John made tea. He knew very well that tea wasn't going to fix anything, but they both needed its comfort. It also gave him time to collect himself. Just like Sherlock had known that venting his rage around Phillip would be a very bad idea, he knew that blowing up at K around Sherlock would be counterproductive. So as he waited for the water to boil he took deliberate deep breaths and counted slowly to himself. It worked, somewhat, and he brought the two cups of tea and a sugar bowl into the next room. He put all of them down on the table in front of the couch. "I know you like to add sugar yourself," he said as he sat down next to Sherlock and was rewarded with a small smile. It vanished just as quickly as it was there, but it was enough.

Although John knew it was important for them to talk, and to talk now, he was not sure where to begin. He knew Sherlock told some things to Phillip before, but otherwise had not spoken about the bee incident (he still couldn't call it anything more horrible in his head, even now) to anyone. Finally he decided to start with a more neutral question. "When K mentioned a friend of yours she had known, who was she talking about?" John thought it was good he was sitting beside him and not in front of him; it seemed far less confrontational.

"Someone I knew from school," Sherlock said in response.

"Can you tell me about him?" That sounded non-threatening enough.

"His name was Victor Trevor. He started at my secondary school when I was thirteen." Sherlock turned his head to the side and looked like he had suddenly become very interested in a spot on the other arm of the couch. "Everyone liked him. He was good at academics and football, and he was friendly to everyone."

"Including you?" John dared to ask. If Sherlock had been half as abrasive back then as he could be now, he couldn't really imagine anyone trying to be friendly with him.

"Including me. He lived on the end of the street I lived on and would walk home from school with me. I made a number of comments to indicate I was not interested in his company, but he said that I was always alone and he didn't think anybody would enjoy that. Eventually he brought up subjects of interest to me and I began to talk to him on those walks home. He would also sit with me during lunch hours and invited me to his home on several occasions. His mother and father were both academics; he used that information to convince me I would enjoy spending time at his home. He also had a bull terrier, his family had several, and as you may recall I wanted a dog myself as a child but was not allowed to have one." He stopped staring at the spot and stared into his lap instead.

"How did K know him?" John wondered if that was too direct a question. He felt like he was trying to make a conversation out of cobwebs without breaking any of them.

Sherlock didn't say anything for a few minutes, and John thought he wasn't going to answer, but before John could ask another question he began to speak. "We stopped in the supermarket after school. He wished to buy some snack food. She was there in the aisle with the sweets." Another long silence. "She greeted me and asked if I was busy after school. I usually... often... I would meet Her at Her work and go home with Her once the day was over. Victor said that I was coming home with him and She would have to talk to me later." John clearly heard the capital letters in She and Her. He wanted to take his hand or put an arm around his shoulder but he wasn't sure Sherlock would appreciate the contact. "She left, he bought what he wanted and we went to his home. His parents were not there. We sat down on the front steps and he asked me who that was and how I knew Her. I told him She was a friend of mine. He asked how long I had known Her, and I told him. He asked more questions and from something I said he was apparently able to deduce the... nature of our relationship. He asked me how long I had been... intimate with Her. I told him that as well. He didn't say anything for a long period of time and finally he told me that he thought I should talk to my mother about it."

"Did you?" John made himself ask.

"No. I began to avoid his company and started spending more nights at Her house. I had done that for years, but at that point I did it so much I rarely spent time at home. One day, when I was coming home from Her house my mother was waiting for me at the door. Victor had spoke to her the previous evening. She was mad at me for 'telling horrible lies' about someone who cared about me so much."

"And after that you were sent away to school?"

"Yes." He moved his gaze from his lap to his feet. "We did not see each other again." After a few minutes of silence John was ready to ask another question, but before he could do so Sherlock spoke. "She was right, you know."

"About what?" John asked doubtfully.

"Everything."

"That's not true," John forcefully replied, out of instinct more than anything else.

"Do you want to know how I met Her?" Sherlock continued like he hadn't heard John say anything. John nodded before he remembered they weren't facing each other. Sherlock must have seen him out of the corner of his eye, because he began talking again. "Mycroft had gone away to school. I was all alone in the house so I took my bee and went outside hoping to find someone to play with. She lived a few doors down and was tending Her garden. She asked me what I was doing out here alone and I said I was looking for someone to play with. She saw my bee and asked me if I wanted to see Her garden. There were flowers, some vegetables, blueberry bushes and an apple tree. I went with Her to the apple tree. She said that it was just right for climbing, and did I want to try that. I said yes and She picked me up and put me in the lower branches of the tree."

After a minute or so of uncomfortable silence, John made himself say, "Go on."

"I climbed up in the tree for some time. When I wanted to get down I put my arms out and She picked me up and put me on the ground." He'd sounded flat before, but a hint of sadness had crept in. "Then She... put Her hand... down the front of my trousers. She rubbed and asked how it felt. I said it felt good. She asked me if I wanted Her to stop and I said no." That admission was apparently too much for Sherlock; he pulled himself away from John and curled up at the other end of the couch.

John remembered Sherlock's fury from when he had first talked to Phillip and how he had held back that rage until he was out of Phillip's sight. He mentally counted to ten before he began to reply. "Sherlock. You were four years old. Even if you told her to do that and demanded it, she's the one who knew it was wrong."

"I did beg though. She was right." He curled in on himself further, into an almost fetal position. "I'd go there and ask Her to fuck me."

"You wanted a friend," John said gently. "You wanted someone to love you. You wanted physical affection. That's normal."

"I liked it." It was a statement of fact.

John bit back his thought of If you really liked it so much, then why were you scared speechless at the sight of this woman? and responded with, "Why do you think that?"

"Because I did."

"If you did, you wouldn't be so afraid right now." He wishes he could look Sherlock in the eye now, but he's still curled up on himself. A thought occurred to him. "Are you saying you were able to orgasm?" No response. "Because that has nothing to do with whether you enjoyed it or not. It's a reaction to physical stimulus." It was strangely terrifying that Sherlock Holmes, who prided himself on his rational thinking, was suddenly such an emotional reasoner. Of course it was because of K and whatever mind games she had played with him, as well as the fact he'd never talked about it before, but that didn't make it any less frightening.

"I dreamed about Her," he said in the same flat tone. "I thought about Her when I..." He didn't need to finish the sentence; from the context John found it easy to conclude what "I dreamed about Her" meant as well.

"That means you were a teenage male," John replied. He hoped Sherlock would laugh, or even unfold himself, or something that indicated what he was saying was getting through. "She's still the adult, though."

"When I was sent away to school I wished She would take me back."

"You wanted someone who you cared about. Understandable."

"I started the drugs because I knew I was too old and there wasn't a way to make Her take me back." The self-disgust in his voice was clearly evident. "I'd have made myself younger to live with Her forever if I could have."

John only gave himself a moment to register what Sherlock said before blurting out, "I'm sorry."

This, of all things, was enough to make Sherlock uncurl himself and turn towards John. He looked like he had just been struck. "Why?" he whispered.

A thousand responses stuck in John's throat, among them, "That you were hurt so badly," "That you're in so much pain," "That you were so desperate for love," and "Because I care about you." He finally said: "Drink your tea."

Sherlock reached out one shaking hand and reached for the sugar spoon. He placed sugar in the mug (some of it winding up on the floor and table) and brought the mug up for a sip. Without thinking, John reached out his hand and was about to put it on Sherlock's shoulder, but he suddenly flinched and John withdrew. "I'm not going to hate you for anything you tell me," John said.

"You can't say that now," Sherlock replied.

John thought suddenly of the "helper" comment K had made and felt a horrible feeling in the pit of his stomach. "Well, I am. Finish your tea." Sherlock put both of his shaking hands on the mug and drank the rest of it in one long gulp. He was still looking at John and wasn't curled up on himself again, and at that moment it became all too much for John to handle. "Give me ten minutes to go upstairs. I'll be back after that and we'll talk some more," he made himself say. Sherlock nodded silently, his eyes suddenly very large. That was enough to propel John up the steps and into his room, where he shut the door and finally allowed himself to cry.