regarded the two of them. She was several inches shorter than John, with long black hair neatly pulled back. As near as he could tell, she was in her fifties, with lines forming on her forehead and crow's feet near her brown eyes. She seemed like a warm, motherly person, the type you felt at ease around. She was holding a dish in her hands, as if she had been interrupted while doing the dishes. "May I help you?" she asked. John just stared back. It seemed unreal that K was married, even if he logically knew lots of child molesters were married. Sherlock's hand was now shaking in his. Before either of them could say anything, her eyes narrowed. "Sherlock Holmes," she said with surprise, and smiled at him. "It's been so long since I've seen you. I'd say you had grown, but you really haven't; you might be a little skinnier though. To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"

John was about to ask her if her husband was in, but Sherlock spoke first. "Phillip sent me," he said, and to John's surprise his voice was shaking with fear. He squeezed Sherlock's hand, and the woman spoke again.

"You haven't changed, have you?" she said, still smiling. "Most children, you see them as adults and they hardly look the same. You're the same, though. Not even a hair on your face." She traced his chin with one finger, and John realized that Sherlock was now clutching his hand in a death grip.

"You haven't changed, either," Sherlock's voice still shook. "Phillip. Have you had enough of him yet?"

"Phillip is quite a boy, you know. He reminds me so much of you. So sad because his father is gone and his mummy doesn't love him. No brother, though. Or bee." While the woman still looked like she had before, John felt a terrible sense of unease. She no longer looked warm or anything like a person you would trust. Even her smile suddenly seemed sinister. "But of course at least I love him. Just like you."

John wasn't sure why it took him so long to make the connection. Perhaps it was just because he had a different mental picture. But the last bit of conversation hit him like a bus, and he suddenly, horribly, realized the truth.

This was K.

He knew that he really should have known better, that he didn't know anything about K to make a mental image of the person. But truthfully he had never once thought of K as being anyone but a man. If he had to line up potential child abusers, and K was included, he'd have put her dead last. It only took a second to make the next horrible connection.

K was the neighbor Sherlock had "told horrible lies" about. And he had known that, or at least suspected, and that was why he was so nervous. Now that he thought about it, Sherlock had never once referred to K by gender. While almost everyone got into the habit of calling K by her first initial, when gendered pronouns were used everyone but Sherlock called K male. Even some little details made sense, like why Moira had refused to talk to Donovan or why Phillip was so convinced that he'd be arrested. John shamefully realized that if K had come in and claimed to have been assaulted by him, and Phillip had agreed, he would have taken it at face value and called the police on him.

"Is this your boyfriend?" K went on in a cheerful voice. "I wouldn't have suspected that, you know. You were always so enthusiastic. Was it just that no other woman could compare?"

Sherlock's terror seemed to only be growing by the minute, and he stared blankly at her with no inkling of a response. John wanted to punch the woman, but he knew that would be hard to explain to the police if it came to that. The police would see the same kind looking woman John had seen at first. "Kelly," Sherlock finally choked out. "Kelly Martin."

"Dr. Martin," she corrected him. "You knew that, though. Remember all those times you went to the clinic with me after school? I wondered if you'd be a doctor yourself, since you always seemed so interested in my medical books."

"You broke his arm," Sherlock whispered. "Why?"

She continued on like she hadn't heard the question. "Are you still friends with that boy I saw you with? Was he your boyfriend too? Nosy little thing, he was."

"You're going to hell for this," John blurted out. "You're going to pay."

She smiled that same sinister smile. "For what? I had an agreement with your boyfriend and now I have an agreement with his little friend. Maybe you're just not satisfying him. Do you know how randy he gets? He'll practically beg you to fuck him. I saw him ask for it so many times."

John realized in that second she was not trying to convince him all of it was consensual at all, but rather to humiliate Sherlock enough that he wouldn't be able to talk about any of this. Not that he did now, but he was at least able to talk about Phillip. Even now Sherlock continued to tremble, and he seemed terrified in a way John's never seen before.

"It was your friend who got your little bee burned, you know. I know he was putting ideas in your head. Your mummy told me all about it." She once again reached out to touch Sherlock's chin, tracing it with her finger. While he started to shake even more, he made no effort to move. "She was upset about how ungrateful you were to me, how you'd come over and refused to leave so many times and she had to make sure you were behaving yourself. I was kind about that, remember? I said you weren't any trouble, but we both know that's not true." Dr. Martin looked like she was in the depths of fond memories. "Remember the games we used to play? You missed your big brother, how he'd pick you up and whirl you around. I'd always whirl you around, though. Round and round. Round and round the garden like a teddy bear..."

"It was. He. No." The idea that Sherlock Holmes was unable to put his thoughts into words was the most frightening thing about the situation. "He didn't do anything. We just talked."

"I could always tell them you helped at the clinic with the little ones. Weren't you my best helper?" Dr. Martin looked pointedly at John.

"I may not know you at all, but all I've heard here is that you're a monster and my friend – not my boyfriend for the record, although it shouldn't matter – my best friend, isn't guilty of anything but being your victim." John didn't bother to keep the fury out of his voice. He could feel Sherlock's grip on his hand tighten. "And if you try to leave this country, the whole government will be following you, and you will get a fate worse than death. I promise that."

She hadn't stopped smiling. That was the truly frightening part. She almost looked pleased that she'd been able to disturb John so much. "You're certainly very sure of yourself."

"I usually am when I'm right." He stared directly into her eyes.

"Then you've clearly not been paying attention to what I'm saying." Her smile was still unbroken. "Sherlock has though, right dearest?" Sherlock's grip on John's hand tightened so much he was sure he'd have a bruise. "He remembers it all, I'm sure."

"Were you trying to break his arm?" Sherlock's voice was so quiet as he said that it was hard to tell he had spoken at all.

"I wasn't trying to do anything. He'd been begging for it before, just like you used to, and he suddenly changed his mind. I took hold of his arm so he wouldn't try to leave and he pulled away. I pulled him back and..." She made a vague gesture with her hand, like it was something that couldn't be helped. "He heard it snap and he went right off to the clinic. He knew that place very well." That sinister smile remained on her face. "His mother was always asking if he was behaving himself, just like yours. Of course he was. He's a sad little boy but he's usually a good boy."

John told himself that the police might come at any time, and he had to keep her talking. He was fairly certain that K didn't know Sherlock's job and had no idea she was in any danger. "You met him when he was four years old. Four. Years. Old. That's still toddler age, when he was probably taking naps to make it past supper every evening. Was Phillip 'good' before then because he never struggled?" He was still looking in her eyes, and disturbingly she made no effort to break the line of contact. In fact, she seemed almost proud of how disturbed John was.

"You think they struggle, do you? I suppose that's what it's like when you and my little Sherlock are together, but I assure you I never have to make someone do anything. Believe me, he wanted to do that. He'd beg and say 'please.' No force. The older he was the more he wanted to do. And he was still so much like he was back then. So many of them become hairy and lumpy instead of soft and smooth." She broke eye contact with him to stare at Sherlock again, who looked like he wanted to evaporate on the spot. "He didn't just want to sit in my lap and tell me he loved me. Not by then. Do you know how tall he was when he was twelve years old? Look at me, I'm even shorter than you are. Do you really think I could force him to do anything?"

"Yes I do," John sharply replied. "Very much so."

"You're a fool, then."

"John is not a fool." Both John and K turned to look at Sherlock, and John was amazed he was speaking at all. There was a slight edge to his words that had been absent before.

K opened her mouth and looked like she was about to reply when there was a sound of wheels on gravel. John turned to see a police car in the driveway. He walked towards it before any officer had even gotten out, dragging Sherlock with him. "Did Lestrade from Scotland Yard ring you?" he said to the women who had just gotten out of the car.

"Yes he did. You must be John Watson," said one of them. "Is Dr. Martin in here?" She sounded very businesslike.

"She's right in the house," he responded.

"That makes our job a lot easier," said the other officer. The two of them headed down the walkway themselves, and even from that distance K looked genuinely surprised. The first officer said with no buildup, "Dr. Martin, I'm arresting you for fraud by obtaining lodgings and bank accounts with fraudulent identification. You do not have to say anything..."

Before he could hear the rest, Sherlock spoke again. "Take me home," he whispered. He looked like he was about to fall over.

"We'll go down to the station now," he reassured him. "Do you think you can walk that far?" John had a horrible thought that Sherlock resembled a soldier after a violent battle. Sherlock nodded but after a step or two fell. Fortunately John grabbed him before he hit the ground. "Put your arm around my shoulder," he told him. He was careful to keep Sherlock on the side of the uninjured shoulder. "We're not far away."

They slowly hobbled towards the station at about half the speed they had taken to get there. Since it was still midday very few people were waiting on the platform. John didn't care who saw him but Sherlock carried the look of the utterly humiliated. Their timing was right, however, and in five minutes the train back to London showed up. John sat them both down in the farthest edge of the carriage and let Sherlock have the window seat. He didn't seem to be looking at anything, though, and just stared sightlessly into the distance.

After two of the longest hours of his life, they arrived back in London and John directed them both to a cab for home. The distance wasn't that big and normally he would have just walked it, but he didn't think Sherlock was capable of walking that far. In fact, when they arrived at Baker Street he seemed unable to even take the few steps inside. John offered his shoulder again and they limped back to their home, together. Once they were in the door he guided Sherlock to the couch. "Sit down and catch your breath," he said. "After that we need to talk." Maybe talking wasn't the best thing to do right now, psychologically, but John knew very well if they didn't start talking about it now, the gate would go down again.

"All right," said Sherlock in a tiny voice, like the child K still wanted him to be.